Walking my boys to the park the other day, I happened upon a display in front of a local museum that answers the oft-asked question, “Where did all the old tractors go?”
When I saw this I says to myself, “Corinne. You are in Baker City. Of course there is a line-up of tractors out on the street.”
When B.T. saw these, all park-related desires were immediately replaced with a single, all-consuming desire to hang out with tractors. He was literally jumping up and down as he yelled things to me about their basic features:
“Look, mommy! Tractor have BIG WHEELS!!”
“Ooo, lights on tractor! One, two, TWO LIGHTS!!!”
In addition to watching B.T.’s excitement, I found a couple of delightful gems to enjoy for myself.
It’s a little tractor. Inside a big tractor. A tractor inside a tractor. The big tractor is knocked up, and the little tractor is like in the big tractor’s plastic, cylindrical uterus.
If I looked at that while high, it would probably scare the s^%& out of me. Or if I drank a whole beer, I’d probably look at it and laugh uncontrollably. I’m not a big drinker, so stop picturing me with some 40 of Olde English. I’m talking about 12 delicious ounces of a classy microbrew. ‘Cause I’m such a classy lady. Alcohol, by the way, happens to be the only way most normal people can appreciate the humor of 50s-era farm equipment.
I actually did laugh, though, when I discovered that I could not only feast my eyes on these gorgeous machines, I could go inside the museum and vote for my favorite tractor.
Which is awesome because I had all these pent-up feelings for the green tractor and like no idea what to do with them. Just another reason to praise the Jesus for democracy!
Oh, but also did you notice anything a little, shall we say, uneducated about that sign?
Oh, yes. The description says, “This tractors were built in England from 1952 to 1964.”
I’m sure this error is not because people who love old tractors also tend to be uneducated. Instead, I like to think that whoever wrote this was, like me with the green one, so overcome with love for the tractors that he (or she!) had no room, emotionally, for base and unimportant things like “proper grammar.” See, I’m totally into giving people the benefit of the doubt. Tooootally not some snobby jerk from Southern California.
In any case, I extend my gratitude to those who decided Baker City was due for some farm machine fun. Or maybe I should say, who decided Baker City were due for some farm machine fun.