by Janette Oke
"How'd chores go?"
"Fine. I got done in pretty good time. Even cleaned up my fishhooks."
"I was going to take a look at the hooks in the general store just to see what they carried, but I didn't get around to it"
I wondered what Gramps had been doin' with all of his time in town that he didn't even find time to look at fishhooks. Uncle Charlie entered.
"Saw a little notice posted in the general store that might interest you, Josh."
I looked at Uncle Charlie, wonderin' what a notice in Kirks store would have to do with me. I didn't need to wonder long.
"Says big an' bold-like, `School starts Monday.-
Uncle Charlie lifted one finger as though pointin' out each one of the
big big black-lettered words.
My face must have dropped, because Uncle Charlie laughed, and Gramps seemed to look about as disappointed as I felt.
"So soon?" he questioned Uncle Charlie.
Uncle Charlie nodded.
"Harvest is early this year and most folks are gittin' near done. Saw Mr. T. Smith in town. He says a few hours today will finish him. Made arrangements myself for the threshing crew to come in on Thursday. Jest the little bits of greenfeed that Dan is workin' on today and all our cuttin' will be done. The other fields are stocked and dryin' real fast. They'll all be ready for sure come Thursday."
"Well, I best be gittin'."
He got up from the table and then seemed to remember something. He pulled a small brown bag from a shirt pocket and handed it to Auntie Lou. When Uncle Charlie went to town he always came home with a few gums, licorice sticks, or peppermint drops. He winked at Auntie Lou.
"Ya might even share one or two with josh, iffen he behaves himself."
He flipped his hat onto his head and was gone.
"Next Monday. . " Gramps repeated. "That means we have to do our fishing this week, Joshua. Think we can manage it?"
I was now doubly glad for the nice pile of firewood that I had stacked outside.
"Tomorrow;" I said. "We'll count on tomorrow. I'll git out there right now and add to that woodpile before I have to start sloppin' the pigs:'
As I hurried out I thought on how Uncle Charlie had brought some good news and some bad news. Wasn't hard to decide which side of the board the word about school startin' would fit. The good news was concernin' the threshin' crew. Threshin' was one of my favorite events of the year.
It usually started early in the morning. Always as I rushed about the early mornin' chores, I found myself listenin' for the chug-chug of the big threshin' rig coming up the road. Before long it would be devourin' bundles and spittin' out golden grain from one spout and blowin' high a stream of straw from another.
The first few hours were spent in settin' up the threshin' machine. After it was positioned and seemed in readiness, the giant steam tractor was started. The long flappin' belt began to whirl, and it in turn activated all manner of movin' things on the threshin' machine. At first all of the gears were in slow motion, grindin' and howlin' as they seemed to protest at bein' put to work again. The man who owned the machine never sat still for a minute. He ran back and forth, around and around, checkin' here and checkin' there. After he had looked and listened to his heart's content, he left the big machine idlin' and came to the house for breakfast.
I sat at breakfast strainin' to be the first to hear the jangle of harness and the clankin' of steel-rimmed wheels as they ground their way over the hard-packed road.
There would be at least five or six teams in all. Sometimes they stopped at the house, while other times they went right on down to the field.
When the teams arrived, the machine operator would swallow the last of his coffee and make his way back to his rig; there he'd circle and listen and open little side doors, look in and poke a bit.
Finally when the sun had been up long enough to dry the grain bundles, the lead team moved out. A couple of extra men rode along, and they would fork on the bundles as the team moved slowly down the field, stoppin' and startin' at the command of their owner who worked along beside the wagon, pitchin' bundles with the other two fellas.
They wouldn't bring in a full rack, this first load jest bein' for testin'; as soon as they had enough to test they returned to the threshin' machine. That's when things really came to life. The levers were pulled, throwin' the big machines into full motion. The steam engine roared and trembled, shootin' out gray-black smoke. The gears clashed and banged on the threshin' machine as it picked up its pace. It seemed to rock and stomp like an angry dragon. I often marveled that it didn't rock itself right on down the field. Guess the owner thought the same, because he always packed rocks up tight against the steel wheels.
