There's something about seeing a swather out in the field that makes me feel like I'm eight years old again.
Though I grew up on a farm and cared for every type of animal from chicken to pig to horse during my formative years, the closest I ever came to actually harvesting a field was when my dad would lasso my sister and I into hauling bales with him. Straw bales were okay; hay bales were a little too heavy for my scrawny arms - or at least the ones I picked were. I was convinced for years that somehow, my sister knew which ones were lighter. How else could she lift them so easily while I had to drag them along the ground?
No, harvest for me involved more of the kitchen and station-wagon than combine and grain truck. I don't think I actually did any of the cooking, though I have vague memories of being in the kitchen when food was being prepared. I do remember helping to pack everything up into boxes, putting lids on pots, gathering plates and cutlery, glasses, milk, water and a thermos of coffee, and hauling them out to the old station-wagon.
We'd bounce along in the wagon, excited to be going on this adventure, and a little hungry because of all the good smells emanating from the very back, as we called the cargo space.
Once we got to the field, the old wagon would do a little offroading, and we'd eventually end up parked next to the farm trucks.
Then came the waiting.
Sometimes it didn't take long for my dad or grandfather to see us, turn around and come on over in the swather, combine, grain truck or whatever else they were driving at the time. Other times, it seemed to take forever, and we'd jump out of the car and start waving, like our little flailing arms were more noticeable to the men than our big white wagon.
Whenever they showed up, that's when we got to eat. We lined everything up on the tailgate of the wagon, and uncovered corn on the cob, homemade hamburgers, new potatoes, fried chicken... there was food for miles, it seemed. My dad and my grandpa, and sometimes my brother and brother-in-law, covered in dirt mixed with oil and grease, would come over grinning, their teeth looking especially white against the grime on their faces. They'd grab a plate and dig in, sometimes eating standing up, other times pulling up a bucket or something to the tailgate of the farm truck, which I thought was possibly the coolest table ever.
We'd talk and laugh, ask how the crop was looking, and what it was. At the end of the meal, we'd get to throw our corn cobs on the ground, and we'd visit a little more while the men drank their coffee. Then, by tossing the last of his coffee on the ground, my grandpa would signal that it was time to get back at'er, and they'd start up whatever they were driving again and head off.
Meanwhile, we'd load the food back up, scrape the plates off onto a dish for the barn cats, and clamber back into the car for the dusty ride back to the house.
We had a lot of different vehicles over the years that made the trip out onto the field to deliver meals. But that white station-wagon is the one that sticks in my mind. Just as delivering meals is the part of harvest that I remember.
Harvesting is hard work, for farmers and their families. There are times when machines have to run around the clock, to make sure the crop gets in. But there are sweet moments, too - moments like those above that you want to remember. So while it's hard work, ultimately, it is rewarding, and not just financially.
My memories of harvest time make me feel for those who grew up in the city, and never got the chance to eat in the field. And it makes me wonder: what do they feel when they see a swather in the field?
