Stuck Again...and Again...and Again

Our vehicles have expressed their collective dislike for winter by staging various forms of work stoppages over the past two months. First, my car wouldn't start, then my car couldn't make it up our hill. Then, as winter progressed, the other vehicles ...both the tractor and the truck, joined in the protests as well.

Tuesday February 8-- evening
It's been snowing all day.
It's late when Dave finally pulls into the driveway after a long drive on snow-covered roads. He's exhausted, so I feel bad suggesting (more accurately insisting) that he plow the driveway tonight. After all, we both have to work in the morning...and we both know he's not going to want to fire up the tractor at 5am.

Reluctantly, he concedes defeat. I watch his progress from the kitchen window while I wash dishes. The tractor has no lights, and before long it disappears into dakness at the end of the drivevway. I wait for it to reappear. The clean dishes pile up on the counter, and still, there's no sign of the tractor. I suddenly have visions of the tractor lurching sideways and landing upsidedown in the ditch, pinning Dave. I dry my shrivelled hands and rush to the mudroom to haul on my coat. Just then the chime rings and the front door swings open. It's Dave, covered in snow and wearing a scowl. The tractor is stuck-- but at least it's upright and he's ok.

In the dark, Dave has driven off the edge of our too narrow driveway and down into a deep drift on our front lawn. The four-foot high rear tires are half-way submerged in snow.

He backs the truck as close to the rear of the tractor as he can and attaches the tow-ropes. I hoist myself into the driver's seat as he makes his way back to the tractor, flashlight in hand. I shift the truck into gear and ease my foot onto the gas pedal. The truck strains forward, then the tires spin, searching for solid ground, finding only snow. An instant later, the truck lurches forward as the tow-rope breaks.

We give up on that idea. We consider leaving the tractor there until spring. But there's a whole lot more snow to be moved and neither of us is keen on doing that much shovelling. Dave shrugs and decides to attempt to drive the tractor forward across the lawn. What's the worst that could happen? It's already stuck.

He rocks it forward then back, forward then back. Finally, it's freed from the cradle-like ruts, and inches forward slightly. I clap and cheer them on. "Come on Dave, come on MF" (my nickname for our Massey Ferguson tractor which shares my initials). Thankfully there are no neighbours to offer furtive glances from their windows. He chugs ahead slowly through a winter's worth of deep snow, turning the tractor toward a gap in the line of stately evergreen trees which stand at attention the length of our driveway. Branches bend as the tractor emerges from between the trees and rises onto the driveway. Disaster averted-- for now.

The next morning-- Wednesday February 9
I wake to the sound of CBC radio announcers warning of treacherous road conditions. I look out our back window and see snow piled up above the doorknob on the feedroom door. The path to the paddocks is impassible with waist high drifts. I open the front door and a mini avalache of snow rolls inside. I look at the driveway and groan. Dave will make it out with the truck. But I'm taking the car today, and despite Dave's valiant efforts last night, the driveway is once again blocked.

It's not that it snowed much overnight. It's simply that Mother Nature has chosen to redecorate. Using winds gusting between 50 and 60 kilometers an hour, she lifted tens of thousands of snowflakes, swirled them around in the air and redeposited them in spaces made vacaant by earlier efforts with shovels and plows. I don't like to criticize Her work, but She and I certainly have different visions of how the landscape should look.

With no time to waste, I brave the ongoing winds and start shovelling. After an hour, I've carved a new path on Mother Nature's canvas. I lower a steaming mug of tea into my car's cup holder, toss my bagged lunch onto the passenger seat, and prepare myself for a long drive punctuated by icy roads and white-out conditions.

But as I shift the car into reverse, it refuses to move. Well, it moves a couple of inches, then stops, tires spinning. I get out, shovel around all the tires, and try again. Nothing. There's ice underneath, and I'm in a low point on the driveway. I curse my low-slung station wagon. I think of the four-tonne pile of traction sand back by the manure pile-- beyond a 30 meter stretch of waist deep snow. I'm not that desperate yet. I call my boss to tell her I'll be late. She's stuck in her driveway too. Upon hearing this, I feel better about myself.

I have a sudden epiphany-- cardboard. There are some old boxes in the house. I can slip the cardboard from the boxes under the tires, and I'll be good to go. I try. The tires simply spit the cardboard back across the driveway.

