by Janette Oke
Mr. Wilkes depended on the money he’d make each autumn from tourin’ from farm to farm rentin’ out the services of himself and his magic machine. The two things that worried him most were drought and fires. His was the only thresher available in our area and nobody seemed to think it could be any other way.
I hurried the pail of milk to the house.
Already Mrs. Corbin and her daughter, SueAnn, were there to help Auntie Lou. I don’t believe that Lou shared my excitement about harvest time. She always looked as though she found the kitchen a bit crowded with other women scurryin’ around. I think that she would have enjoyed spending the day with SueAnn, but Mrs. Corbin was a rather busy, take-over sort of person.
I handed Auntie Lou the milk pail and headed back for the barn on the run. By now Mr. Wilkes was movin’ the black-puffin’ machine into the wheat field jest beyond the house. It would take him some time to make sure that everything was set and ready to go.
I rushed through the remainder of the early mornin’ chores and managed to get out to the field in time for Mr. Wilkes’ final pre-breakfast inspection. Boy, did I envy him. To be able to work with all those gears and pulleys and movin’ parts must be something.
I stood watchin’ the trembling sides of the big thresher, trembling a little myself. Later, when she really started to roll, she wouldn’t jest tremble; she’d shake and heave.
Mr. Wilkes must have been satisfied, for he put the tractor on a low idle and turned to Grandpa and Uncle Charlie, indicating that he was ready for breakfast.
That mornin’ I passed up the porridge and instead enjoyed bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, pancakes and bran muffins. Only at harvest time did we have all of those things on the self-same mornin’.
The man-talk flew all around me, and from a little further away came the higher pitched, soft voices of the womenfolk as they worked over the stove, flippin’ pancakes and turnin’ bacon.
Gramps seemed to catch the feelin’ of things. I knew that he had never been a part of threshin’ time before, and I felt that life had kinda cheated him. I wouldn’t have traded harvest for—well—even for a circus. I guess harvest is a kind of circus all its own, with action and excitement and noise—even trained animals. When you watched a harvest team worm its way down the field between the grain stooks without any man ever touchin’ a rein, then you knew that they were well trained. I sure was looking forward to all of the action.
Before breakfast ended, I heard the jingle of harness. Without even thinkin’ to excuse myself, I ran to the window.
It was Mr. T. Smith and his team of bays. Those horses were thought to be the finest team that ever turned up at a threshin’ site—at least Mr. T. thought so. He was continually tellin’ the fact to everyone else on the crew, much to the annoyance of some of the other farmers.
“When they’re told to stand, they stand,” Mr. T. would say; “never move a hair or flick an eyelash. An’ when they move down the field, they always keep thet perfect five-foot distance between the side of the rack and the stooks. Never an inch more or less. Gives a man jest the right space fer workin’ without costin’ him a bit of extra time or energy in throwin’ bundles.” Mr. T. spent every lunch break and every mealtime braggin’ about his team.
I should have known that Mr. T. would be first in. He always was. He never refused an invitation to sit up to table and have a little breakfast either; but as Mr. T. was a hardworkin’ man and always earned his way at harvest time, no one minded stokin’ his furnace before he left for the field.
By the time Mr. T. had finished his breakfast, tellin’ of his bays between each mouthful, other wagons were arriving. Six teams came in, along with three extra men who would work as field pitchers, spike pitchers, and bundle clean-up men—no one wanted even a few bundles left layin’ in the field for mouse feed.
Grandpa and Uncle Charlie would man the wagons to be filled with the new grain; turn by turn they’d unload it in the grain bins.
All totaled we had twelve men out there: Mr. Wilkes, six drivers, three extra pitchers, and Grandpa and Uncle Charlie.
The sun was up and shining brightly. Mr. Wilkes made a final turn around the rumbling machine and nodded his satisfaction. He gave Mr. T. the signal, and he and Burt Thomas and Barkley Shaw moved between a long line of stooks. They jest forked on enough bundles to make a decent test batch and returned to the machine. Mr. Wilkes pulled the lever that started the long belt flappin’ faster and the threshin’ machine began its dusty dance. Mr. T. drove the team of bays right alongside the carrier; sure enough, they never flickered an ear at all the snortin’, sneezin’, stompin’, and rockin’ of the threshin’ rig. You’d have thought that they were standin’ contentedly in their own stalls.
