| July/August 1968

73 years young. Rt. 1, Parma, Idaho 83660

I sit in my rocking chair and dream;
I am back in the olden days it seems.
I smell the smoke, hot oil, and steam,
And wish it were not just a dream.

Back when I was a barefoot boy,
Nothing brought me greater joy; than when
I saw the curling smoke; and then,
The threshing machine came round the bend.

It crossed the bridge and climbed the hill,
In my dream, I can see it still.
I watched it turn into our yard,
Billowing smoke and puffing hard.

The Separator was set on a level place,
The engine turned as if in a race.
Backed into the belt and chocks were set,
Yes, in my dream. 1 see it yet.

The separator man gave the go sign,
The belt ran true in perfect line,
The pulleys turned, the straw rack shook,
And then I took another look,