For 30 years, Kent Harrelson ran John Deere equipment across 4,200 acres. Then one trade changed the relationship overnight. Kent swapped eleven green machines for six Massey Ferguson 8S tractors. A $2.4 million commitment. Seven years of financing. And a decision everyone in the county noticed. Two weeks later, he needed something simple. A $70 hydraulic hose for his planter. The first parts counter refused. Then another. Then a third. Not delayed. Not backordered. Just no sale. Kent quickly realized the real issue wasn’t the hose. It was what his equipment switch represented. Word spread through the farming community. If a longtime customer could suddenly struggle to buy a basic part after changing brands, other farmers began wondering what could happen to them. Within weeks, conversations at coffee shops, dealerships, and farm gates started changing. Farmers weren’t just comparing horsepower anymore. They were comparing service. Access. Trust. And what happens after you stop being someone’s preferred customer. Kent thought he was changing tractors. Instead, one $70 hose turned his decision into a question the whole county started asking.
On March 14, 2023, a Tuesday morning in Kearney, Nebraska, four John Deere 8R tractors sat in a dealer lot, washed, detailed, and marked for trade-in.
Tags were zip-tied to their mirrors. Behind them stood three 9R series machines, two 7R models, a 6M utility tractor, and a Gator utility vehicle. Eleven machines in total. Roughly two point one million dollars in trade-in value.
All green.
All gone.
The man who brought them in stood near the service bay with his arms crossed, watching a crew load the last tractor onto a transport trailer. His name was Kent Harelson. He was fifty-four years old and ran forty-two hundred acres of corn and soybeans across three counties in south-central Nebraska.
His father had bought the family’s first John Deere in 1971, a 4020.
Kent learned to drive on it.
For fifty-two years, the Harelson farm had been an all-green operation.
Not anymore.
Across the road at a competing dealership, six Massey Ferguson 8S series tractors were being prepared for delivery. An 8S.265. An 8S.305. An 8S.345. Brand-new machines. Red paint. Fresh tires. Clean cabs. Full warranty.
Kent was moving his entire fleet to Massey Ferguson in one week.
The John Deere dealer, a man named Rick Stoultzfus, had known Kent since high school. He had not spoken to him in three days. Rick stood near the office window, watching the trailers roll out of his lot.
He did not wave goodbye.
That mattered, because Kent did not leave because of a bad tractor.
He did not leave because one machine broke at the wrong time.
He did not leave because one service call went poorly.
He left because of a price war he knew he could not win.
For two years, John Deere had been tightening parts allocation to independent repair shops across Nebraska. If a shop was not a certified Deere dealer, it could not get certain transmission seals, ECU modules, or diagnostic tools needed to clear fault codes. The stated reason was simple enough: protect the dealer network and maintain repair quality.
But on the ground, it meant farmers had one practical option for repairs.
And dealers knew it.
By 2022, a routine hydraulic hose replacement that used to cost one hundred forty dollars was running three hundred twenty. A software update that used to be free now came with an eight-hundred-fifty-dollar service call minimum. A simple diagnostic visit could turn into half a day of billed time before a wrench ever touched the machine.
Kent had tolerated it.
Barely.
He was old enough to understand that farming had never been cheap. Machines cost more. Labor cost more. Parts cost more. Everything on a farm seemed to cost more every year. But there was a difference between inflation and being cornered.
In January 2023, that difference became impossible to ignore.
His 8R 370 threw a fuel injector code during a late-season manure haul. The tractor was still under warranty. Kent called Rick’s dealership, expecting frustration but not a fight.
The service desk told him they could get him in two weeks out.
Two weeks for a warranty repair on a machine that cost four hundred sixty-seven thousand dollars.
Kent stood in his shop with the phone against his ear, staring at the tractor through the open bay door.
“Two weeks?” he said. “It’s under warranty.”
“I understand,” the service manager replied. “That’s the soonest available slot.”
“Can I bring it in after hours and leave it?”
“No. Liability policy.”
“Do you have a loaner?”
“All loaners are spoken for.”
“Can I order the injector myself and have my independent mechanic install it?”
“That would void the warranty.”
Kent said nothing for a moment.
Then he hung up.
He did not throw the phone. He did not curse loud enough for the hired men to hear. He simply stood there, one hand against the workbench, feeling a kind of clarity settle over him.
