Since we are using personal symbols — as opposed to universal, religious, or mathematical symbols — I’m using my old tractor.
My husband gave me the tractor for our tenth anniversary, just a couple of months after we moved into this house. I had admired them, lined up in front of the farm up the road and had noticed some of them were for sale.
I said “That would be so cool in the garden. Kids could play on it. We could climb it. It’s a reminder of our rural roots. An old farm tractor.”
About a week later, a flatbed truck showed up and dropped the tractor in our driveway. My son and a bunch of his friends pushed it into a better location. We found an old Model-T steering wheel and a long out-of-use license plate. Owen scored a seat on eBay.
We built a rock garden around it and planted the Japanese maple in front of it. The tractor can never be removed from the garden without completely deconstructing it.
For fifteen years, the old 1927 Fordson tractor has lived in the garden, surrounded by day lilies, rocks from the old stone fence in the woods. Roses trail over it. It’s part of the land, part of our garden, a symbol of our life here in the Blackstone Valley.
Some people think it’s rusty junk. They don’t have a clue.
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