Horses to Tractor Transition

Transitions are hard

The change from horses to the mechanization of tractors had costs and benefits. Gone are the time costs of training horses, harnessing them, and caring for them. But the nostalgia of a beautiful team of horses pulling an implement or wagon is forged in the memory of every farmer who ever worked with horses. Horses replicated themselves with colts and fillies. Tractors brought more power at the turn of a key or a flywheel. But they brought on the perpetual debt that farmers faced, always having payments to make on the gigantic machines.

In a children’s story, I imagine what this transition was like for the horses who faced unemployment and redundancy, much the same as we transition to a world of computers and AI today. The story is called Hold Your Horses.

Hold your Horses

Chapter 1 – Grandpa, The Old Plow Horse

The old leg joints cracked loudly as the old plow horse settled himself into the soft, easy chair. On his way down, his hoof picked up a cup of horsetail tea. “Isn’t it ironic?” he drawled. “The horsetail plant has been around since pre-horse times. Horses never used to touch the stuff because it was like chewing sandpaper. But if you grind it up and pour some hot water over the remains, it sure can make a fine tea. How times have changed!”

As he made himself comfortable, his other hoof reached into a bag of oats on the table and popped a few kernels into his mouth. The small colts and fillies began to gather around. Usually, a few oat kernels, a cup of horsetail tea, and a comfortable chair were all it took to get the old horse started on one of his stories.

“Grandpa, tell us a story,” one of the tiny colts pleaded.

“Hold your horses.” The old Percheron always repeated the phrase. The wise old horse had found from experience the young horses were better listeners if he kept them waiting for a short time. Then, the fidgeting came before the story and not during or after. The colts and fillies tended to horse around.

The old horse popped a few more oat kernels into his mouth. After chewing loudly for a minute or two, smacking his lips once or twice, he seemed ready to weave his story magic of the good old days.

Through a long life, the old plow horse seemed to know almost every horse character that set hoof on the prairies. The small horses loved listening to Grandpa’s friends' wonderful stories. They admired the Clydesdale, the milk wagon horse, who cleverly stopped at each house so the milkman could deliver the bottles of milk without wasting a single step. there was the Gentle Ben, the Belgian, who could pull four times his weight.

The fillies’ favorite stories were the ones of Grandpa’s old girlfriend, the old gray mare who wasn’t what she used to be. The old gray mare stories usually ended in the repeated singing of the song Grandpa had composed in her honor. One thing often led to another, and soon Grandpa was banging out the rhythm with his cane while the young horses pranced and danced in a wild frolic.

“Come on, Grandpa. When are you going to tell us the story?” asked one of the fillies impatiently. The old horse picked out a long straw from the bale he always kept beside the easy chair and slowly tried to remove an oat hull that had become stuck between his yellow teeth.

“Come on, Grandpa.” The young horses were getting restless.

“Hold your horses,” Grandpa said.

“Grandpa, we’ve been waiting a long time,” scolded a colt who could no longer stand the suspense.

“Well, I had already started the story when you interrupted. I gave you the title, ‘Hold Your Horses.’ ” Grandpa pretended to be annoyed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the colt. “I didn’t know.” The young horses suddenly became quiet, and all the fidgeting stopped. It was a story they had not heard before.

Chapter 2 – The Good Old Days

“There was a time, not so long ago, when horsepower was horsepower, and horse sense made horse sense.” Grandpa always began his stories this way.

“The late great Billy Belgian was one of the greatest horses of all time. He was a pullaholic, if you know what I mean. My, how the horse loved to pull! He would pull anything: wagons, plows, harrows, and binders. You name it. If there was pulling to do, Billy Belgian would be the first in line to do the job.

“Ol’ Billy, as his friends called him, was so eager to pull he would annoy the farmer! When the farmer said, ‘Whoa, it’s dinner time, Ol’ Billy and the team of horses would lead him around the field two more times before they allowed the farmer to stop for a bite to eat. The farmer would beg. The farmer would plead. The farmer would complain of being hungry, tired, and not seeing his wife enough. It was pitiful to see a farmer acting so undignified. But Ol’ Billy kept plodding along, snorting impatiently at the farmer’s shameful behavior.

