“You could’ve bought yourself a nice fishing boat with your retirement money.”
“I don’t fish much.”
“You’re going to start.”
“Why?”
“Because after you figure out what sixty dead tractors cost to haul, you’ll need somewhere to sit and think about your mistakes.”
Earl smiled.
“Could be.”
He put the notebook back into his shirt pocket.
The first person who did not find the purchase funny was Earl’s son Ray.
Ray arrived at the auction yard that afternoon after Earl called and asked for help arranging transportation.
He stopped near the gate.
Looked at the tractors.
Then looked at his father.
“How many?”
“Sixty.”
Ray stared.
“You bought sixty?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Thousand.”
Ray closed his eyes.
Not because one thousand dollars was enough to ruin Earl.
But because Ray knew where the money had come from.
Earl had spent more than forty years repairing agricultural equipment.
Dealership work.
Independent repair.
Farm calls.
Engines in barns.
Hydraulic failures in muddy fields.
Combines repaired under floodlights because rain was coming and a farmer could not afford to lose another day.
He had never become wealthy.
He had simply worked.
Over the last several years, he had been setting aside money for retirement.
Not luxury retirement.
Enough to reduce work.
Replace the roof if necessary.
Handle medical bills.
Maybe buy a better pickup.
The thousand dollars had come from that small reserve.
Ray looked down the row again.
“Dad, they’re wrecked.”
“I know.”
“That one doesn’t have an injection pump.”
“I know.”
“That one’s missing half the dash.”
“I know.”
Ray pointed farther down.
“I can see grass growing through one.”
Earl nodded.
“Good soil under it.”
Ray did not laugh.
“What exactly are you going to do with these?”
Earl looked at the machines.
“I’m not sure yet.”
That answer worried Ray more than anything else.
The hauling took days.
Earl did not own enough trailers.
He borrowed one.
Paid a local hauler for some trips.
Used chains, winches, blocks, and patience.
The machines arrived one or two at a time.
Each flatbed left another piece of dead equipment beside the workshop.
By the time the last tractor arrived, the field looked like an equipment dealer after a tornado.
Faded red.
Green.
Blue.
Yellow.
Orange.
Rust.
Missing wheels.
Flat tires.
Bent fenders.
Ray stood beside his father as the final machine was unloaded.
“There.”
Earl nodded.
“All home.”
Ray looked across the rows.
“You call this home?”
“For now.”
“You spent your retirement money on this.”
“Some of it.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing with them.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said you weren’t sure.”
“That’s different.”
Ray stared at him.
Earl pointed toward the machines.
“I know what I need to do first.”
“What?”
“Find out what I bought.”
The next morning, Earl did something Ray did not expect.
He repaired nothing.
No battery cables.
No fuel.
No starter fluid.
No attempt to make one machine run.
Instead, Earl lined up folding tables beside the workshop and laid out service manuals collected over four decades.
Factory books.
Parts catalogs.
Dealership bulletins.
Handwritten cross-reference sheets.