Note to reader: Today's feature is written by Dr. Robin Fazio, long-time farmer, educator and founder of Baylor School's gardening program and Mechanics' Club.

I first heard him tell this story months ago. It hit home. So, I asked him: please write this for us.

A few weeks later, Robin sent this.

This is a story of authenticity and confidence, not shiny bluster. It's a story of kindness. Strength. Knowing the right kind of tractor.

As Robin writes, this is a story of "being able to see things as they are, not as they appear to be."

Food as a Verb is honored to share this with you today.

“Ain't no power in paint”

By Robin Fazio

I've always been fascinated with farm equipment, ever since I was a little boy. Something about it just captivated me. I learned to drive a tractor as an agriculture student at Berry College, where I worked on the school farm every day before or after school.

But it was older machinery that really captured my fascination. So when I went to graduate school to continue studying agriculture, I decided to join an antique tractor and engine club.

When I went to my first meeting, the average age of the club members had to be at least 60, maybe older.  I felt out of place, given my lack of experience with antique machinery, as well as the fact that I was 30 to 40 years younger than most of the members. However, they quickly welcomed me, and as I learned more about antique farm machinery, my fascination grew.

One afternoon in July, I got a phone call from one of the club members.

Robin, this is Duane Larson.  We're going to go up to Alco Cox’s farm and cut wheat with a wheat binder, and then we're going to shock it.  His annual wheat threshing party is coming up.

Duane was an unusual character among the antique engine and tractor club members. He was from the Midwest and had a pronounced accent.  More notably, he held a PhD in nuclear physics and worked at Oak Ridge National Laboratories. 

He was also one of the nicest and most generous club members that I had met.

“Of course,” I said, flattered by the invitation.

Unlike most of the club members who farmed part-time or just liked antique machinery, Alco Cox was a full-time farmer. 

When I knew him, he was probably in his mid to late 50s. He didn't smile much; he didn't say much. When you talked to him, he always had a very direct answer. He also chewed the biggest wad of tobacco that I had ever seen - it looked like he had a golf ball in his cheek.

It seemed like Alco always wore the same blue button-up shirts and work pants. He drove an early 90s three-quarter ton Dodge diesel.

To me, it looked like the perfect truck for him. It didn't have any modifications or options. It was big, it was powerful, it was dirty. Nothing fancy about it - a true farm truck.

The day came to cut the wheat, and I drove up from Knoxville to Union County to Alco Cox’s farm. Most club members were aficionados of a particular make of tractor.  Some members collected International tractors, some members collected Fords, some collected Allis Chalmers. 

Alco Cox was a John Deere man.

When I arrived on his farm, everything I saw was John Deere. He had a huge John Deere dealer’s sign on the side of his barn. The tractor pulling the wheat binder and the binder were John Deere.

Duane and Alco and a few other club members were already in the field. They had arrived earlier, set up the equipment and had taken a few passes around the field to make sure everything was working properly. Duane welcomed me and invited me to sit up on the binder and operate it. 

A binder is an innovative piece of machinery that was used prior to combine harvesters. It is pulled by a tractor or draft animals. 

A grain binder has a sickle bar that mows down the grain; the mown plants fall onto a rotating canvas tarp and chains push it toward the side of the machine, where it collects into a bundle.

The machine then loops a piece of twine around the bundle and ties it. 

Another club member drove the tractor while I rode on the binder. I remember sitting on a metal seat near the back of the machine. In front of me, there were two handles and a foot pedal.

The only thing I had to do was ride on the machine and when enough bundles had accumulated, I kicked the foot pedal and they fell to the ground.

The trick was to allow just the right number of bundles to accumulate, then drop them in a good spot in the field so we wouldn't have to walk far to make the shocks.

We drove slow enough; Duane and Alco walked and followed us.

“What do these two handles do?” I asked. 

“Pull them and find out!” Alco replied.

After we had cut the small field, the bundles of wheat lay in piles across the ground. 

Duane, Alco and a few other club members showed me how to make a shock.

An ancient technique, shocking is how wheat used to be stored in the field before it can be collected and threshed. 

Eight to 10 bundles of wheat are stood up together, grain heads facing up, in a teepee shape. Then, two or three bundles are placed across the top to stabilize the shock and to keep it from falling over.

They also serve to shed water and prevent spoilage should it rain before the wheat can be collected.

Duane showed me how to make a solid shock. It was harder than it looked, and mine kept falling over. I learned to jab the bundles of wheat into the ground to help hold the bundles and to make a more stable shape. After some time, I was able to make one or two decent shocks with some guidance.

When we were done, the field had been transformed. The tall golden brown wheat plants with their bowed heads were gone and in their place a clean cut field with conical teepees of shocks scattered across it.

With a little imagination, it looked like a miniature village out of a Tolkien book.

It was such a fun and meaningful experience for me that I promised to come back in a few days for the wheat threshing. 

When I returned a few days later, the field that we had harvested had all been gathered, and the shocks were on several large flatbed wagons.

The wagons had been pulled up next to his barn and workshop, and long tables had been set out under and among a few trees. The threshing machine was out in the field about 50 yards away from the tables and the shelter. 

It's hard to describe a threshing machine to someone who's never seen one.

Threshing machines are large pieces of equipment, sort of like a rectangular box with pulleys and belts and elevators and conveyors sticking out on all sides.  A threshing machine does exactly what it sounds like: it threshes, or separates, the grain from the stalk.