As soon as the machine was rattlin’ to Mr. Wilke’s satisfaction, he waved a hand at Mr. T., and bundles were fed rhythmically unto the conveyor. Up they slowly climbed and I imagined angry clickin’ teeth gnashin’ at them as they disappeared behind the canvas curtain.
I ran around to the other end. I wanted to be sure to be on hand when the first trickle of grain started leavin’ the spout. It soon came and Grandpa and Uncle Charlie both grabbed for handfuls. They felt it, eyed it, and then each put a few kernels in their mouth. They chewed silently for a moment, watchin’ each other’s eyes for the message that would be reflected there. Finally Uncle Charlie nodded and Grandpa returned the nod. Mr. Wilkes, who had been feelin’ and chewin’ too, took the nods as his signal and went back to wave the wagons out.
Away they rolled, each man determined to prove his brawn by bein’ the first one to fill his wagon.
On this trip Burt Thomas went with Mr. P. Smith; Mr. Smith had broken his leg many years before and walked with a bad limp because of a poor settin’ of the broken bone.
Barkley Shaw went with Mr. Peterson, who really was gettin’ a little too old for the threshin’ crew. No one would have told him so though, him seemin’ to look forward to harvest each fall. They usually put a younger man on with him—sort of offhand and matter-a-fact—and old Mr. Peterson now seemed to jest expect it.
Joey Smith walked between two wagons, throwin’ bundles on one or the other, depending on which wagon the stook was closest to. Later he would take a shift as spike-pitcher, feedin’ the bundles into the thresher.
I looked around from all the action and noticed that Gramps was standin’ there fascinated by it all, too. It was difficult to talk—the machine made too much noise; but we grinned at one another in the commotion and the excitement.
The first teams back began to throw the bundles onto the feeder, and we watched as they were gulped up by the hungry machine. I motioned for Gramps to come with me. I led him around to the grain wagon where Uncle Charlie sat watchin’ the stream of grain fall from the spout. Occasionally he’d reach out with his shovel and scrape the peak off the grain that piled in the wagon box. Gramps watched, his blue eyes sparklin’. He reached a hand into the box and let several handfuls of the wheat trickle through his fingers. He seemed to like the feel of it. Uncle Charlie grinned and nodded—I knew what he meant; this year’s crop was of good quality.
I nudged Gramps and pointed a finger at the spewin’ straw. Gramps lifted his eyes from the wagon box. He stood watchin’ the straw sail out in a big arc, twistin’ and turnin’ and catchin’ the sunlight.
The teams moved back and forth in the field, the men steadily working along beside them; the big machine heaved and snorted, the grain fell in a steady stream and the straw blew, light and glitterin’, in the clear mornin’ air.
Gramps leaned close to me.
“Better than a circus!” he yelled in my ear.
I grinned. I had wanted to hear that.
Later in the mornin’ the ladies came with the mornin’ lunch. The machine was idled down to give it some coolin’ time, too.
The men drank pails of cold water to cool them off, followed by hot coffee to heat them up again—never could make any sense out of that. They also wolfed down large amo
unts of sandwiches and cookies.
The break was used for other things, too. Mr. Wilkes poked around and around his machine again, Mr. T. took the opportunity to brag about the bays, Mr. P. Smith propped up his bad leg on a couple of bundles to give it a rest, and Mr. Peterson stretched right out on the ground. He passed up an extra cup of coffee for a couple of winks.
It was quite obvious how the younger fellas preferred spend–in’ the few extra minutes. They seemed to be playin’ a little game of seein’ who could git a bit of attention from Auntie Lou. I saw Grandpa and Uncle Charlie watchin’ them. Gramps watched, too, only I caught him smilin’ in a secret way as though he was maybe rememberin’ again.
Joey Smith drank cup after cup of coffee poured by Auntie Lou’s hands. I was told later that Joey didn’t even care for coffee.
