Equipment on a family farm never really dies - it just goes to sleep for a while.
And occasionally - when that thing it does better than anything else is just what you need - you wake it up again.
My grandfather's rod weeders and my father's hitch. Awakened from a decade's quiet slumber. Cautiously aired tires, oil and grease; they need to warm up before they work again.
With a lurch they pop out of the weeds that half bury them. Cranky and creaking, but willing to be coaxed.
I walk them across the farm, frequent stops to check for stuck chains and hot bearings.
We arrive at our destination, a fresh disced field awaiting the smooth seedbed preparation that only this machine can give. I lean my weight back on each rusty handle, dropping them back in the ground my forebears did a hundred times before.
I throttle up, watch rusty iron submerge beneath loose soil, doing what it was made to do once again.
I take a picture, and send it to my dad. He tells me to keep an eye on the chains.
I do.
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