Then, another, better epiphany-- cat litter. I can pour cat litter under the tires instead of sand. It should provide traction, and I don't have to wade out to the frozen sand pile to get it. I try that. The car's tires dig deeper, icier trenches, and big wads of clumping litter stick to everything in sight. But the car remains firmly stuck.

Finally, reluctantly, I haul on my snowpants, grab the empty kitty litter bucket and wade through the waist high drifts to the sand pile. Once there, I heave three bales of frozen, rotting hay off the tarp which covers the pile. Then I use my gloved-hands to dig throught he snow until I find an edge of the blue tarp. I peel it back then chizel frozen sand from the pile with a metal shovel until my bucket is full. I wade back to the car. I'm freezing, and my mug of tea is no longer steaming, but at least I'm sure this will work. This is what traction sand is for-- right?

Wrong. It's no use, despite a bucket full of sand, the car's not moving. I can't even rock it forward and back anymore. I wave the white flag and dial the 1-800 number for CAA.

I retreat inside the warm house and wait. The tow truck driver who "rescues" me is the same one who towed our car when my license had expired.

Sat. Feb. 12
The path to the manure pile has been blocked with snow for three days now. For three days I've been dumping wheelbarrows full of manure on top of frozen, snow-covered flower beds in the backyard. I ease my conscience by telling myself it will make good fertilizer in the spring.

Today though, Dave has the day off and he's reluctantly agreed to spend much of it clearing snow. He manages to clear a narrow path down the lane before he clips the edge of our sand pile and the tractor sinks deep into the soft ground beneath. It's stuck. Again. We both sigh and agree to deal with it tomorrow.


Sunday February 13
I grab a shovel. Dave grabs some boards. Amidst firece winds, we begin our mission to liberate the tractor. As he jacks up the tires, I dig and dig and dig. Dave slides the boards into the spaces I've created. He lowers the tractor and tries to drive away. The tires spin and the chains rattle, but the tractor refuses to move. Choking on diesel fumes, I dig some more. There's hardly any snow left around the tires. The ruts are now simply flat ground. I'm sure Dave can easily drive it out. But no, the obstinate old girl holds her ground. "Come on MF, there's no reason for you not to move now", I shout-- discouraged.



Reluctantly, we agree to try plan B. I've been hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I can't see any other alternative. Dave gets his tow ropes and begins to back the truck down the lane. I'm nervous. Dave only managed to clear a narrow path before mother nature gripped our tractor's tires and sucked them down through the snow with her unrelenting grasp. The path's not wide enough for the truck and I know it. I halfheartedly offer to widen it with a shovel before we bring the truck in. But neither of us really want to make the effort. So, Dave cautiously manoeuvers the truck backwards. At first, it goes well. Then, I hear it... the sound of tires spinning.

It takes a lot to get Dave mad, but he's mad now. He gets out of the truck and slams the door-- swearing. I'm surprised he managed to get the door open at all since snow is now jammed up above the top of the tires. Exhasperated, Dave's convinced the truck is stuck until spring...which means the tractor is stuck...which means our only vehicle is the station wagon. Looking at the ice and snow shoved up underneath the chasis, I'm inclined to agree, but I don't tell him that. Instead I reassure him that we'll get the truck out. It will just take a little-- er maybe a lot of digging. So, I wade into the snow and start shovelling. My arms are sore from my earlier efforts with the tractor. But there's a job to be done.

We dig for a solid half hour. Finally, we've moved as much snow away from the truck as we can. Dave climbs into the cab, and I stand behind the truck with my fingers crossed. Snow crunches as the truck rolls ahead. It's free....but there's still the issue of the tractor.

We do a bit more shovelling in the lane, and with a path now cleared, Dave inches the truck backwards again. This time, the snow stays firmly packed underneath the tires. We attach the tow ropes, and on Dave's signal, I inch the truck forward. With barely discernable effort, the tractor is pulled free of Mother Nature's icy grip.

What a week-- I hope the groundhog is right and that spring is just around the corner.

The Tale of the Disappearing Horse

January 10, 2011
8:20 pm
I'm on my way home from teaching riding lessons outside of Halifax. I call Dave to let him know, and to check and see how the horses and other "kids" are doing.

Me: "How are the horses?"

Dave: "They're fine."

Me: "They didn't give you any trouble coming in?"

Dave: "No. They behaved themselves." pause. "I hope I closed their stall doors".