“Now, Ol’ Billy wasn’t mean. He loved to work. Under the thick horsehide was an animal with a kind heart. In the evening, after working all day in the hot sun, he would spend his time with Bertha, the farmer’s wife. Bertha loved three things: ballet, horses, and her husband. Even though she wasn’t as flexible or as young as she used to be, she still took weekly ballet lessons in town. Each evening, when Bertha’s three loves came together, the whole farm was a happy place.

“It was Ol’ Billy’s job to help Bertha do her warm-up exercises. She would tie one of her legs to Ol’ Billy’s mane and the other to his tail to do the splits. Ol’ Billy trotted around the farmyard until Bertha’s legs could touch the entire horse’s back. It was a slow process. After trotting around the yard once, Bertha still needed to come down six more inches to touch Ol’ Billy’s back. Coming down those last six inches was always the toughest. Bertha’s grunts and groans were loud and frightening as she bounced on the trotting horse. Ol’ Billy felt the pain as Bertha’s bouncing tore at his mane and tail. It was a job only a devoted horse would take. Round and round the farmyard, the draft horse trotted until Bertha sighed loudly. Then Ol’ Billy knew Bertha had completed her splits.

“When Bertha did her evening exercises, the farmyard became a circus. The farmer was the cheerleader. While Bertha grunted and groaned, the farmer sat on a milking stool in the middle of the yard. He clapped his hands and sang chorus after chorus of ‘She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes.’ The chickens squawked as they scurried out of the way of the circus act. The farm dog followed out of reach of Ol’ Billy’s hind hooves, barking up a storm. No one could ever tell if the cows were mooing or booing. The pigs would make bad jokes like: ‘Whose leg is Ol’ Billy pulling today?’, or “Looks like Bertha is on her last legs,’ or ‘Bertha is horsing around again!’ The pigs would then roll in the mud, squealing loudly at their jokes. Even the silent, great-horned owl sitting in the tall birch tree seemed to enjoy the fun below, trying to blink his eyes in time to the beat of the farmer’s loud song.

“The circus act always ended when Bertha untied herself from Ol’ Billy and jumped from her perch into her husband's arms below. As the sun painted its farewell, the farm went to sleep with smiles of happiness and contentment.

Chapter 3 – The Great Change

“So, the years went by for Ol’ Billy. Work all day, exercise Bertha. Work all day, exercise Bertha. For Ol’ Billy, it was a recipe for happiness.”

The old plow horse stopped his storytelling to drain his cup of horsetail tea and send a colt for a refill. When the colt returned, he placed the mug on the bale of straw and looked thoughtfully at his grandchildren.

“Horses and machines go back a long, long time. Throughout history, we have pulled everything from chariots to plows. If horses get to pull the machines, horses and machines can get along fine. But when the machines get so cocky, they start running around by themselves and bragging they have horsepower; the world of the horse is in danger. It is a world where they put the cart before the horse.”

A short time of silence followed as the ancient horse’s eyes fixed briefly on each of the horses gathered in front of him. The young horses did not fully understand what their grandfather was saying. But before the colts and fillies could ask a question, the old plow horse continued his story.

“One day, the farmer returned from town with a noisy, smelly tractor. The horses could hear the ‘putt-putt’ as soon as the tractor reached the farm road. Gas fumes and puffs of smoke came from a pipe in the front of the ugly machine. The metal wheels’ spikes chewed up the lane, which, until now, had only seen the horseshoe.

“Ol’ Billy could tell from the beginning the tractor’s arrival spelled trouble. ‘Who does this machine think he is?’ Ol’ Billy snorted to the other horses, watching the machine show off with its noise and black smoke. ‘Look at the color of the ugly machine. My mother warned me to beware of all things colored like sick grass.’ The band of horses looked closely at the tractor coming up the lane. The color of the machine was off. Although the tractor was green, it was not like healthy grass. It was enough to make all the horses suspicious.

“The horses watched as the excited farmer reached the yard, turned off the machine, and raced to tell Bertha. Bertha was already at the gate to see what was making all the noise. ‘Bertha, look at what I brought home.’ The farmer was so impatient that he pulled his wife up to the ugly green machine to get a closer look. ‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ the farmer exclaimed. ‘Now I can come home when I’m hungry. There will be no more begging the horses to come home for dinner. I am finally the boss.’ The farmer was so pleased with himself that the smile on his face split his cheeks.

