Harvest

I miss being in Nebraska during October.


I never realized how the fields of corn were my ruler for which to measure time, until I moved away. Now I looked to the displays outside the grocery stores as my guide. The stores are always eager to sell you a bunch of fall mums for only $10, a colossal pumpkin that would make Charlie Brown drool for “only” $50, or your very own bundle of “freshly” chopped firewood for only $3.99. I miss the organic scenes of my childhood. Drying cornfields that sound crisp in the wind, red grain trucks sporadically lining the ditches of neighboring fields, enormous combines creeping down the road headed to the next “80” to be picked, and red corn cob dust floating through the air…it all quietly whispers to my heart…harvest is here.

In elementary school, the best part about harvest was the glorious day that my dad, uncle, and grandpa would pick the field of corn that was right beside our house. As the bus would pull up to our driveway and my eyes would catch a glimpse of the combine, tractor and trucks parked next door, my legs could not carry me fast enough off of that yellow monster and into the house to change clothes, so I could climb aboard an even larger GREEN monster: a John Deere tractor. This was the day I would “help” my dad with the harvest.

My mom would have a delicious snack waiting for me…warm “gimmie” cookies or club crackers and a childhood favorite drink, Tang (thank you NASA). I’d eat it as quickly as possible, change into my “work” clothes, and I was ready to go. It always seemed to be extra windy and chilly on this special day, but that wouldn’t stop me. I’d even willingly put on my purple jacket AND put up the hood AND tie the strings without being told, just so that I was sure to have as much time as possible in the tractor with my dad.

My mom and I would then make the walk to the field that seemed to take an hour, even though it couldn’t have been more than a minute. The wind would be cutting at our faces, corn shucks would be swirling around our feet, but I barely noticed as we approached the roaring sounds of the tractor nearing the edge of the field. My dad would climb down the square steps of the tractor, wearing his worn jeans and warm flannel shirt, and come meet Mom and I standing at a safe distance away. Mom and Dad would talk briefly, then Dad would kiss Mom and we were on our way. I could barely hear, as my dad would boost me up to the first tractor step. I always wondered what would happen if I’d reach my arm out and touch the whirling parts of the engine that were exposed near the steps, but I was never that brave…or stupid. Dad would climb in right behind me and take his place at the driver’s seat as I nestled in beside him on the arm of the seat. Just then we’d hear Grandpa’s voice over the CB saying he was ready to unload. And we were off…

Back then Grandpa was still alive and able to work in the field during harvest. So he would drive the gigantic combine, my dad would drive the tractor pulling the grain-cart, and Uncle Ron was in charge of the grain trucks that would transport the picked corn back to the drying bins on the farm....

So Grandpa would signal Dad on the CB, and we would go dashing across the field. The field was full of “speed bumps” about every 10 inches where the rows of corn had been. Although today I hate speed bumps with a passion, I loved every minute of flying over those bumps in the field. I’d hold on for dear life because I remembered from the year before how hard the cold window felt against my head, especially now that my hood was down. I’d brace myself against my dad and we’d fly over each bump at what must have been at least 8 mph, my dad and I would laugh and chat about the day as we neared Grandpa in the combine.

We’d drive up right beside Grandpa so that he wouldn’t have to stop picking corn for even a second as he simultaneously unloaded into the grain cart that which he’d already picked. Grandpa would always say “Well I see you have Susan with you.” over the CB, and I would grin from ear to ear when Dad would hand me the receiver so I could say hello back. After I said my hellos, Dad would take the receiver from me and tell Grandpa we were ready. Grandpa would then pull the big yellow lever at his side and the long arm on the side of the combine would stretch out like the neck of a giraffe until it was over the cart. I’d turn around just in time to see the waterfall of yellow kernels cascade into the giant wagon we were pulling. This would continue through most of the length of the field until suddenly a mountain of gold started to appear above the green edges and Dad would tell Grandpa to stop.

Grandpa would then push back down the lever, and we’d wave goodbye as we braved the sea of speed bumps once again to repeat this process. Only this time, we would be the ones creating the mountain of gold in the back of one of Uncle Ron’s trucks. As we bounced back across the field, this seemed like the perfect time to perform my favorite “tractor trick.” I’d reach my arm up every so slyly and turn on the…windshield wipers. I’d laugh and my dad would graciously pretend he was shocked by this sudden change in his view as the windshield wipers swished back and forth brushing away the corn dust and red specks of corn cobs that had collected on the window. I don’t know why I thought that was funny, but a ride with dad in the tractor was never complete if I didn’t play with the windshield wipers at least once.

We’d then pull up next to the old, red grain truck and my dad would let me have the honor of pulling the special lever on his other side. The special lever that would spill the contents of our cart into the truck. Such power in that little lever. We’d sit there in the tractor, sharing the orange fruit snacks Dad had saved from his lunch, and wait for the constant flow of corn to taper off to a trickle. Without fail the moment after I’d pushed the lever back to its resting place, Grandpa would call for us again and we were off to repeat the process once again.

I’d usually end up having to go back home after one or two more rounds of this routine because of homework, or dog chores, or Awana verses to learn, or eek, having to use the bathroom. (That must have been one of the reasons I only got to “help” when we were right next the house.) My dad, however, would repeat that same process at least ten more times that day and hundreds of times within the month. I may have only “helped” with harvest one afternoon every year, but to this day it is my favorite memory to relive when October rolls around.

I think next year I will fly home for a weekend during harvest. A girl is never too old to ride in the tractor beside her dad…or to turn on the windshield wipers when he’s not looking.