Me: laughing, "Yeah, me too." My turn to pause. "You did close their doors, right?"

Dave: "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I did. Oh, hey, when I finished in the barn I went out on the tractor to widen the path and move some more snow around."

I notice that Dave has deftly changed the topic of conversation. I wonder about the stall doors, but I don't dwell on it. I'm sure he must have closed the stall doors, and if he thinks there's any chance he didn't, surely he'll go check. Right?

We hang up the phone and I settle-in behind the steering wheel for the rest of the hour-long drive to our rural piece of heaven.

As I finally pull onto our snow-covered road, my mind replays my earlier conversation with Dave. Just in case, I drive slowly and cautiously. I scan the ditches and alder patches for any sign of blanketed, four-legged animals, accidentally liberated by a tired, distracted husband. No such figures are illuminated by my high-beam headlights.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I roll into the driveway. The big barn door is closed, so even if anyone escaped (which I'm sure they didn't because I'm sure Dave would have double checked), they'd at least be corralled by the cinder-block walls.

It's about 20 after 9 now-- time to do night stables. I'm already in barn clothes, so I opt to check on the horses before going into the house. As usual, Zorro hears my boots crunching in the snow and leaps through his cat door to escort me into the feed room. I see Dave's left the light on. I remind myself to lecture him about the cost of electricity later. In the feed room, I take a moment to scratch Zorro's chin and pat his back, before making my way into the barn itself. Then, I flick on the lights and turn toward the horses' stalls.

Maggie, as usual, stretches her head out over her door and nods it in my direction in a plea for more food. Her door is closed and solidly latched. Murray, however, hasn't offered a greeting. I look to his stall to see the door pulled wide-open. His pile of hay is mostly untouched, and at first glance, there's no sign of him at all.

Now, Murray can be difficult, if not impossible to catch; but, he's not a wanderer at heart. He's simply not brave enough to go exploring on his own. As far as I know, the only time he ever "escaped" from his stall in the night was at Equidae stables in Halifax. The caretaker, Karen, lived in an apartment above the barn. At 1am, she woke to hear the clink of metal horse shoes on the cement floor. She wiped the sleep from her eyes, and navigated the dark steps down to the barn. When she got there, she found Murray standing outside his stall, a look of worry and concern on his face. The door to his stall was closed. As Karen opened it, he dashed back inside, clearly relieved to be "home". As far as we can tell, his sly, 22 year old, appaloosa neighbour had reached over and unlatched Murray's door. Murray seized the opportunity and headed toward freedom, but then, as the door slammed closed behind him, had second thoughts. There were no signs that he'd strayed more than a foot or two from his stall.


With that story in mind, I'm surprised that I don't see Murray behind his open door. So, I look down the isle to my left, toward the extra stalls. Still no sign of him, and no signs that anything has been disturbed. Then, I hear movement so I turn and take a few steps toward his open door. That's when I see him. I should have known.

He's standing at the back of his stall, his hindquarters pressed against the exterior wall, with his shoulders and ribs practically leaning on the dividing wall between his stall and Maggie's. He's hiding. It's a trick he mastered years ago, and has managed to replicate at every barn he's been at. He instinctively seems to know which area of his stall is least visible from the outside. He flattens himself against the wall in that area, and takes a nap. This habit of hiding in the shadows has caused many a stable manager to do a panicked double take when confronted with what, on first glance, appears to be an empty stall. It's amazing that a 12 hundred pound animal can manage to hide himself so completely.

I call Murray's name and he steps forward sleepily, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his door has been wide open for the past two hours. He drowsily meanders toward the uneaten mound of hay, and shoves his muzzle amongst the grassy forage.

I shake my head at Dave. I can't believe he left Murray's door open-- wide open. At least there was no harm done--this time. If it had been Maggie, it would be a whole different story. Hay would be spread across the isles, crossties would be pulled from the walls, and the barn in general would like a disaster zone.

Man versus Machine (part 2)

Dave got the tractor stuck on a Tuesday. When I initially scolded him, I told him it HAD to be out by the weekend. After another 200 mm of rain though, I took pity on him and suggested he wait a few more days for the ground to dry out. He wanted to give it a shot anyway.