“Bertha wasn’t as excited as her husband. ‘I don’t think buying a tractor makes you the boss,’ she said softly, adding, ‘How will we pay for this machine?’ Bertha was always the more practical one.

“ ‘Don’t worry, Bertha. We have a friendly banker who likes to lend money. We’ll sell the crops we grow and easily pay the banker back.’ Nothing could lessen the farmer’s excitement.

“The horses watched suspiciously as the farmer spent the rest of the day making changes to his farm machinery so that it could be pulled by the tractor instead of the horses. As the farmer tinkered with the machinery, he whistled his favorite tune, ‘She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes.’

“Ol’ Billy couldn’t ever remember the farmer whistling while fixing the machinery. Fixing machines usually made the farmer think of working in the field and being late for dinner. These thoughts had always made the man far too hungry to whistle. Today, the farmer was acting strangely.

“At sunrise the next morning, Ol’ Billy heard the screen door to the house slam shut as the farmer began his morning chores. As usual, Ol’ Billy made his way to the barn door and waited for the farmer to put on his harness for the day’s work. The draft horse was ready and eager to pull as he was every morning. Ol’ Billy waited for a few minutes. The farmer did not come. The old horse peeked around the corner to see what was keeping him. The other horses gathered around their leader. The morning schedule had suddenly changed.

“Instead of coming to the barn, the farmer went straight to his ugly green tractor and started it up. The tractor awoke with a noisy cough and awakened the rest of the farmyard. The rooster was particularly annoyed. The one day he had slept in, a machine took his job of waking everybody up. Even the great horned owl, who had come home to rest from his night of hunting, opened one eye to see what was happening. The horses watched as the farmer hooked up the plow and made his way to the field. Curious, the horses followed the tractor as it made its way along the pasture fence to begin plowing the field.

“Lined up at the pasture fence, the band of horses watched the tractor pull the plow around the field. The horses would reach over the barbed wire for a snack and nibble on the greener grass on the other side.

“ ‘How can the farmer think with all the noise?’ asked a black Percheron.

“ ‘Farmers never think when working in the field. The horses do the thinking!’ replied a Clydesdale mare. All the horses whinnied with laughter.

“Ol’ Billy could not help but respect the strength of the strange machine. Four horses were required to pull the plow. The tractor was pulling it all by itself. ‘Sure is a powerful machine!’ the admiring horse muttered.

“ ‘Not as powerful as it smells!’ laughed the brown yearling standing next to him.

“When it was dinner time, the farmer unhitched the plow and raced home without making extra rounds of the field. The huge smile on the farmer’s face made the horses uneasy.

“ ‘What does the farmer’s smile mean?’ a younger horse asked Ol’ Billy.

“ ‘We have lost our jobs to a machine,’ was all Ol’ Billy could say. He could not believe what he had seen. It seemed everything he knew and loved had ended abruptly.”

The storyteller blew his nose loudly into his sizeable red handkerchief. The colts and fillies watched as a single tear trickled down their Grandpa’s cheek. The red hanky quickly brushed it away. The old horse snorted to clear his throat and returned to his story.

“At first, as you would probably guess, the horses enjoyed the holiday. Munching grass, telling each other tractor jokes, and taking an afternoon nap was a good break from all the hard work. Soon, however, the days began to go slowly. The horses were accustomed to working all day and feeling useful. They watched the farmer play with his new toy for a while, but this soon became boring. Restless, the horses began to talk of the unwelcome changes in their lives.

Chapter 4 - Loss

“The only excitement for the horses came during the evening when Bertha did her nightly circus stunt on Ol’ Billy’s back. But it didn’t seem as much fun as it used to be. The farmer found spending time tinkering with his tractor more fun than applauding his wife’s exercises. The chickens retreated to the edge of the farmyard and watched quietly. The dog joined his master at the tractor, hoping for an extra rub behind the ears. Even the pigs’ jokes seemed to flop. From his perch, the great horned owl watched silently.

“ ‘When will the farmer harness us to the plow?’ asked one angry gray Percheron one day.

“ ‘It’s been more than a month since we’ve had work. If we don’t get any work soon, I’m going to have to lift weights to stay in shape,’ grumbled a disgusted Belgian mare.

