Memoir Year: around 1978–1981

Memoir Year: around 1978–1981 Written: 2025

We didn’t have a modern tractor; we had an Allis-Chalmers WD, a bright orange relic that looked like it had rolled out of a 1940s farm calendar. To me, it was enormous—the first machine I ever believed had a personality. It growled, it sputtered, it protested, it triumphed.

Dad treated that tractor the way knights treat their chargers. He’d climb up onto the metal seat, settle his hands on the wheel, and the whole farm seemed to respond—animals quieting, dust lifting, the day beginning.

When I see pictures of a WD today, it’s uncanny: that same slope-shouldered engine hood, the big fenders, the almost toy-like round nose. Ours was just like that. Riding on the fender while Dad drove (which he allowed only sometimes, and only when the ground was smooth), I felt like I was sitting on the back of a giant, clattering beast.

In summer we’d use it for everything—hauling manure, pulling wagons, scraping snow in winter, moving fence posts. But in hay season, the WD was the star of the show. Its chugging rhythm set the pace for the entire ritual.

Some kids grew up dreaming of race cars. I grew up dreaming of that tractor. Even now, the smell of hot gas and sun-warmed metal brings me straight back to childhood.