Barkley Shaw was jest a little over-noisy and energetic. I think Grandpa decided about then that it was time for Barkley’s shift at the feeder as spike-pitcher.
Burt Thomas was more agreeable, but not too subtle, makin’ comments on how good the cookies were and “did you make them yerself,” and all that.
I got kinda fed up on the whole thing and went off to see if I could find a few mice to chase.
At dinnertime Gramps and I would be eatin’ with the womenfolk after the dozen men had been fed. It was all that Auntie Lou could do to squeeze twelve full-grown men around our kitchen table, even with the extension on. When the time came for the noon meal, I didn’t even go in with the menfolk. I sat on a choppin’ block out at the woodpile and watched and listened as they sloshed water at the outside basins and jostled one another good-naturedly.
When they had gone in I still sat there. I’d already had my fill of Mr. T.’s bays and the sheep-eyes made by love-struck dummies. In a few minutes Gramps joined me.
“Kind of fun isn’t it, Joshua?”
I caught the spirit again and we sat on our blocks and talked threshin’.
After the last of the men had left the house, we waited to let the women have enough time to clear the table of the dirty dishes and make it ready for us. While we waited we watched the men rehitchin’ the horses that had also had their water and feed durin’ the noon break. As the last team moved out, Auntie Lou called us to come in.
I was hungry in spite of all that I had eaten at morning lunch, and I enjoyed every mouthful of the huge spread. Gramps seemed to be enjoyin’ it, too. His appetite had picked up considerably since he had joined us.
Several times during our meal SueAnn giggled. I wasn’t used to hearin’ a girl giggle like that. Auntie Lou never did. Either she laughed softly or she gave a full-throated chuckle—never did she giggle. I finally took time out from my eatin’ to look at SueAnn. Her face was flushed and she appeared right excited about something. I guessed then that she had probably gotten a big kick out of servin’ the meal to the men—especially the younger ones. She giggled again and I found it to my dislikin’. I looked over at Auntie Lou.
Her face was a bit flushed, too, and her eyes danced like they had taken and given some merry teasin’. It shook me up a mite. I tried to ask myself, “Why not?” but all I could get was, “Why?” Still, Auntie Lou was young and pretty; she could get the full attention of the young men, and I guess it was kinda natural that she might sort of enjoy it some. Even so, I was glad that she wasn’t silly-actin’ and giggly about it. I couldn’t tolerate a gigglin’ girl. At least Auntie Lou carried herself with some dignity.
I forked the last of my lemon pie into my mouth in a hurry to get away from SueAnn. I could hardly manage “ ’Scuse me please,” through the mouthful, but before anyone could protest I slipped from the table. There were chores that needed doing and wood that needed chopping before I’d be free to go to the field for a while again. I wanted to make the most of each moment.
The wood chopping seemed to take forever. I finished jest in time to walk out to the field with the two girls who were taking out the lunch. Auntie Lou collared me to carry a couple pails of water, or I would have run on ahead.
The men had been watchin’ for the women to appear and didn’t take long in gatherin’ for the refreshments. The cool water was the most popular item at the outset, but when the men had quenched their thirst, they turned eagerly to the sandwiches, cake, and coffee.
Things were movin’ along real well. Mr. T. was horse-braggin’, Mr. P. was restin’ his leg, and Mr. Wilkes was inspect–in’ his beloved machine, a sandwich in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. Auntie Lou was doin’ the pouring duties. SueAnn was passing out the sandwiches and cake.
Barkley Shaw and Joe Smith sauntered up to the girls— again. There was something about the way they approached those girls that gave me the feelin’ that something was abrewin’. I wasn’t wrong. All of a sudden Barkley thrust his coffee cup at Joey yellin’, “Hold this! hold this!” and he started jumpin’ around in a circle, clutchin’ and tearin’ at his pant leg, hootin’ and stompin’ and carryin’ on something awful.
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” yelled Joey, desperately tryin’ to keep both full cups from spillin’. The two girls stood there, their eyes wide with wonder, or horror, I wasn’t sure which.