Sunday November 7
It's raining today, but for the first time in three days it's steady showers instead of a torrential downpour. Dave is armed with 100 feet of heavy duty tow-ropes and he's anxious to try and free the tractor from its muddy resting place. I tell him to call a tow truck. He says it's too expensive (this from the guy who just spent 70 dollars on tow-ropes).

I swore I wouldn't waste a single minute of my time helping Dave get out of this mess. But I worry about him working on the tractor alone, so I throw on my rain gear and trek down the muddy slope with him. True to form, Zorro follows too. We both act as "project supervisors."


Dave's plan is to jack-up the tractor, shove boards underneath the rear wheels (the tractor is backwards, with the front pointing down the hill toward the bus), put the tractor in neutral, and hope to heck that the truck has enough horsepower to pull it out. This would likely be a much easier task if the tractor would start. But no, despite balmy 14 degree temperatures, the engine simply won't turn over-- and this time there's no way to position the truck to boost it. No, our poor old Dodge Ram is going to have to pull several thousand pounds of dead weight. To make matters worse, all the rain has created a mini-river that now runs between the tractor's tires.

With the tractor jacked up, and boards wedged beneath its mismatched tires, Dave strings together his newly-purchased ropes. He hoped they would be long enough to reach to the top of the hill so the truck to pull from firmer, level ground. But no, the ropes have come up short, and while the truck is nearing the crest of the hill, it's still on a slope. It's not ideal, but it will have to do.

Dave puts the truck in 4WD low and hits the gas. As the ropes tighten, the truck surges forward the tractor lurches ahead a foot or so. Then the truck loses traction and the tires spin the wet grass into a muddy mess. As the truck slides, the tractor rolls back into its comfortable rut.

We try putting boards under the truck tires too. It simply spits them up in the air. Then, Dave lengthens the distance between the truck and the tractor by hooking a series of ratchet straps to the tow ropes. We're still not on flat ground, but it might just be enough. He hits the gas in the truck again. The truck jumps forward a foot, then two feet. I look through the rear windshield and can see the tractor tires beginning to turn. It's moving.

Just then, one of the newly attached straps breaks, and the tractor rolls backwards. For one awful moment, I'm afraid it will keep rolling right into the bus, but the deep ruts are so well worn that it simply rocks back into its muddy cradle.

The rain is picking up again. We call it a day-- and I repeat my suggestion to call a tow-truck.

Wednesday, November 10
Once again Dave brushes aside my tow-truck suggestion. Instead, he heads to the hardware store to pick up another 60 feet worth of ropes.

Thursday, November 11
It has finally stopped raining. As soon as the horses are fed and turned out, Dave turns his attention to the tractor. It's the day of reckoning. This time, there's enough rope to bring the truck onto solid, flat ground. The problem now is that we can just barely see the tractor. It's down the hill and around a curve. I'm not overly optimistic about our chances, and I make it clear that if this doesn't work, I'm calling a tow-truck myself.

The ropes are attached. The truck is in 4WD low. Dave puts his foot on the gas. The tires find traction and our "Ram Tough" Dodge pickup rolls smoothly ahead. I crane my neck to look through the rear windshield. I can't see the tractor at all, but the ropes are tight and we're moving, so it must be moving too. We creep along, hoping, praying. Then, we see it.

It's as if the hill is giving birth--a breech birth. First the chest-high, mud-caked rear tires emerge over the slope, then we see the back of the driver's seat, and the red of the engine casing. The tractor is halfway up the hill now. It's rolling. It's moving. It's really free. It's...oh no, it's rolling straight toward a thick, 10 foot high stand of alder trees.

As the tractor reaches them, the alders bend, but they don't bow. The truck groans and strains. The tow ropes vibrate. The tractor stops moving. The truck tires start spinning. Dave puts the pedal to the metal. Suddenly, the truck lurches forward and the tractor barges through the stand of trees.

With the trees conquored, the tractor crests the hill. We keep pulling until it's well up on flat ground. Dave and I both let out huge sighs of relief. We run down to inspect the tractor. Branches stick out at all angles from the tractor. It's covered in mud, but otherwise unscathed. After nine days in the mud, our Massey Ferguson 35 has finally been liberated. Now, what on earth are we going to do with 160 feet worth of tow-ropes?

Man Versus Machine (part 1)

*NOTE: I feel compelled to start this blog by saying that I love my husband very much. He's a wonderful, thoughtful man who does many things right. Unfortunately for him, the best stories come from the things he gets wrong. So, Dave, I apologize in advance.

