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,
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,
I saw the straw come billowing out,
And grain came pouring down the spout.
The bundle teams drove in and out
And chaff and dust were all about.
The women folks were busy too,
They baked and fried and boiled and stewed,
Each woman trying, as if possessed
To feed that hungry crew the best.
My job was to carry the water pail,
And a water boy just did not fail,
For the heat was great and work was hard,
No cooling breeze blew in that yard.
As I grew up it became my lot,
To back into belts, keep boilers hot.
Many years I threshed the grains,
Always trying to beat the rains.
The old threshing machine is about like me,
A has been; that used to be.
All I can do now, it would seem,
Of those old days, just sit and dream.
