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I set off to find my parents who, by the way, are members and do have a little gray and red Case tractor, and who were preparing to mount their little jewel for a ride in the big closing day parade. Just then, a loud bellow of "Hoooooooooh" nearly put me on the ground. "Chug a chug a chug a chug." Warning! It sounds large and hot, and the earth was moving. Gotta find Dad.
"I looked over my shoulder to find a train without tracks! Instant respect. But I didn't have to look, really. I knew it was there. I could draw one without a picture. It was massive. Fifteen feet tall. Its long, round nose would be black as coal, maybe with a round red circle at the end where the fire was housed. They always had a tin roof over the flat part where the engineer stood beaming, waving and working the poles that stick up to make the steam work at the right speed. He could be seen just behind the spiked red, rear wheel, where an LA Laker could stand spreadeagle and just meet the wheel rim. It was magnificent. And it was a hundred years old.
I moved, approaching the top of the hill, remembering the spot where childhood friends and I had once had a taffy pull to pass the time. At times during the show, hundreds of spectators would sit on plank-and-cinder-block benches in the shade, guzzling fresh lemonade or lapping swirl cones between glimpses of the action. The aroma of soot drifted through the air, smelling somehow clean and wholesome, definitely not like smog.
Years ago, the sole source of energy on the farm was steam. Massive 12-ton engines were routinely hooked to the long belts to perform a variety of tasks. Now, show events demonstrate the massive power used to saw logs, bale hay, even cut a watermelon. All that could be seen from the top of the hill, or up close. I was feeling glad I had come.
To the left was a field the size of a parking lot, filled with antique tractors and machinery. A haze of heat rose from the tractors' exhaust pipes. The various manufacturers were sectioned off with banners bearing the names of companies now mostly a memory. It was easy to spot the big orange Case banner where I would find my parents.
Dad had just fired up the tractor, and, with a puff of smoke, it showed a yearning to show off in the parade. Dad behind the wheel, also yearning; Mom with her straw hat, and me standing behind on the platform, ready to go. They were surprised and delighted that I had made it with such great timing. So was I.
We waited patiently for our turn on the parade route. Mom pointed to a water spigot at a well. She claimed the water tasted exactly like the water at her grandmother's farmhouse, where she visited as a child. I had never tasted my great-grandmother's well water, but I could imagine the cool, tinny taste. I could also imagine my great-grandmother - whom I don't remember - being even more familiar than I with the lifestyle the show celebrated. You could say we missed her.
As we neared the grandstand where we would be announced over a loudspeaker, the excitement grew. Our hearts were pounding; a moment of fame, I suppose. After all the years I've ridden in that parade, I know I will never forget the feeling of pride. I'm not sure which is greater: the pride of my Midwestern heritage, my ancestors, or my father, for his stab at preserving the past for generations to come.
Patricia Crowell is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Crowell, Batesville, Ind. She now lives in Austin, Texas. FC