Tuesday November 2nd.
It's a day best described as "bleak". The damp fog has shrouded our view, and the rain of the past week has muddied our fields. Nonetheless, Dave has the day off and we have loads of outdoor work to do before winter unleashes its icy fury.

Wearing splash pants, rain jackets, and somewhat waterproof work gloves, we toss torn shingles and other construction debris into the back of the truck in preparation for a trip to the dump.

Then we start the tractor (by means of a boost from the truck) in an effort to help move 80 pounds or more of a 30 year-old white, powdery chemical that we recently discovered hidden near the two-seater outhouse in the former sheep barn/ soon-to-be workshop. As Dave maneuvers the tractor, its tires spin in the slick grass and mud. For a few moments, despite being on flat ground, it's stuck. I guess the rain of recent days really has softened the soil.

After a few hours work, I head into the city to teach riding lessons. I leave Dave with a list of chores to do. Topmost on the list is removing a stack of rotting boards from an empty stall in the barn. I'm worried that the mould-covered wood is irritating Murray's sensitive lungs.

When I arrive home, I check on the horses before going into the house. I notice that the pile of boards is diminished, though not gone. Well, it's a start. I also notice that the tractor is nowhere to be seen. I foolishly assume Dave has parked it around back to keep the front of the property looking tidy.

When I come inside, Dave greets me with this: "Don't start, I'm upset enough about it as it is."

I have no idea what he's talking about.

Dave: "I don't always have the best judgement."

Now I'm really confused. Then I remember that I didn't see the tractor.

Me: "Dave. What did you do?"

Before I continue, I should enlighten you about a conversation Dave and I had two days earlier. You see, we recently discovered that the decrepit school bus at the far end of our property (that's a whole other story) seems to have been used as hunting camp in the past. Amongst the broken glass and animal feces, we noticed a battered, and somewhat rusted wood stove.

Dave wants this stove for his workshop. However, that's easier said than done. In order to get it to the workshop, he has to raise the stove from the gully, drag it through a stand of alders, and up a long, steep slope. He figured it would be a perfect chore for our 50 year old, impossible-to-start tractor. I tentatively agreed, then promptly forgot about it.

Then, on Halloween weekend, Dave mentioned the idea again. I looked at him, shook my head, and rolled my eyes.

Me: "Dave, we've had more than 100 mm of rain in the past week. The ground is soft and wet and slippery. There's no way that tractor will make it down the slope into the gully. It would be crazy to try it now. You don't even know if the stove's any good. There's no rush, just wait until things dry out a bit."

I thought that Dave agreed with me. I thought that would be all for awhile. But I was mistaken, because after two more days of steady rain, Dave, bored by the list of chores that needed to be done, decided to attempt the feat.

Back at the house on the evening of November 2nd:

Me: "Dave. What did you do?"

Dave: "I took the tractor down to the bus to get the stove. I didn't get the stove. The tractor's stuck."



Me: "YOU DID WHAT?! BUT WE DISCUSSED THIS. I TOLD YOU IT WAS A BAD IDEA. AND THAT WAS TWO DAYS AGO BEFORE ALL THIS NEW RAIN."

Dave: "On the bright side, I didn't get the truck stuck. Well, I almost got it stuck trying to drag the tractor out, but when it started sinking in the mud I decided to leave the tractor and just get the truck out of there. I knew you'd be really, really mad if I got the truck stuck."

Me: "YOU WATCHED THE TRACTOR SPIN AND GET STUCK ON FLAT GROUND THIS MORNING. WHAT MADE YOU THINK IT WOULDN'T GET STUCK ON A WET, MUDDY HILLSIDE?!"

Dave: "Well, I was smart. I drove it down the slope to the junk pile first and it didn't get stuck there, so I figured it would be ok."

Me: "That slope isn't anywhere near as steep, AND, what would you have done if it HAD gotten stuck there?! Never mind. I'm not worrying about this. You are going to fix this. You are going to get the tractor out and I'm having nothing to do with it. If you don't get it out than you can shovel the driveway by hand all winter long. I won't yell about this anymore....but (here my lips curl into an evil smile)....your punishment is that I'm writing about it on the blog."

Dave: "No, not the blog."

Me: "Yes, the blog. I can write about it, or I can yell about it. It's your choice.