“ ‘Perhaps we should hold a protest march,’ suggested a young Clydesdale. The horses agreed this plan couldn’t do any harm. The protest march, it was decided, would be held the next day when the farmer came home from work.

“As the sun was setting the next day, the horses could hear the ‘putt-putt’ of the ugly green tractor coming down the lane. The horses, led by the young Clydesdale, galloped into the barn to the wall where the farmer neatly hung the harnesses. They flipped the gear onto their backs with their teeth and a toss of their head. They placed their heads through the collars and then dragged as much as they could with their teeth.

“When the farmer reached the yard, he was met by a parade of draft horses wearing their collars upside down, dragging a tangled set of harnesses behind them. The horses trotted around the tractor. The farmer thought the horses had started a new act for the nightly circus. The horses looked so funny with their harnesses so mixed up the farmer sat down in the middle of the yard, laughing and clapping his hands. ‘You horses sure know how to have a party,’ he cheered. Because every party must have food, the farmer walked to the grain bin and brought out a large pail of oats, emptying it into small piles for the horses to share. Then, throwing the empty bucket over a fencepost, he went into the house to tell Bertha of the horses’ joke. He laughed so often he could hardly swallow the hot meal of roast beef and potatoes Bertha had prepared. Bertha looked out the window. The last rays of the sun outlined a band of confused horses standing beside their small piles of oats with harnesses scattered over the yard. Above them, the great horned owl glided from the birch tree on silent wings to make his nightly rounds.

“This was not the result the horses were expecting. The band of horses kept looking at the oats and at the house where the farmer had disappeared.

“ ‘What is the matter with this farmer?’ asked the Belgian mare.

“ ‘Why doesn’t he understand? We only want to be harnessed for work.’ demanded the gray Percheron.

“ ‘ The man has no horse sense at all!’ muttered the Clydesdale under his breath.

“Ol’ Billy could only shake his head. ‘They have changed the meaning of horsepower,’ he said. ‘There are no more real horses in the word. It’s no use. The farmer has chosen machine power.’ The disappointed horses left the harnesses and the oats and slowly returned to the pasture.

“After the protest, most of the horses gave up hope of working again. A few of the younger horses decided to kick the tractor’s wheels one night. Their iron horseshoes filled the night with a dreadful clanking as steel met steel. The farmer had been working so hard and sleeping so soundly he didn’t hear anything. When the young horses tired themselves out with their useless kicking, they looked up to the farmer’s bedroom window. There, caught by the moonlight’s gleam, was Bertha. Perhaps she would understand.

Chapter 5 – The Owl’s Prediction

“The terrible clanking had awakened Bertha from a restless sleep. Knowing her husband was tired, she went to the window to see what caused the racket. The moonlight revealed the young horses kicking the steel wheels. She decided not to awaken her husband. The horses’ hooves couldn’t damage the steel wheels. Even if the tractor was damaged slightly, it served her husband right for spending so little time with the horses. Come to think of it, her husband spent more time with the tractor than he did with her. The world was changing far too quickly, she thought. She returned to bed to toss and turn, slipping in and out of sleep.

“A swooshing sound at the window awakened Bertha again. Half awake, she turned to see what it was. On the window ledge sat the great horned owl. The moonlight caught his gleaming eyes, and they seemed to be looking directly at Bertha. Bertha did not know what to do. Then, as suddenly as he came, the great horned owl gave four short hoots and glided into the night. The cries sounded strangely like the words, ‘Hold your horses!’

“ ‘Am I dreaming?’ Bertha wondered, rubbing her eyes. But sleep forced her eyes shut and silenced her question without an answer.

“The next morning, as Bertha and her husband were eating breakfast, Bertha said, ‘I had the strangest dream last night.’

“ ‘Oh, you are always dreaming!’ the farmer chided as he filled his mouth with pancakes. The syrup dripped from his chin. ‘I have piles of work to do today. Did I tell you I am taking a bunch of our horses to the auction in town today?’

“ ‘Perhaps we should hold our horses. We might need them.’ objected Bertha. ‘I had this dream…’

“ ‘We don’t need the horses anymore,’ interrupted her husband. ‘My tractor does all the work. I can plow up the pasture and grow more wheat if I sell the horses. Don’t worry! I won’t sell Ol’ Billy. I know how much you care for him.’ With those words, he left the breakfast table before Bertha could say another word.