“Got a mouse up my pant leg!” hollered Barkley and continued to dance around and slap at his denimed leg. At the word “mouse” SueAnn turned into a wild thing. She heaved the sandwiches that she had been holdin’ and with a shriek of pure terror looked frantically for some place to crawl onto. The only thing at hand was Mr. P.’s two bundles under his leg. SueAnn jumped, up the full ten inches onto the sheaves, barely missin’ Mr. P.’s poor achin’ leg.
She continued to squeal and screech, swishin’ her skirts and stompin’ ’til she had nearly threshed out those two sheaves herself.
Barkley Shaw stopped his dance and began hootin’ and laughin’ at SueAnn. Joey set down the coffee cups, and they leaned against one another, slappin’ their thighs and poundin’ each other’s back as they howled with laughter.
Auntie Lou smiled a tiny smile and went over to pour coffee for the older men; she completely ignored the two young bucks who were still cacklin’ away about their smart-aleck joke. Mr. Peterson reached out and reclaimed a sandwich from the stubble. He blew away a small piece of straw or two and began to eat as calmly as though he ate off the ground every day. Gramps retrieved the rest of the dropped sandwiches.
It took SueAnn several minutes to realize that it had all been a hoax; even then she was reluctant to come down from her spot on the bundles. Mr. P. mumbled and moved his leg elsewhere. Mr. Wilkes gave a nod that meant fun and games were over and it was time for everyone to get back to work. The expression on his face had not changed so much as a flicker through the entire episode.
Slowly everyone returned to his team, Joey and Barkley still holdin’ their sides and the other young fellas givin’ an occasional chuckle as well. They had enjoyed it tremendously.
The girls gathered the cups and pails together. SueAnn looked red and angry. She hadn’t found any part of it the least bit amusin’. She was still sputterin’ a little when she and Auntie Lou headed for the house.
The rest of the day seemed rather uneventful after that. The men came in dusty and hungry for the evening meal. They first watered and fed their tired horses and then came to wash.
The threshin’ machine had to be moved to our other field for the next day’s work, so Mr. Wilkes didn’t come for supper until he’d done jest that.
Everyone was tired, so there wasn’t much talk. Every now and then one of the young fellas would look at SueAnn and grin. She pretended to be terribly upset with Barkley, but I wondered if she wasn’t jest a little pleased over all of the attention. She’d lift her chin a little higher and give Barkley a poisonous glare each time that she looked at him. This would jest make the boys laugh even harder. Anyway, I figured that her dark looks and flippin’ skirts sure beat her gigglin’.
About the only older man that seemed rested enough to talk was Mr. T. Smith. He was busy
takin’ a survey to see who had noticed how his bays had performed. Not many men had, but that jest gave Mr. T. an excuse to inform them. Most of the men looked unimpressed, but no one bothered to stop him.
They had made good progress on the first day. It looked like the weather would hold good for the next day as well. That would finish our crop. Grandpa and Uncle Charlie didn’t sow as much grain now as they used to. They sowed more greenfeed and hay and fed our cattle instead. Grandpa said that that’s where the money was, and even though Uncle Charlie never argued and went right along with it, I always got the feelin’ that he somehow didn’t quite agree.
The next day’s threshin’ started out pretty much the same. The teams arrived, Mr. Wilkes started his machine, and things swung into motion again.
Later in the mornin’ Cullum Lewis noticed me hangin’ around and asked if I’d like to go for a load with him. Cullum Lewis was a big fella for his age, and he drove a team of his own. This was already his fourth year on a threshin’ crew, so I guessed he probably knew all about it.
As he forked bundles, he let me chase mice to my heart’s content. When he had the rack piled high, we crawled up and settled in on the load for the return trip to the machine. Cul-lum even let me hold the reins. We didn’t talk much. He asked me one or two questions about Auntie Lou, like, did she have a regular beau and did I think she might like one? I answered “no” to both questions and Cullum dropped the matter. He was rather a likable guy in a way, and I couldn’t help but think that if ever Auntie Lou should change her mind—and I s’posed that she might—then Cullum might not be such a bad choice. He’d sure be a heap better than either Jedd Rawleigh or Hiram Woxley.