Once Upon a Summer (12 page)
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—I’d 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 sunnies 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 grownups 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.
T
HURSDAY 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, 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.
