What a way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Sprawling acres of fallow fields, grazing cattle and wobbly calves under a pure blue sky and sun. And wind. Plenty of wind, but what’s Nebraska without wind?
I savored the rural joys of Central Nebraska when I took a ride in a wagon pulled by an antique tractor on Sunday, April 14.
The invitation came to me out of the blue. Out of that blue sky, maybe.
I’d meandered through the Signs of Spring Craft and Trade Show at the Buffalo County Fairgrounds on April 13 and was pulling into the Hy-Vee parking lot when my cell phone rang. It was Pastor Dean Hanson, pastor at Grace Lutheran Church in Pleasanton.
“I’m inviting you to our tractor parade tomorrow,” he said.
A tractor parade, I said? I’d never heard of that. I’d spent most of my life in Cleveland.
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He said the church had a tractor parade every year until COVID-19 shut it down, but Sunday, April 14 it would return, along with a blessing of seeds and farmers, and a potluck lunch, too. How could I say no?
Sunday morning, I drove up to Grace Lutheran Church. The sanctuary was packed. Up by the altar was a little lace-covered table, topped by two toy tractors — one green and one red — and four jars of seeds. Hanson led a blessing for farmers and seeds during the service.
After worship came a scrumptious potluck lunch. I filled up on roast beef, noodles, salads, rolls, pies, and cakes, but for me, the real dessert waited outside in that parked row of 10 antique tractors.
I headed outside and walked around, curious, These men give their historic machines as much affection as the folks who bring their classic cars to Kearney every July. Hanson pointed to a wagon as bright green as a John Deere. I would sit there and be part of the parade.
I climbed into the wagon and sat down on the bench along the right side, near the front. Two girls, aged 14 and 11 or so, climbed in, too. They were excited. They hadn’t been on a tractor parade since the church halted its parades in 2020.
Bob Hand, the tractor driver, turned around. “Are you ready?” he asked. The wind was dancing. I tightened the strings on my hat to keep it from blowing away. Soon the motor blasted on. We headed out on Highway 10 and turned left at the first road we came to. Off we went on a Sunday drive.
I’d never done anything like this. I’d been on a few hayrides years ago, but nothing like this trek in a farm wagon down dusty, uneven dirt roads in central Nebraska.
I saw clusters of cows and frisky calves. I saw dormant cornfields, the dirt as hard as concrete, with withered cornstalks poking through. I saw distant trees hugging distant creeks. We clattered over wooden bridges over dried-up streams.
As I watched Hand shifting gears. I’d forgotten that tractors have become so sophisticated. The last time I rode in a tractor was six or seven years ago with Don Batie In Lexington. His enclosed machine has two seats, air conditioning and more technology than the international Space Station.
In comparison, Hand, Hanson and the others were perched on their antique machines unprotected from the heat or the rain, with no computerized controls, nothing but the wind and the sun and the dusty road.
I thought of a friend of mine in Washington. D.C. who thinks the Great Plains should be cleared of humanity and re-opened to buffalo. “Nobody lives there anyway,” he said. What ignorance. I wished he was here riding with me.
After a while, Hand looked back and saw that two tractors had stopped. We turned around and headed back to help. One tractor had coughed and quit, so another driver tied a rope onto it and towed it to a nearby farm. The driver of the disabled tractor spent the rest of the afternoon in our wagon.
As we bumped along, I took pictures. Sometimes Hanson, riding up ahead, stood up on his tractor and looked back at the parade of eight tractors behind him.
As we headed back east into Pleasanton, the wind punched and battered us. I forget how insulated we modern folk are from Mother Nature. When we pulled into the church parking lot, I looked at my watch and did a double-take. We’d been out for nearly two hours. Time flies when you’re having fun.
Mary Jane Skala is a reporter at the Kearney Hub who covers health and nonprofits, writes feature stories and pens a Saturday column. Reach her at maryjane.skala@kearneyhub.com.