That afternoon, he called a Massey Ferguson dealer ninety miles west.
The dealer could not legally touch the Deere tractor. They made that clear immediately. But the next morning, they sent a technician to Kent’s farm anyway. Not to repair the machine, but to walk through every tractor in his shed and show him what the Massey Ferguson equivalent would cost.
They brought numbers.
They brought financing options.
They brought service response times in writing.
They brought a parts availability list.
By the end of that week, Kent had made his decision.
He was not switching one tractor.
He was switching everything.
The John Deere dealership did not take it well.
Rick Stoultzfus had sold Kent’s family more than eight million dollars in equipment across three decades. He had eaten lunch at their kitchen table. He had shaken Kent’s father’s hand at farm shows. He had stood beside Kent during equipment demos, harvest breakdowns, and late-night service calls.
To Rick, the Harelson account was not merely a customer.
It was territory.
When Kent called to schedule the trade-in appraisals, Rick tried to talk him down.
“Kent, don’t do this in anger.”
“I’m not angry,” Kent said. “I’ve already made the decision.”
“I’ll give you six months of free service.”
“No.”
“Priority parts allocation.”
“No.”
“I can add a forty-thousand-dollar trade-in bonus on the next machine.”
“There won’t be a next machine.”
Rick’s voice tightened.
“You need to think about this.”
“I already have.”
The appraisals happened on a cold morning in early March. Two Deere representatives flew in from Iowa to inspect the fleet. They spent four hours going over every machine, checking hours, fluid samples, tire tread, undercarriage wear, service history, cab condition, and every line in Kent’s maintenance records.
They offered two point one million dollars.
It was a fair number.
Maybe even generous.
Kent took it.
The next day, he signed contracts for six Massey Ferguson 8S tractors: two point four million dollars financed over seven years at five point eight percent interest. The difference between the purchase price and the trade-in value would come from operating cash and a modest increase on his line of credit.
The new machines were scheduled for delivery on March 20.
But Rick was not finished.
Two days before delivery, he called Kent and said the trade-in deal was being delayed.
“Corporate needs more documentation,” Rick said.
“What documentation?”
“Title verification on one of the 9R machines.”
“You already inspected everything.”
“I know.”
“You already made the offer.”
“I know.”
“How long?”
Rick paused.
“Maybe two weeks.”
Kent understood immediately.
They were trying to stall him. If the trade-in proceeds were delayed long enough, the Massey Ferguson financing could become strained. Delivery could get messy. Operating cash could tighten right before spring work.
They were not trying to win him back.
They were trying to make the switch hurt.
Kent called the Massey Ferguson dealer and explained the situation. He expected hesitation. Instead, the dealer gave him the answer that changed the course of the spring.
“We’ll finance the full amount,” the man said. “Forget the trade-in value for now. Settle with Deere later.”
Kent sat silently for a moment.
“You’d do that?”
“You said you’re switching. We said we’d show up.”
Kent agreed.
On March 20, six Massey Ferguson tractors rolled onto his farm. The John Deere machines stayed in Rick’s lot while the trade-in paperwork crawled through whatever process Rick and corporate claimed was necessary.
That was when things turned ugly.
On April 3, at the start of spring planting, Kent was running his new Massey Ferguson 8S.305 across a two-hundred-forty-acre field, pulling a forty-eight-row Kinze planter. The planter itself was still green, a 2019 John Deere model and one of three pieces of equipment Kent had kept from his old setup.
The planter.
A grain cart.
A scraper blade.
Halfway through the third pass, a hydraulic line on the planter’s down-pressure system blew.
It was not a major failure. It was not even unusual. It was a seventy-dollar hose and maybe thirty minutes of labor.
Kent climbed down from the cab, found the part number, and called the John Deere dealership.
The parts desk answered.
Kent gave them the number.
The man on the line paused.
“We don’t have that in stock.”
“That’s fine,” Kent said. “How long to order it?”
Another pause.
“We can’t place that order for you right now.”
Kent looked across the field at the idle planter.
“Why not?”
“You’ll need to talk to Rick.”
Kent called Rick’s cell.
No answer.
He called the main dealership line.
The receptionist said Rick was in a meeting.
So Kent drove to the dealership.
