My Father’s Fergie
My Father’s Fergie. The photo attached is not the original Fergie of this story but a club member in the street today. We wanted to ask some questions on his tractor but missed him.
Memories of my Dad will always include his Fergie, the name we all attached to his working tractor of choice on the farm, manufactured by Massey-Ferguson.
A hard working dairy farmer, Dad loved and worked that tractor. Plain grey it was, no embellishments, just a constant feature to the farming landscape. The Fergie. Known for it’s quality, reliability and longevity, with builder countries being the US, Canada, Uk and most recently France.The opposition was John Deere, still seen around the country.
The Fergie seemed to diminish with the years, vanishing from our minds and sight, as we grew up and left the farm for the City. That is until one never forgotten moment in time.
It is now frighteningly so steeped in the past, decades ago, when we lost Dad. We were now adults, rallying around our Mother, not quite knowing what to do, never having experienced such a loss.
That day comes back to me vividly. Filing out of the house, one quiet step after the other, not a word said to where a waiting limousine idled at the kerb, to take us to our Father’s service.
As I reached the footpath, a staff member came around and opened the vehicle door. However, we all stood fixed to the spot, as if time itself had stopped for us, our eyes following an on coming
vehicle, slowly advancing along the quiet street. I don’t recall any words being said until later, such was the vision now upon us. A vision it certainly was. One straight out of the past.
In full view was a Massey-Ferguson tractor, plain grey in colour, no embellishments, bouncing gently along with a driver slowing as he passed the car and it’s silent witnesses.
Could this be real? A farm tractor was something never before seen in this suburban street, one we had lived in for so many years growing up fast after leaving the farm.
Was this a sign? It couldn’t be explained away by coincidence or imagination – and it wasn’t the only one.
Earlier, as my Mother slept alone in the bed she had shared with Dad, who was now in a nursing home, one early morning, she was awoken by a loud crash. Investigating, she was drawn to the wardrobe. Our Father was impeccable with his clothes and particularly accessories like belts, ties etc.
Hung neatly in a row on hooks behind the cupboard door, never touched in such a long time during his displacement. Opening the door, she found all the items mentioned had crashed heavily to the floor, waking her. It was 4 am or close to. The exact time our Father had passed away.
This is not the first unexplained incident.
There are others. Greg’s Mother would often tell him that when she “goes” she would let him know – in some way – wherever he was. She did. That’s another story – a very loud story!