Boys and their Toys (part 2)

Late one August evening.
It's dusk when I hear the living room phone ring. It's Dave. He's on his way back from Amherst, on his way back from test-driving the tractor.

Dave: "Well, we're now proud owners of a Massey Ferguson 35 tractor".

Me: Trying unsuccessfully to sound enthusiastic-- "Uh, great."

Dave: "Well, we've put down a down payment anyway. We'll hand over the rest when he delivers the tractor on Saturday".

Me: "Oh, he can deliver it. Well, I guess that's a good thing. So it's a good tractor? Everything works well?"

Dave: "Yep. I'm happy with it."

Me: "Did he tell you how old it is?"

Dave: "We think it's from the late 1950's"

Me: "What!?"

Dave: "Probably '58, maybe early 60's. "

Me: "It's that old? How many hours on the engine? What kind of work has it been doing?"

Dave: "Oh, he doesn't know. He's kind of a broker. He just buys and sells these things all the time, so he hasn't had it for long."

(that sinking feeling returns to the pit of my stomach).

Me: Resignedly, "Well, I guess you can tell me more about it when you get home."

When Dave finally does get home, he surprisingly shares the excruciating details of the test drive with me:

Dave: "He had it running when I got there, but I shut it off so I could make sure that it would start ok. "

Me: "And it did?"

Dave: "Well, no, it wouldn't start. But it's ok. He showed me a trick. You just use a little ether to help it get started. I don't think it will really be a problem though. I think maybe the engine had just been running for a minute or two, and then we turned it off, so it just was a bit sticky after that to start. It just needs a good run. At worst, it might need a new battery."

Me: Trying very hard not to roll my eyes-- "Uh huh."

Dave: "Yeah, oh, and I accidentally broke the attachment to the three-point-hitch."

Me: "What?!"

Dave: "Yeah, but it's ok. He had another one, so he'll just give us that. I'm just not used to those controls and I just think I brought it down a bit hard".

Me: *sigh* "But the hydraulics are good?"

Dave: "Yes. The hydraulics are great. But the parking brake doesn't seem to work. That's no big deal though. It's not really necessary."

Me: "I don't think I want to hear anymore."


A few days later.
I arrive home from work to see an old, red tractor parked in my usual spot. It doesn't look so bad. It's kind of quaint. Then I notice the tires. None of them match, and there look to be cracks in the rubber on the four-foot high rear tires.




Dave: "Yeah, it probably should have new tires soon".

Me: Exasperated "DAVE! Those are going to be really, really expensive!"

Dave's response is to offer to take me for a spin on our new, old piece of farm equipment. He tries to start it, but it needs a boost from the truck.

Dave: "Yeah, it definitely needs a new battery."

Me: "What about gas...does it have enough gas? Maybe that's the problem."

Dave: "Diesel. It runs on diesel. And yes, there's some it in. A tank of diesel will last us forever in this thing."

With the help of jumper cables attached to the truck, the tractor eventually coughs and sputters to life, leaving a cloud of stinky black smoke in its wake. Dave pleads with me to jump aboard for a ride. I reluctantly agree. My gut still says this tractor is trouble.


A day or two later:
I arrive home from work to see the tractor parked on the grass down by the riding ring.

Dave: "I used the tractor to drag the ring for you."

Me: "That's Great! Thank you! Would you mind bringing the tractor up closer to the house though? I don't want Murray to be spooked by its faded chrome."

There's a long pause.

Me: "What. What is it?"

Dave: "Well, the tractor won't start. I tried boosting it and it still won't start. I'll go get a new battery tomorrow. "

Me: Ugh. Fine.


The next day
It's dark by the time Dave is home from work. Nonetheless, new battery in hand, he's determined to get his tractor going again, and he's determined that I witness his success. He drags me down to the tractor, shines the truck lights on it, installs the new battery and turns the key. The tractor growls, and groans, but it does not start.

Me: "I told you this tractor is a lemon. Why can't you listen!"

I leave Dave and his machine in the shadows as I walk back up to the house in disgust. If I stick around, I may say something I'll regret.

After tinkering for awhile, Dave sheepishly returns to the house and announces that the problem seems to be that the tractor is out of gas--diesel.


Eventually, Dave does manage to awaken the tractor from its slumber, but neither a tank full of fuel nor a new battery rids the machine of it's reluctance to start. Months after we bought it, and with the temperatures still above zero, it almost always needs to drink-in energy from our tireless truck before being coaxed into an hour or two of work.