He walked into the parts department the way he had walked into it hundreds of times over thirty years. He knew the smell of the place: rubber belts, cardboard boxes, hydraulic oil, and coffee from the old machine near the service counter. He knew the men behind the desk. He had watched some of them start as teenagers and turn into fathers.
He stepped to the counter and asked for the hose.
The parts manager, a man named Dale who had worked there for nineteen years, would not look him in the eye.
“Rick left instructions,” Dale said.
Kent waited.
“We can’t sell you parts.”
Kent stared at him.
“What do you mean you can’t sell me parts?”
Dale shifted his weight.
“Corporate policy. Inventory allocation priorities.”
“I’ve been buying parts here for thirty years.”
“I know.”
“So what changed?”
Dale did not answer.
Kent leaned on the counter.
“This is about the tractors.”
Dale still would not look at him.
Kent left.
He drove thirty-four miles to the next closest Deere dealership, a smaller operation in Gibbon.
Same story.
“We can’t fulfill that order right now.”
He tried a third dealership in Grand Island. They told him the hose was on back order and estimated arrival was six weeks.
Kent knew it was a lie.
He could see the same hose hanging on the wall behind the counter.
He drove home and ordered the part online from a non-Deere supplier in Kansas. It arrived three days later. He fixed the planter himself.
But the message was clear.
John Deere was not merely refusing to service him.
They were cutting him off entirely.
By mid-April, word got out.
Nebraska farming communities are small and tight-knit. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone talks. A dispute that begins at a parts counter can become coffee shop conversation before the next rain.
Kent’s situation spread within a week.
A farmer in Minden heard about it from his seed dealer.
Another man in Holdrege heard about it from his banker.
By the end of the month, it was the leading topic at the local co-op spring meeting.
Eighteen farmers showed up. Twelve of them ran John Deere equipment. Kent was not even there, but his name came up within ten minutes.
One farmer, a man named Greg Paulson, stood and said, “If they’re doing that to Kent, they’ll do it to any of us.”
Another farmer pushed back.
“Kent chose to leave. That’s on him.”
Greg turned toward him.
“He left because they were gouging him on service. Now they’re punishing him for it.”
The room went quiet.
Then someone asked, “What’s he running now?”
“Massey Ferguson.”
“How’s it working?”
“He planted eleven hundred acres in four days. No breakdowns.”
A pause followed.
“What does a new Massey 8S cost compared to an 8R?”
“About forty thousand less. Parts are roughly thirty percent cheaper.”
Another pause.
Then one of the older farmers, Vernon Kee, who had run Deere since 1979, spoke from the back of the room.
“I’m not switching,” he said. “But I’m not defending this either.”
Two weeks later, Greg Paulson ordered a Massey Ferguson 7S.180.
Not because he needed it immediately.
Because he was angry.
The situation escalated on May 12.
Kent was running low on DEF, diesel exhaust fluid. He usually bought it in bulk from the Deere dealership: two-hundred-seventy-five-gallon totes delivered to his farm. It was not a specialized part. It was not proprietary software. It was not even a Deere-only product.
He called to place an order.
The same parts guy answered.
“I need two totes of DEF,” Kent said.
“We don’t carry that anymore.”
Kent stared at the wall of his shop.
He had been at the dealership the week before and seen six pallets of DEF totes stacked near the loading dock.
He hung up.
Then he drove to the dealership.
He walked into the parts department and pointed toward the loading area.
“I can see the DEF from here. Sell me two totes.”
Dale stepped out from the back.
“Kent, I can’t do it.”
“It’s DEF.”
“I know.”
“It’s not even a Deere part.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Kent’s jaw tightened.
“Who told you that?”
“Rick.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Dale swallowed.
“No parts. No fluids. No consumables.”
Kent looked at him for a long moment.
“This isn’t business,” he said. “This is personal.”
Dale did not argue.
Kent turned and walked out.
But this time, he did not go home.
He drove to the co-op, stood in the parking lot, and made three phone calls.
The first was to a reporter at the Kearney Hub, the local newspaper.
The second was to a farm equipment blogger in Iowa who covered dealer disputes.
The third was to an attorney in Lincoln who specialized in agricultural contract law.
By the end of the day, the story had been picked up by two regional agriculture news outlets.
The headline was simple.
Nebraska farmer alleges parts blacklist after switching brands.
John Deere corporate issued a statement the next morning.
