Machinery Playground

Machinery fills every farm yard. I grew up loving machinery.

We had a row of old machines that were in various stages of decay all lined up along a fence - an old combine, an ancient manure spreader, a broken grain truck. Tall grass weaved through the draw bars, chains spokes and mechanical parts, hiding the rusting steel. Some of the oldest machines had remnants of wooden planks that still clung to steel skeletons. The carriage bolts still grasping onto shards of dried crumbling wood. The fragrance of old grease mixed with fresh farm air.

This was my playground.

My favourite was the two row sugar beet harvester. It was narrow and tall and had a chain linked conveyor system that moved the sugar beets from the ground up into a bin and allowed the dirt and debris to fall back to the earth through the gaping links. These links were perfect ladders and walkways.

I would enter in between the discs that rested on the ground, hidden amongst the grass, thistle or kosha weed. Entering in through the bottom I would travel up, like an animated sugar beet, and eventually end up in the large bin. In the bin, I stood vigil over the war torn battle field. I spied on troop movements and kept eye on aerial maneuvers - flocks of sparrows flying sorties.
Our harvester had a boom that extend cantilevered from one side. This perch was my precarious observation deck or in times of peace a joyful balcony.

It was a sad day when my body no longer fit through the discs. Eventually I could no longer see the war zone and my vigilant surveillance was no longer required to keep farmyard peace.

But, oh how I love to see the farm yards with their rows of machines. I glimpse through those rows of machines and see ghosts of forgotten joys.