On The Right Trac[tor]

Tractor, tractor, tractor.

Money, money, money.

Tractor, money, tractor.

The rush of wind through my hair as I speed along, clipping grass, brings heat to my cheeks. I fantasize about large mower decks and a comfortable seat as I plow through tall grass, taking down burdock plants as if they never existed.

It’s mentally exhausting to fantasize about a tractor. It’s expensive. It’s necessary.

It’s something I try not to think about.

We haven’t bought the new tractor yet. Why? I’m dragging my heels, that’s why. There’s very little money in the bank, thanks to expensive hay and rising feed costs. Unfortunately, that translates to less money for a tractor.

Money, money, money.

Tractor, tractor, tractor.

Melody’s been wonderful, slogging through rain and mud and snow, helping me to deliver hay. She’s been my backup plan.

However, there are certain things she just can’t do.

She’s earning her keep around here, and she’s been perfect in so many respects. She can’t mow the lawn in the same way a tractor can. We eventually plan to buy a manure spreader, but her manure tends to stay in a pile when she “fertilizes.”

Tractor, tractor, tractor.

The fast-talking salesman at the John Deere dealership tried to convince us we need a top-of-the-line model. I loved it until I spotted the price tag.

Gulp.

My palms sweat; my tongue dries out, my face itches for some inexplicable reason. I rub moist palms over my face until I realize where my hands have been this morning. My head throbs, the pressure inside thrusting my brain out of every open orifice.

I admit, I’m rude to the salesman. (He deserved it from the moment he said, “I refuse to sell you something smaller than this tractor. You couldn’t run a farm with anything else.” I wanted to stomp on his foot. I hate it when people tell me what to do.)

Round and round and round.

The arguments for and against this purchase swirl as fog in my brain, whooshing through one ear, circling my brain lazily and tickling through my nostrils until they slide out the other ear.

I imagine fencing off the front yard and letting ponies loose.  Or lesson students hold leadropes to let their horses graze. Or getting Arizona-type rock landscaping rocks which spell out “Welcome to Firefly Farm” across our front yard.

I’m grasping at straws.

Sigh.

I can’t do any of those things. I like my front lawn. I love the grass everywhere. When it’s trimmed and neat and tidy, we look like a real farm. We look professional. We look like a place where people want to ride.

We need a tractor.

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