I arrived at the auction yard before sunrise the next morning, wearing the same navy church shoes. By nine, nearly 280 farmers had gathered around the auction block. I recognized many of them: men who had eaten at our table, borrowed equipment, and carried Amos’s casket. As the auctioneer approached Lot 35, I walked toward the Farmall and climbed onto a nearby hay wagon. My knees shook as I raised my hands and called for everyone’s attention. The auctioneer stopped speaking, and hundreds of faces turned toward me.
I introduced myself as Marlene Ambrose and explained the tractor’s history. I told them that Amos had bought it new, that Virgil had spent five winters restoring it, and that my husband was currently fighting for his life in a Regina hospital. Then I explained that Brent had brought the machine to the auction while his father lay unconscious. “I haven’t got the papers to prove it’s his, not today,” I admitted. “I can’t hand you a title or a court order. All I can do is stand here in my church shoes and tell you the truth, and trust you to know what to do with it.” When I climbed down, my legs were trembling. The auctioneer waited, then lifted his microphone. “Lot thirty-five,” he announced. “Who’ll start us at four thousand dollars?”
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