The company said it was committed to supporting all farmers. Parts availability, the statement continued, was subject to demand forecasting and regional allocation. The company said it was investigating the matter.
It was a non-answer.
But it was also an acknowledgement.
The story was real.
Within two weeks, three more farmers in Kent’s co-op placed orders for Massey Ferguson tractors. Not necessarily because the machines were better. Not necessarily because they were cheaper. They placed orders because they were angry.
In rural Nebraska, anger moves faster than reason.
One of those farmers was Tom Schaefer, who ran twenty-eight hundred acres. He had been a John Deere loyalist his entire life. But after hearing what happened to Kent, Tom walked into Rick’s dealership and asked him point-blank.
“If I buy a Massey Ferguson, are you going to stop selling me parts?”
Rick tried to deflect.
“Tom, that situation was more complicated than—”
“Yes or no?”
Rick paused.
Tom turned around and left before Rick finished the sentence.
He ordered a Massey Ferguson 8S.245 that same afternoon.
By June, the Massey Ferguson dealer ninety miles west was fielding calls from farmers in five counties. They were not all buying, but they were asking. That alone was enough to make Deere nervous.
The numbers began telling the story behind closed doors.
John Deere’s regional sales manager for Nebraska, Brad Stennis, started receiving weekly reports showing sharp declines in parts revenue across three dealerships. Rick’s location in Kearney was down twenty-two percent compared with the same period in 2022. The Gibbon dealership was down fourteen percent. Grand Island was down nine.
At first, corporate attributed the drop to normal market fluctuation.
But when the numbers were cross-referenced with customer transaction logs, a pattern emerged.
Seven long-term customers had stopped buying parts entirely. Four had switched to Massey Ferguson. Two had switched to Case IH. One was buying all his parts online and using independent mechanics.
All seven had been loyal Deere customers for more than twenty years.
All seven had one thing in common.
They had either witnessed what happened to Kent or heard about it from someone who had.
By early June, Brad Stennis was on a conference call with corporate headquarters in Moline, Illinois. The official topic was customer retention strategies in markets with elevated competitive pressure.
The real topic was simpler.
How to stop the bleeding.
One executive suggested targeted discounts for farmers who had switched brands.
Another suggested a dealer incentive program to improve service response times.
A third suggested ignoring the entire problem.
“Let them run Massey Ferguson for a year,” he said. “They’ll come back when something breaks.”
Brad disagreed.
“This isn’t about machines,” he said. “It’s about trust.”
No one answered.
Then Brad said the part that made the call go silent.
“And we broke it.”
After a moment, someone asked, “What do you recommend?”
Brad did not hesitate.
“Send someone to talk to Kent Harelson personally. Not a sales pitch. An apology.”
Two weeks later, that was exactly what happened.
On June 29, 2023, a silver Chevy Suburban pulled up to Kent’s farm at nine in the morning. Two men stepped out. One wore a John Deere polo and khakis. The other wore a suit.
The man in the suit introduced himself as Michael Drennan, regional vice president for John Deere’s central U.S. sales division.
Kent met them in the driveway.
He did not invite them inside.
Drennan began with corporate calm.
“Mr. Harelson, we’re here because we’ve become aware of some service challenges you’ve experienced with our dealer network. We want to make this right.”
Kent crossed his arms.
“You want to make it right?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell your dealers to sell me parts.”
Drennan nodded.
“We’ve already addressed that. You should have no further issues.”
Kent stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“We’re also prepared to offer you a fifty-thousand-dollar credit toward your next John Deere purchase, along with priority service scheduling for the Deere equipment you still own.”
Kent did not move.
“I don’t want a credit. I want an explanation.”
Drennan shifted his weight.
“The parts situation was a misunderstanding. A communication breakdown between dealer management and corporate policy.”
Kent stepped closer.
“You blacklisted me because I switched brands.”
Drennan blinked.
“You punished me for making a business decision,” Kent continued, “and now you’re here because eighteen other farmers are asking questions.”
Drennan started to respond.
Kent cut him off.
“I’m not taking your credit. I’m not coming back. And I’m not keeping quiet.”
He turned and walked toward his shop.
The two men stood in the driveway for a moment.
Then they got back in the Suburban and left.
Kent watched from the shop doorway as the vehicle disappeared down the gravel road.
His phone rang.