This proved to present quite a problem two weeks ago when Dave went against my advice and pushed the tractor a little too hard and a little too far.

Boys and their Toys (part 1)

As the sun beat down on us in early August, Dave and I started thinking about the most logical topic to come to mind-- snow removal. Unlike when we lived in downtown Moncton, we knew that shovels and muscles just weren't going to do the job here on the farm. We thought about getting a plow blade for our ride-on lawnmower, but worried that the mower might not be up to the job. Then, we weighed the pros and cons of getting an ATV with a plow attachment; but in the end, we decided that buying a tractor would be much more practical. A tractor would give us the means, not just to move snow, but to spread manure, turn the manure pile and do various other manure-related tasks. If only I'd known then what kind of "manure" we were really getting ourselves into.


Sometime in August
During the spring and for much of the summer, our drives into down brought us past a blue and white tractor with a "for sale" sign taped to the window. At first, we didn't give this antiquated looking piece of machinery much thought, but as we contemplated the winter months to come, I wondered whether it might be just the snow-removal tool we were looking for.

One day, another sign appeared on the side of the tractor listing the for-sale price as $3700. It also mentioned the tractor's age...I believe it dated to 1972. I mentioned this to Dave. We agreed that it seemed like a bit too much money for a 38 year old, well-loved, piece of farm equipment. We left it at that.

Soon after, we started seriously looking for tractors. After scrolling through Kijiji's online ads, we were surprised to find that $3700 was actually a pretty darned good deal for a tractor of that vintage. We decided to check it out. The next morning, on my way to work, I prepared to pull over as I drove by the familiar "tractor spot", so that I could copy down the phone number. Unfortunately, the tractor wasn't there. Either it finally sold, or the sellers took it off the market, we were never able to find out. Back to Kijiji for us.

I scanned the online ads tirelessly, bookmarking any which seemed even remotely likely to meet our needs. I asked more-experienced farm friends what features we should look for, and what to avoid. I e-mailed sellers for more details (usually finding that the tractor listed was already sold). I wasn't in a panic to get a tractor. I hoped we still had several months before the first flurries would flutter down from the heavens and fill our driveway. That's just how I shop: if I'm at a mall, I look at all the shoes in every shoe store before going back and finding just the right pair, at just the right price. If I'm searching online, I look at all the ads, make several phone calls, and send several e-mails before deciding what to buy. However, I think Dave misinterpreted my tractor-shopping enthusiasm as a call to immediate action. And I think that may have led to some rash decisions.

About a week into our search, Dave found a tractor that appealed to him. It was one I had noticed too, but since it was located close to an hour and a half away in Amherst, I had relegated it to the bottom of my list. Dave, however, was not daunted. He called the seller and was told that the tractor was on its way to Moncton to be looked at by a potential buyer. If they didn't want it, it would stay there and be sold at auction. Still, Dave was not daunted.

The next day, Dave called back. As it happened, the other potential buyer didn't want it. So, Dave asked the man to bring the tractor back to Amherst so he could have a look. According to Dave, the seller grumbled about moving the tractor again. He said several people had looked at the tractor already and had opted not to buy it. He was tired of accommodating uninterested buyers.

Now, I might have interpreted this lack of interest by other buyers as a warning-- a clue that people were finding fault with this ageing hunk of metal. Not Dave though, he saw this as an opportunity-- destiny even. He told the seller that if he'd bring it back to Amherst, he'd be practically guaranteed a cash sale. Apparently the seller saw this as an opportunity too, and in the end, he heartily agreed to have the tractor back on his lot by that evening so Dave could take it for a test drive.

Dave told me all this by phone while I was at work. I pulled up the online ad and took another look. When I did, I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's the same bad feeling I had the day Dave came home driving a used Izuzu Rodeo SUV (he had it for about six months after which time it sputtered and limped off to auction to be re-sold at a considerable loss to us). I shared my skepticism, and I urged him to change his plans. We argued a bit, and Dave reminded me that as an engineer who spent close to a decade working in mining, he had vast experience with all kinds of heavy equipment. He knew what he was doing. I knew that he was right. With a sigh, I gave him my blessing to do whatever he thought best. I just urged him to keep an open mind, and to be willing to walk away from the deal. Of course, he didn't.