Bill Durden

My mother used to tell me, “Never get so highfalutin’ that you forget where you came from.”

I grew up in farm country in Upstate New York—between Albany and Pittsfield, Massachusetts. For years I belonged to 4-H and not only grew an abundance of vegetables, but raised chickens that eventually helped fund my college education through my modest egg business.

My parents bought the land—filled with rocks and heavily overgrown-- upon which I grew up.  A tractor was essential. Ours was an International Harvester Cub.  It plowed fields under and pushed snow aside. But what I remember most was its role in clearing land.

When I was old enough—probably about 12—my father placed me in the driver’s seat of the tractor to remove boulders from the field. My mother and he dug around the circumference of the rock with heavy metal poles, leveraged upwards the rock as far as possible with the poles, and then placed a sturdy metal chain as far under it as possible.

 “Go forward with the tractor gently,” they instructed. “Too abruptly and fast, the chain will slip off, snap and hit you. It will hurt real bad. Too gently and nothing will happen. We’ll be here all day. Find the right balance and you’ll get the job done.” Even then I knew somehow that this was a lesson for life and not a prescription for merely removing rock.

I’ve had the toy tractor pictured here—a McCormick Farmall 400-- since childhood. I will never forget how excited I was when my father and I went to our local Agway store and the clerk reached behind the counter and gave it to me. 

This tractor sits on my desk today, a constant reminder not to forget my origins, a reminder to go forward gently and find the right balance.  It anchors me in humility and the recognition that learning happens everywhere—not just in schools.