All winter I have been debating the pros and cons of buying a tractor. The most obvious con is the significant cost of course, but running a close second is my total lack of mechanical inclination. However my forthcoming blueberry farm (specifically the maintenance of it) begs for machinery of some sort.
I didn’t realize I had made the decision until I was at the Kubota dealership, surprising the salesman as much as myself. After I signed the dotted line and was walking to my car, it hit me. I had bought my own tractor. I started to feel queasy. Let’s be real: I buy most of my food off the reduced rack, my clothes are almost universally thrifted, and when gallivanting away from home my sleeping arrangements involve a tent or – if I’m feeling fancy – some seriously sketchy motels. The freedom of self-employment comes with a fluctuating income, hence my inherent frugality. I sat in the car looking at my new, pink Kubota ball cap and tried to wrap my head around the fact that I had just spent a lot of money. I would soon own a serious piece of mechanical equipment.
By that night, the nausea was almost gone and I was excited. My regular I can do this mantra was extended to include the following addendum: Tractor is love, Tractor is blueberries. I began thinking about all the things I could do with it. I have a backhoe attachment to dig with, a spreader to spread stuff, a tiller, a loader and a mower. I asked the salesman if the tractor could move stuff. He sputtered a little and assured me it could move rocks the size of Texas (not really but you get the idea). I think that this is the right move.
My friend said “you have to name it!” Hmm, what to name it? My tractor will be strong, tireless, no-nonsense and scary. Helga it is.