It was Greg Paulson.
“Did two guys in a Suburban just leave your place?”
“Yeah.”
“They coming to see me next, probably. What’d you tell them?”
“To get lost.”
Greg laughed.
“Good.”
He hung up.
Kent walked back outside and looked at his six Massey Ferguson tractors. They were lined up near the machine shed, clean, ready, and operational. He thought about the two point four million dollars he had financed to buy them. He thought about the relationships he had lost. He thought about the risk he had taken.
Then he thought about the hydraulic hose.
A seventy-dollar part that had started all of this.
He shook his head and got back to work.
By August, the Massey Ferguson dealer who had started the whole chain reaction had sold fourteen tractors to farmers in Kent’s region. That was more than he had sold in the previous two years combined.
John Deere’s regional sales were down eleven percent.
Rick Stoultzfus’s dealership was struggling. Two of his service technicians quit in July. One went to work for the Massey Ferguson dealer.
Rick called Kent in mid-September.
“I didn’t want this to happen,” Rick said.
Kent stood in his shop, one hand on a socket wrench, listening to the voice of a man who used to be welcome at his kitchen table.
“Then you should have sold me a hydraulic hose.”
Rick hung up.
In October, John Deere corporate released a new customer-first policy memo to all dealers, emphasizing that parts sales should never be restricted based on equipment ownership.
The memo was dated October 14, 2023.
Seven months too late.
It included new guidelines. Parts had to be sold to any customer regardless of equipment brand. Service scheduling priority had to be based on appointment availability, not fleet composition. Dealer incentive programs would now include customer satisfaction metrics weighted at thirty percent of total compensation.
It was a comprehensive response.
But it did not undo what had happened.
The farmers who had left were not reading corporate memos.
They were running Massey Ferguson tractors and telling everyone why.
By November 2023, Kent’s Massey Ferguson 8S.305 crossed six hundred engine hours. No breakdowns. No warning lights. No software locks.
He had planted forty-two hundred acres and harvested thirty-eight hundred. The remaining four hundred acres were still standing, late-season soybeans waiting for the right moisture level. His fuel costs were down nine percent compared with the previous year. His maintenance costs were down fourteen percent.
His relationship with the local Deere dealer was gone.
But he did not care, because something else had happened.
In early November, a farmer from York County, eighty-five miles southeast, called Kent out of the blue.
“I heard what Deere did to you,” the man said. “I’m switching to Massey Ferguson. Thought you should know.”
Kent thanked him.
Then he asked, “How’d you hear about it?”
The man laughed.
“Everyone’s heard about it.”
Kent hung up and walked outside.
His six red tractors sat parked in a row near the machine shed, clean, maintained, ready.
He thought about his father, the man who had bought that first John Deere in 1971. He wondered what his father would think of all this, of the red machines on ground that had run green for half a century.
Then he remembered something his father used to say.
Loyalty is a two-way street.
The day a company forgets that, you walk.
Kent smiled faintly.
He had already walked.
He was not looking back.
The story was not really about tractors.
It was about power.
For decades, John Deere had operated under an assumption. Farmers needed them more than they needed farmers. That assumption held true as long as Deere had the best machines, the strongest dealer network, and the easiest parts availability.
But when that equation shifted, when service became slow, parts became leverage, and repair became a monopoly, the assumption cracked.
Once it cracked, farmers started asking a question they had not asked seriously in years.
What else is out there?
Massey Ferguson was not necessarily better than John Deere. It was not necessarily more advanced. It was not necessarily more reliable. But it was competitive. And in a market where one brand tried to enforce loyalty through restriction, competitive was enough.
Kent did not switch because Massey Ferguson was superior.
He switched because John Deere stopped treating him like a customer.
When they punished him for leaving, they proved his point.
By the end of 2023, Massey Ferguson’s market share in south-central Nebraska had grown by six percent. That might not sound like much, but in an industry where brand loyalty is generational, where farmers stick with one color their entire lives, where switching brands can be seen as betrayal, six percent was a revolution.
John Deere’s corporate response came too late.
The apology tour.
The policy changes.
The customer-first memo.
All of it happened after the damage was done.
Because the farmers who switched did not just leave Deere.
They told everyone why.
In rural communities, word of mouth is currency.
By December, farm equipment forums were full of posts.
Anyone else getting blacklisted by Deere dealers?
