That tractor was no ordinary piece of machinery. It was a 1951 Farmall M, purchased new by Virgil’s father, Amos, from Voss Implements. After Amos died, the tractor sat neglected until Virgil spent five winters restoring it. He separated the machine to repair the clutch, poured the wheel weights himself, and repainted it four times until the red was exactly right. Every Labour Day, he drove it through the parade in Craik, sitting proudly in his good cap while children waved from the roadside. Brent had even ridden on its fender during the first parade, when he was twenty-one. There was a photograph of that day in our hallway, showing him laughing with his whole face.
That night, I sat alone at the farmhouse kitchen table, trying to prepare a speech for the auction. I tore up three attempts before giving up on words altogether. I wasn’t afraid of standing before strangers. I was afraid of discovering what had become of the boy I had helped raise since he was sixteen. His mother had died when he was nine, and I had spent every year since trying to become someone he might eventually accept. By sunrise, I knew I had no choice. If I wanted to save Virgil’s tractor, I would have to stand before the people who had known our family for decades and tell them the truth.
THE STORY CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE… 👇👇👇
