Bozo (a Parable) 

It was the summer of 1945, if I remember correctly. My father pulled up to our house driving a 1923 Fordson tractor that he had just purchased from a neighbor. We named the little tractor Bozo. 

Bozo had over-sized, spoked, steel rear wheels with two inch lugs that evoked memories of a WW1 artillery piece. The gas tank was riddled with rust where the paint had worn off and bare metal was exposed. The fenders were pitted, dented and bent.

The little tractor had a four cylinder, inline Ford engine that sputtered and popped and generated great clouds of acrid black smoke that further evoked thoughts of WW I. The engine was rated at a whopping twenty-horsepower, as I recall, and was limited in what it could do. We didn't ask or expect much from Bozo.

The little tractor was hard to start in the summer and harder to start in the winter. It had a magneto and internal coil system and had to be hand-cranked. I recall cold mornings when my father cranked until he was exhausted and Uncle Bob, our neighbor and sometime hired-hand, would take over. (As a boy I wasn’t allowed to help because the crank could break your arm if the engine backfired.) Once started, the little engine had to be coaxed along gently, the spark advanced cautiously, or it would sputter, gasp  and die.

But the old tractor found a place in our hearts. My father used it to plow, pull a few stumps, power a circular saw and carry out a number of small tasks around our place. Bozo was parked in the barn when I left home—antiquated, underpowered, outmoded and outclassed by shiny new tractors, but still useful in my father's hands.

He who has ears to hear let him hear.

David Roper