“Bertha watched from the kitchen window as her husband spread out some oats at the pasture gate and called the horses. As the horses came, the farmer tied a rope around their necks to the tractor. When the tractor made its way down the lane with the draft horses in tow, only four horses remained in the pasture, including Ol’ Billy.

“Leaving the house, Bertha walked to the pasture gate. With tears in her eyes, she brought the remaining horses into the barn. There, she brushed the recently neglected horses and combed their manes and tails, talking quietly to them.

“Ol’ Billy patiently waited his turn to be brushed and combed. So much seemed lost. The farmer sold his friends and family. After the tractor came, the farmer treated all the horses as worthless. Only Bertha’s exercises made Ol’ Billy believe he was useful.

“Late in the evening, as the farmer returned from town, huge clouds were gathering in the Western sky. As the dark clouds approached, the birds suddenly became quiet. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees. The four horses edged closer to the barn for shelter as the flashes of lightning came nearer. The frightened farm dog whined at the screen door until the farmer invited him into the house.

“With a sudden fury, the storm arrived. The once gentle wind now lashed at the farm. The thunder crashed at the same time, and the lightning brightened the land with a bluish glow. Huge drops of rain began to splash on the dusty ground. Within seconds, the wind whipped the rain into sheets. Bouncing hailstones, the size of marbles, joined the downpour. In minutes, the ground was covered with icy pellets. With a final crash of thunder, the storm left the farm under a frosty coat.

“The next morning, the farmer awoke to destroyed crops. The hailstones had pounded the grain into the earth, shredding leaves and cutting stems into pieces. With no crop to harvest this year, the smile disappeared from the farmer’s face. The tractor, too, did not escape the storm’s fury. The angry ice pellets had made small dimples in the tractor’s fenders. Even the horses waited until noon to begin their breakfast of pasture grass. The sun took its time to remove the land from the hailstones’ icy grip. Green grass with ice cubes was not the horses’ idea of a great breakfast menu on a chilly summer morning.

“Winter came. The tractor became difficult to start, so the horses were hitched to the manure sled when the farmer cleaned the barn. For Ol’ Billy and the other horses, it was good to pull something, stretch the muscles, and be useful again.

“When the warm spring winds melted the snow, the farmer started the tractor and planted his fields. Again, the horses, caged by the barbed wire, watched from the pasture fence, unable to help the farmer.

The following summer, the hot winds twisted, turned and offered the soil to the heavens. When the sky refused to accept the earth, the hot winds left it like a dirty snowdrift in the ditches. The rain clouds disappeared. The farmer and his wife watched the crops wither and die. The harvest for the second year was lost.

“One fall morning, a man in a business suit came to visit the farm. At the end of the visit, the well-dressed man climbed on the tractor and drove down the lane.

“ ‘Who was the man in a suit?’ the gray Percheron asked Ol’ Billy.

“Ol’ Billy watched the tractor disappear down the lane. ‘It looks like the banker has come for the tractor. With crops so poor, the farmer can’t pay for it.’

“Bertha and her husband slowly made their way to the barn. They took down the dusty harnesses from the wall. They had hardened from lack of use and oiling. Silently, Bertha and her husband began to oil the harnesses. When the harnesses gleamed again, the two partners went to the machinery shed and began changing the machinery so that horses could pull them again. The horses’ eyes brightened with hope. Ol’ Billy snorted. He would be ready to pull in the morning.

“As the evening covered the partners with shadows, the great horned owl gave four short hoots before it began its silent hunt. To everyone in the farmyard, it sounded like the words, ‘Hold your horses.’ ”

The old plow horse finished his story with a long, noisy sip of horsetail tea.

“I want to pull farm machinery when I grow up, not only wagons in a parade or weights at the horse pull competition at the country fair. Is this possible?” asked a young filly.

The young horses waited for the wisdom of their grandfather, who filled his mouth with a hoof-full of oats. The next few seconds were filled with noisy crunching sounds as he chewed and chewed and chewed. When he had swallowed the last oat kernel, he said with a crooked grin, “Hold your horses… Remember, you got it straight from the horse’s mouth.”