I was headed out the door to look for a guitar on this day that promises to be too beautiful to bear. A small taste of fall on the underside of the breeze, no humidity. I want to go out the door and stay there – wander for hours maybe in search of a more elusive guitar. Alas. Or not, really, but I’m going to have to explain my meander today another way. These are tractor seats that I hang on my porch as art. From a time when people expected work to be work, clearly, and when they loved their work enough to make it somehow into art. A lot of old hand tools are like that. Not ergonomic, maybe (though some are surprisingly so!) and certainly free of all the warnings that are meant to protect the manufacturer from people who would sue them for their own lack of caution. But chased and engraved and of quality materials, and made to be passed from hand to hand down the generations.
I can guarantee you that after a full day on a tractor in one of these you would want to hand it off to your son tomorrow – while you are out shopping for something upholstered. But they are beautiful relics, nevertheless.