At the nod of the machine operator, the team moved in close to the machine, and the bundle pitchers went into motion, too, tocsin' the bundles onto the belts that carried them up and fed them into the belly of the big machine.
That was where the miracle took place. Instead of comin' out as they had gone in, or even chopped and mutilated, the grain spout soon began to let streams of clean grain pour into the box of the wagon that sat carefully teamed in beneath it. A small cloud puffed from the spout that blew away the straw; the cloud grew and grew, becoming shimmering gold and silver flashes as the sun hit the flying particles.
I always stood in awe. It never ceased to amaze me, this sudden and well-ordered change.
If the threshed sample was satisfactory-the men decided this by lookin; handlin; and even chewin' the grain-the waitin' teams were given the signal and away they went, down the field, eager to be on with the job.
There were other things that I liked about threshin' time, too-like seein' the grain grow deeper and deeper in the wagon box. It was then transported to the grain bin where it was shoveled off with rhythmic swings of scrunchwhoosh, scrunch-whoosh. It smelled good, too, though sometimes the dust made you sneeze. Then there was the fun of chasin' mice that came skitterin' out from the grain shocks.
I loved the food too. Harvest time always meant a well-loaded table, for harvesters worked hard and needed hearty meals. We always got help for Auntie Lou at harvest time. It was jest too much for one woman to handle all the work of feedin' the harvest crew alone.
As I chopped wood, I looked forward to Thursday. I could hardly wait for the sound of the teams movin' in.
Gramps and I did manage to sneak in that fishin' trip on Wednesday. My only sorrow was that I hadn't been able to get into town to pick out some new hooks. Still, my old favorites seemed to have done okay in the past, so I trusted that they would again work well.
Gramps carried his pole and the lunch pail, while I handled my pole, a can of worms and dirt, and an old coat for Gramps to sit on. We decided to try a different hole this time-one a little further upstream. There was a swell log there, made perfect for sittin'-with the help of a little paddingand a couple of sturdy trees right behind it for anyone who preferred to lean against them to rest his back.
Gramps was a quick learner. He strung his own hook and had it in the water even before I did. He jiggled it occasionally-jest enough-and we settled in to talk as we waited for a fish to strike.
"You know, Joshua;' said Gramps with a bit of a chuckle, "I've been thinking that I've pretty well got it made:"
I looked at him sort of puzzled.
"Meanin'?"
"You know," he explained, "I think that I've hit the best years of a man's life."
I still wasn't followin.
He chuckled softly as though he really had a good laugh on the rest of the scurryin' world.
"Take you now," he explained. "Sure you've got your delights-your fishing, your lack of adult worries; but you work hard, too."
I was glad that Gramps had noticed.
`And then you've got your schooling, like it or not-and I hope that you do like it. But you still have to go.
"Your Grandpa and your Uncle Charlie, they have men's work and men's worries. Takes most of their time and energy
to just keep up with things.
"But me now .." he sighed a contented sigh and leaned back smugly against the warm tree trunk. "Me-I don't have to go to school, privilege that it is, or even chore if I don't feel like it. No one expects me to hurry around with a pitchfork or a scoop-shovel in my hand. No one raises an eyebrow if I want to lay in a bit in the morning or crawl off to bed at a kid's bedtime at night. I don't have to make tough decisions-like which spring calves to sell and which to keep, or what crop to plant in which field, or whether to fix the old plow again, or buy a new one. No sirree, Joshua. I've got it made."
I was gettin' the point. I'd never even considered that there were advantages to being old. Gramps clearly had found some. He grinned at me with humor dancin' in his blue eyes.
"Just eat and sleep and look after the old man"
It sounded pretty good all right, but not quite accurate for Gramps. I kept gettin' pictures of him feeding the chickens, pumping water for the stock or toting wood. I also saw him with his shirt sleeves rolled up peeling vegetables, or drying dishes, or even sweeping up the kitchen floor.
