Event Date: Circa 1982–83

Event Date: Circa 1982–83 Drafted: 2025-11-23

On a warm afternoon — I must have been eight or nine — Dad parked the WD near the pump house. He was fixing something small: maybe a belt, maybe the drawbar pin; he was always fixing something. The tractor idled in that gentle, puttering way gasoline engines do when they’ve earned their age.

I remember standing near the rear tire, watching the big lugs roll slowly as Dad let the tractor creep. The earth crackled under them. Everything felt so steady — the kind of steadiness you trust instinctively, the way you trust your father’s hands.

Dori stayed close to me. She always stayed close around machinery, like she knew her job was to keep me safe.

Dad did something — adjusted the throttle, maybe — and the tractor lurched slightly. Not dangerously, just enough that the sudden movement startled me. I instinctively jumped back and pressed into Dori’s side. She let out a short bark, not at the tractor but at the change.

Dad stopped everything immediately. Turned in the seat. Looked at me. Looked at Dori. Then said gently, “It won’t hurt you. Not when you stay where you should.”

He had a way of giving instructions that felt like blessings.

He told me:

“Engines are like people. They don’t want to hurt you. But they need respect.”

Respect — not fear.

It was the first time I understood that machines could be partners. That the WD wasn’t a threat, but something to learn with. Something reliable. Something alive in its own way.

I walked right up after that and put my hand on the warm orange hood. The metal throbbed faintly with the vibration of the engine. It felt like touching the heartbeat of the farm itself.

Dori put her paws on the tire as if to match me — as if we were both acknowledging this giant, steady friend.

From that day on, I wasn’t afraid of the tractor anymore. I trusted it. I respected it. And in return, it gave me some of the most mythic moments of my childhood.