A threshing machine cannot drive itself. It has a tongue in which it can be pulled by horses, tractor, or truck, and it is towed to where it will be used.   

Alco’s threshing machine was, of course, John Deere, probably from the 1920s or ‘30s.

When we arrived, the threshing operation had already started.

The wagons with the shocks of wheat were pulled up next to the threshing machine. One of Alco's antique John Deere tractors - a model G - was connected to the threshing machine. 

The tractor provided stationary power via a pulley with a long canvas belt.  The belt, about 20' long, was connected to the main drive pulley of the threshing machine. 

To this day, I still remember the sound.

The threshing machine was literally alive with motion. There were at least seven or eight pulleys with belts moving in different directions on the side of the machine, a long conveyor belt was pulling in the shocks of wheat and grinding them up.

While the pulleys made whirring sounds, the inner workings of the machine were making various metal scraping sounds.

But the loudest and most noticeable noise came from the tractor itself. 

Prior to 1960, John Deere tractors used a horizontal 2-cylinder engine - the only mass-produced tractors to use that type of engine. Because they had only had two cylinders, their exhaust made a popping sound when they operated.

For that reason, a lot of old timers called them “Popping Johnnys.” 

Alco greeted me and invited me to climb up on the trailer and feed the threshing machine.

“Climb up there on that wagon and grab that pitchfork,” he said, “be sure you feed it grain side first." 

I climbed up on the wagon and, along with a couple of other guys that were already feeding the machine, I started to fork the shocks of wheat into the conveyor into the mouth of the threshing machine. 

The closest way to describe what it looked like is to imagine an old James Bond movie where the villain has strapped 007 onto a moving table. At the end of the table there are running saws waiting to grind him up. Of course, Bond always made his escape the instant before his head was to be chopped apart.

The wheat plants, however, were not so lucky. 

As they traveled down the conveyor into the mouth of the machine, huge rotating teeth literally ground them up with enough force to cut through the stalks and cut the twine that held them together.

As I pitchforked, something about the work felt satisfying, felt communal.

I didn't know the other men that were on the wagon with me; I guess they were friends or family members of Alco’s. It didn't really matter; we were enjoying the work and enjoying each other's company.

Alco had climbed up on top of the machine, looking around and making sure everything was working.

Mostly, he just stood there, the machine shaking so violently that his legs and his belly and his whole body were shaking with the rhythm of the moving belts.  He still had that old blue shirt, dirty work pants and a big chaw of tobacco in his mouth, a satisfied look on his face.

After a while, Alco climbed down and called for us to halt.

With the tractor still running, they brought some large feed sacks under a long auger that was part of the machine. Alco pulled a lever and the auger sprang to life, emptying the grain that had been threshed into the feed sacks.

We all took a break for a while, because one of the other club members had asked to use his tractor to operate the threshing machine.

He also had a John Deere G, but his was perfectly restored.

The tractor looked immaculate, like it had just rolled off the factory floor.

We unhooked Alco's old tractor, which had never been restored.

The tires on Alco's tractor were worn and the old paint was faded and nonexistent in some places. 

Where there wasn't faded paint or rust, years of grease and grime covered the engine and the sides of the tractor. It looked like it had seen a long life of farm use and was still earning its living. 

Despite its looks, however, Alco's tractor had pulled the threshing machine easily, its deep throaty popping sound never hesitating. 

We hooked up the beautiful restored G to the threshing machine, and the owner got it started again. The threshing machine sprang to life under this power of the “new” old tractor. 

But after a few minutes, it was clear something didn’t sound right.

This new tractor was struggling more to operate the machine. Alco and I were standing near the tractor trying to guess what might be wrong.

He looked at me with a wise grin, probably the biggest smile he'd ever given me. 

With more than a hint of pride in his voice, he said, “Ain't no power in paint.”

In the years that passed, I graduated and moved away. I became a teacher and a farmer and started a family.  I've owned my own antique farm machinery.  I've grown and harvested my own wheat crops. 

And although I've never attended another threshing party since that day back in 1998, I've thought about it a lot since then. I see him standing on top of the threshing machine, his belly shaking and the big chaw of tobacco in his cheek. 

I think of the kindness of those men and the time they spent with me.  I’ve thought about how enjoyable it was to work as a community. 

But mostly, I’ve never forgotten how Alco’s old tractor, as rough and rusty as it was, still had a strong enough heart to pull the threshing machine better than its newly restored competitor. 

To this day, when somebody's trying to sell me something new or convince me that something's going to be better for me just because it looks good, Alco’s phrase comes back to my mind. 

Maybe he just meant putting new paint on an old John Deere doesn’t make it run well.  However, it meant more than that to me. 

It reminds me that what's on the inside is more important than what's on the outside.

Alco passed away some years ago.  I don't know his family or any of his friends enough to ask. In truth, I really didn't know him that well. 

I wish I could tell him how much the experience of shocking and threshing wheat have meant to me over the years. I wish I could thank him, along with a handful of other men, who were willing to pass on a little bit of their wisdom to me. 

In my capacity as a teacher, I'm fortunate enough to have the opportunity to attempt to repay the debt I owe to them.  Even though I'm getting closer to the same age as some of those men in the tractor club, I don't feel nearly as wise. 

The ability to see things as they are - not as they appear to be - will be a skill that I'll likely have to work on for the rest of my life.  

Fortunately, I still have Alco’s voice in my head, firmly reminding me:

“Ain't no power in paint!”    

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This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content.