A Labor of Love and Stubbornness

feb 8 2006

I normally wouldn’t punctuate anything my father-in-law says with an exclamation point, or even put it in boldface. Being generally soft-spoken and measured of tone, Jim rarely allows his emotions to crack that tough farmer’s veneer. In fact, it’s taken me almost ten years to recognize the rare occasions when there is genuine excitement in his voice (oddly, this is a trait he and I share in common). Yet subtle or not, that sly sparkle was there this past Saturday.

“What do we need to go out there for?” my wife Anna asked incredulously.

I already suspected, but quelled my self-assurance. “Is it for the tractor?” (fake question mark).

“Yep!” Again, with that silent exclamation point. Not quite like talking to the Mafia, but still - how could anyone say no?

We donned our shoes and jackets and prepared to march across the front lawn to the “new” shop - the shiny parasite of metal and concrete overpowering its host of wood and dirt. Leading us, my father in law wasn’t just sporting the twinkle of voice, he was brandishing a gaiety of step. He was almost beside himself with pride – I’ll dare say nearly as much as when our daughter was born.

Despite its outwardly modern appearance, over the past few months the new shop had been an endless source of amusement as a seemingly bottomless pile of dirty green parts shape-shifted between our monthly visits. You’d go in there to look for a tool and instead have to run a gauntlet, dodging oil puddles, paint cans and transmission parts. Everything was so rancid, well-worn and misplaced that you couldn’t tell a screwdriver from a ratchet; only after knocking over a coffee can of nuts and bolts would you realize the sheer futility of your efforts to find what it was you thought you were looking for. Equal parts "shop" and "junkyard", my in-laws’ oversized garage is testament that you can rebuild anything: you have the technology – but it’s from 1952 and it could take a while.

The old tractor this menagerie of parts and rubble was allegedly for existed in a perpetual state of operating disrepair. I’d dismissed it as a white elephant, a monument to Jim’s stubbornness, and made quiet wisecracks about it. Oh, nothing runs like a Deere all right - ‘cause they don’t run at all! Har har! Twent-and-Fifty-ing it’s way through the farm ledger, I was amazed they’d put up with it at all. I could understand his allegiances to this machine – there’s a similar albatross in my own driveway - but there comes a point of diminishing returns. It'd be running one month... and in scattered pieces again the next. The patchwork of old and new paint was quite amusing. It was a working beater of a rolling restoration.

“We’re just about set. All I need is the decals.”

My father-in-law restored cars for decades, until the fires of Hell ripped the passion from his soul. He’d never done anything similar since. Other cars have come and gone; tractors had been traded and junked.

But this reborn 1957 John Deere 620, resplendent in freshly enameled Kelly Green in the finally-clean shop, signified a return to his roots, the rediscovery of his soul.

Anna and my mother-in law stood admiringly for a few minutes while Jim discussed the need for decals and some more touch-up, and a place to store it in the meantime. Admiring the transformation before me (this can’t be the same piece of junk we’ve been laughing at for the past 8 months!), I went to work poking at the details.

“The rebuilt gauges are sharp but you need to clean up the over-spray on the lenses”. I only pointed it out to be helpful - those are the nagging sort of details that often escape a huge project - but I was treading thin by pointing it out. Jim seemed appreciative, and I explained: “I’m not being nitpicky – well I am, but only because I feel bad when people put in so much effort and miss the easy stuff. Or how it just sneaks by when you think you’re done… don’t get me wrong, this is phenomenal.”

Jim didn’t take offense; on the contrary he seemed pleased by my eye. His pride illuminated the mechanical beast as I continued admiring the fit and finish, and the newfound spectacle of old. A whirlwind of rediscovery was taking place on both sides. He discussed his newfound plans with his wife Ona, Anna, and me: "I need a place to store it, so I’d like to build another new shop, because we can’t leave it here and drag it out every time we need to work on something else. And then you may as well build another one too though, because you’d need space for another project”.

Another project?

I empathized in real time, taking his side because my own old car would be scattered in pieces all over the garage patiently awaiting dollops of spare time – if only I had the space (and, uh, a garage).

“Yeah, pretty much for another project like the old mustang in the shed... or your car.”

Now that would be years if not a lifetime away but from him, volunteering the notion, the thought is priceless. I’d hinted at picking his brain, whispering of my desire to restore my rolling wreck many times. Five years ago, the very subject was taboo. There was no way... ever. I was too much of a pariah around there.

We hung around for a few minutes, me discussing my assumed notions of restoration work, he confirming and agreeing with the insights coming from someone who had never done it before. His wife finally stated the obvious: “You know, Jimmy could sure teach someone a lot about this stuff”. “I’d love to learn it from him”. The obvious, again.

After the women left we chatted some more. As if it really mattered, he seemed genuinely humbled by my approval of his work on the tractor that once belonged to his own father, decades ago. Watching him polish and tweak it, I gained a new appreciation for his life and story. Maybe someday I’ll have my own, but for now I couldn't do better than learn from his.