Maybe he was right in a way. Maybe he didn't have to do those things; but knowin' Gramps, I had the feelin' that as long as he could still totter, he'd be doin' what he could to lighten someone's load. Guess he liked it that way. He was a great old guy, my Gramps.
"Yes sirree;' he said again, bobbin' his line, "best part of a man's life. If I had Mama here it would be just perfect:"
He started tellin' me all about Great-grandma then-how he'd met her when he was only nineteen and decided right off that she was the girl for him. He went on, through their life spent together, rememberin' little things that probably seemed insignificant when they happened. He didn't talk about what had happened after she had gone, but knowin' Great-grandma, from the tone of Gramps' voice and the descriptions he had given, it was easy for me to feel his loss. I didn't have to wonder how he felt-Id lost family too.
We fished in silence for a while and then decided that it was time for lunch. I was beginning to worry that I had chosen the wrong fishin' hole for the day; I so much wanted to see Gramps catch another one.
We had jest lifted cold chicken drumsticks from the pail when I sensed a commotion in the water; sure enough, Gramps had one on. He jumped up, dropped his chicken, and went whoopin' and yellin' down the bank. I joined him. We were shoutin' and dancin' and callin' to one another. By the time we landed the fish and got back to the lunch pail, the ants were already havin' a picnic of the dropped chicken. I tossed it, ants and all, off to the side to try to discourage the old ants-up-the-pant-leg trick.
Gramps had jest landed one of the nicest Bunnies that I'd ever seen taken from the crik, and I could hardly swallow I was so excited. I even forgot to hope that I would have equal luck; if we would have had to pack up and head for home right then and there, I would have been perfectly happy. I did catch one before we had to leave, though it wasn't as fine as Gramps'.
We went home happy.
"Glad we were able to fit this day in, Joshua;" Gramps said.
"Me too"
"You're good company, Joshua"
No one had ever said anything like that to me before.
"Hope that you didn't mind an old man sharing some memories:"
I looked at him. "'Course not:'
He put a hand on my hair and ruffled it the way that grown-ups have a habit of doin'
We walked on. Shucks! Why should I mind sharin' Gramps' memories? Especially since I didn't have any of my own anyway.
That strange twistin' hurt squeezed somewhere in my insides again. I started to walk a little faster.
CHAPTER 13
Threshin'
Thursday came. We were all able to let out the breath that we'd been holdin: There's always the threat of bad weather movin' in on a threshin' operation. It delays the plans and makes big men sweat with worry over something that they have no power to do a thing about. Used to be I'd pray for days on end before threshin', pleadin' with the Lord to favor us with fittin' weather. Last year a bad storm moved in on us in spite of my prayers, so this year I decided that I would jest leave the Lord on His own.
I rose earlier than usual. I wanted my chores out of the way so that I could catch every bit of action that I possibly could.
As I looked out on the clear autumn mornin; I did have a stirrin' of thankfulness, even if I did hold back the desire to express it.
I was bringin' Bossie in from the field when I first heard the distant chug- chuggin. I hoped that the sound of the comin' machine didn't fill Bossie with the same wild excitement that it did me-or her milk wouldn't be worth much that mornin'.
I milked hurriedly and was jest finishing when the slow-movin' tractor, with the big black thresher in tow, turned up our lane.
Grandpa and Uncle Charlie went out to meet Mr. Wilkes, the man who operated the machine.
Mr. Wilkes had been runnin' that machine for all of the harvests that I could remember. Neither he nor the machine looked shiny-new anymore, but they did look like they belonged together. To Mr. Wilkes the machine was not only his bread and butter but his friend and companion as well. He took great pride in it. Mr. Wilkes didn't bother to plant crops of his own anymore. In fact, he share-cropped his land with Mr. T. Smith. By farmin' Mr. Wilkes' fields, Mr. T. Smith was almost certain to be the first man on the list for threshin' come fall.
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, takeover 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 a 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.