Grampie's tractor

I was in the 6th grade when my grandfather passed away. Glimpses of him remain vivid in my mind; suspenders holding his pants up; hands worn yet strong; his chewing tobacco in the checkered pouch. I can still hear the put-put of his tractor pulling a wagon full of hay over the plank bridge and up the hill; then down across the flatrock to the barn. We loved his tractor. We'd play on it when he went inside the farmhouse; pretending to shift it into gear and go on wild adventures through alfalfa and clover and then out of sight and into the big, exciting world beyond the horizon.

It was small in size. Red-maybe an orangish-red with a seat sitting on springs that would bounce up and down. The bigger the bump, the greater the bounce. There was some kind of compartment that held nuts and bolts and screwdrivers and stray nails-anything he'd need should he break down in the back fields. He must have greased that tractor daily for it constantly smelled like those cans you'd squeeze and out would come that slimy guck. It was all over the tractor-in every little crevice; over every bolt. Old rags were always near and covered in it as were his work gloves. We got covered too but it never bothered us. It was part of playing on Grampie's tractor.

I wonder what he'd say about the size of tractors today. To me they just don't look like alot of fun if you're a kid and ready to head off into the sunset-or sit by your grandfather and put-put up the back hill to the barn. I bet the seats don't bounce either no matter how big the bump!