Thinking about switching to Massey Ferguson. What should I know?
Is this happening in other states?
The answer to that last question appeared to be yes.
Reports started coming from Iowa, South Dakota, Kansas, and Missouri. Not widespread. Not coordinated. But consistent.
Farmers who left Deere said they were being iced out of parts, delayed on service, or pushed down the priority list. And they were talking.
One Iowa farmer wrote that he had traded two 8Rs for a Massey Ferguson 8S.305 and a Case IH Magnum, only to have his local Deere dealer refuse to sell him air filters, not even for his grain cart.
A South Dakota farmer wrote that the same thing had happened to his neighbor after he bought a Fendt. The dealer told him they were prioritizing fleet customers, even though he had been buying from them for forty years.
A Kansas farmer wrote that his dealer had not cut him off completely, but service wait times went from three days to three weeks after he brought home a Massey Ferguson.
Coincidence, he wrote.
I don’t think so.
The pattern was hard to ignore.
By early 2024, competitors were watching.
Case IH launched a trade-in incentive program targeting John Deere owners. New Holland offered zero-percent financing for thirty-six months on select models. Kubota expanded its dealer network into three Nebraska counties.
Massey Ferguson did not change much at all.
They did not need to.
Farmers were already calling.
The Massey Ferguson dealer who sold Kent his tractors, a man named Ray Kowalski, began fielding inquiries from farmers as far as two hundred miles away. He hired two more sales representatives in January. He expanded his parts inventory by forty percent. He opened a satellite service location in Hastings.
When reporters asked how business was going, Ray gave a quote that spread faster than any paid advertisement could have.
“We’re not doing anything special,” he said. “We’re just treating people right.”
That sentence made it into three agricultural trade publications. It was shared on social media thousands of times and became the unofficial motto of every farmer who had left John Deere that year.
We’re just treating people right.
That was the lesson Kent learned.
When a farmer has been loyal to a brand for thirty years, he expects that loyalty to be reciprocal. He expects the phone to be answered. He expects parts to be available. He expects service to be fair. He expects the company whose name is printed on the hood to remember that there is a family, a crop, a weather window, and an operating loan behind every machine in the field.
When that stops happening, the name on the hood becomes less important.
Horsepower is horsepower.
Hydraulics are hydraulics.
If one company treats a farmer like a partner while another treats him like a transaction, the decision eventually becomes easy.
Kent did not leave John Deere because Massey Ferguson was better.
He left because John Deere forgot who he was.
When they punished him for that decision, they reminded every farmer in three counties that loyalty has limits.
But there was another side of the lesson, the one Deere learned too late.
Farmers talk.
They remember.
They do not forgive easily.
A company can build brand loyalty over decades and destroy it in a single phone call. It can dominate a market with the best machines and lose the room the moment it stops respecting the people who buy them.
Kent did not set out to start a rebellion.
He just wanted to fix his planter.
But when a seventy-dollar hydraulic hose became a symbol of corporate arrogance, it stopped being about one farmer.
It became about all of them.
In the spring of 2024, Kent’s planting season started earlier than usual. His six Massey Ferguson 8S tractors were prepped and ready by mid-March. No delays. No service calls. No parts shortages.
On the first day of planting, he ran into Greg Paulson, the farmer who had switched after hearing Kent’s story. Greg was running his new Massey Ferguson 7S.180 across a field adjacent to Kent’s.
They stopped their machines and talked across the property line.
Greg leaned out of his cab.
“You ever regret it?”
Kent thought for a moment.
“Not once.”
Greg nodded.
“Rick’s dealership laid off three people last month. Heard they might sell.”
Kent did not smile, but he did not look away either.
“That’s not on me.”
“I know.”
A pause passed between them.
“But it is on them,” Greg said.
Kent nodded.
Greg climbed back into his cab.
Kent did the same.
As he pulled away, he glanced in his mirror at the six red machines lined up in his field.
Massey Ferguson.
Not because they were the best.
Not because they were the cheapest.
Because when it mattered, they showed up.
They answered the phone.
They had the parts.
They treated him like he mattered.
In the end, that was all he needed.
Kent engaged the hydraulics.
The planter dropped into the soil.
And he went back to work.
Because the ground does not care what color the tractor is.
It only cares that someone is willing to work it.
THE END!
