Bringing in the Sheaves

growing oats become a green carpet. When the oats matured, breezes
bent the heads and made fields look like rippling bodies of water.
In a week or two, as if by magic, the verdant hues became a
crescendo of golden colors. Meanwhile, my father was repairing
canvases, sharpening sickles, and buying twine at Ringsted,
Iowa.

Dad harnessed Maude, Bess, Dolly, and Star and hitched them to
the binder to cut the standing grain. With a clickety-clatter, the
binder slashed the thick, hollow stems and placed them on the
canvas conveyor. At just the right time, an iron arm would encircle
this bunch of oat stems and, using a length of twine, would tie
them into a bundle.

My father pulled a lever, and kerplunk, the bound sheaves
dropped onto the stubble field in a windrow. Almost immediately,
another bundle flopped into the carrier. Tails and manes of the
horses streamed sideways in the wind. Their eyes reflected a
sullen, weary look.

Mother worked side by side with Dad all during harvest. As my
short legs trailed along to bring lunch and fresh water to my
parents, I smelled the aroma of fresh oat juices. My bare feet felt
the pricks of the sharp oat stubble. Penetrating heat caused
perspiration to dampen our clothes. Chaff and dust from the air
combined with our sweat to turn our shirts into a starchy
grime.

Our next task was shocking the grain which involved our entire
family. Dad and Mother, wearing long sleeves and gloves, grabbed
the twine and encircled a bundle in each arm. They set them on
their butt ends in tepee fashion, the bundles interlocked and
supported each other. Taking two more bundles, they placed them
next to the first ones. Soon six bundles stood side by side. My
sister, Maxine, and I completed the shocks by placing a bundle on
each side. At the same time, Dad was creating a new shock, taking
pride to make straight rows like army tents.

When Mother’s energy permitted, she sang as she shocked. She
had learned that the best way to settle an argument between Maxine
and me was for her to burst into a humorous song. Dad was not
blessed with an ear for music, but occasionally he hummed a
monotone melody.

These pyramid-like creations in our fields got the oat kernels
off the ground and provided an opportunity for the sun and air to
further dry the kernels. If hail fell, damage to the grain in the
shocks would be minimal. Our neighbors, the John Bosold family,
insisted on capping their shocks. They flattened both the head and
the butt of one bundle and placed it like a crown on top of the
shock.

The July sun beat down relentlessly. We wore straw hats with
wide brims to protect our faces from sunburn. Our lips and throats
felt parched. Our family brought lunch and water along to the
fields. We drank the warm water, but it did not quench our thirst.
As we lunched, we heard the chatter of a flock of blackbirds
hovering overhead, hungry for a taste of the newly ripened oats.
Our faithful horses at home were getting a deserved rest.

Threshing was the next operation. Gus Gustafson, who owned the
machine, was the star performer. At 5:00 a.m., on the first day of
threshing, we heard the huge steam engine coming down the country
road, puffing sooty smoke all the way. It pulled the threshing
machine, a dinosaur about thirty feet long, exclusive of feeder and
blower. The thresher stood about eight feet tall and six feet wide.
It was also called a separator since it separated the grain from
the straw. As Gus neared our place, he blew several blasts on his
fog-horn like whistle. Maxine and I rushed to the end of the lane
to watch the exciting parade. Even the animals joined in the
celebration. Collie barked, the roosters crowed and the cows joined
the symphony.

Steam engines furnished the power for threshing. A water wagon,
usually pulled by horses, was a necessity as the water supplied the
necessary ingredient to make steam. One person, called the
‘water monkey’, made many trips to a creek, slough, or pump
each day. His tank held eight to ten barrels and he filled it with
a hand-operated pump and a long suction hose.

Ten neighborhood bundle haulers began to arrive about eight in
the morning. Dew on the bundles made them too tough to thresh at an
earlier hour. Steel rimmed wagon wheels, topped with bulging hay
racks, crunched along the dirt roads. We could hear the clip-clop
of the horses’ hoofs and the jangle of their harnesses. The
brawny men, with their three-tined pitch forks, went to the field
to load their racks. They hoisted one bundle at a time, skillfully
arranging them in rows.

Two drivers reined their horses up to the hopper of the thresher
and unloaded bundles at an appropriate speed, alternating from each
side of the machine. A rhythm was established to feed the bundles
evenly. Woe to the man who clogged the machine! Like the jaws of a
lion, the devouring maw in the cavernous opening gobbled the
bundles. The thresher clattered and shook as the steam engine
puffed black smoke. The loose chaff eddied and circled in little
cyclonic clouds that blinded me.

The blower spit a constant stream of golden straw, piling it in
a stack in the feed yard. The straw stack grew higher and higher.
Maxine and I yearned to climb this adventurous mountain, however,
we were cautioned that, like quicksand, the loosely packed straw
could swallow any intruder into its deep billows.

At noon, teams were watered and tied to a fence or a tree while
the crew ate. The men bantered, told stories, and teased the
younger members of the crew. Each family dog slept under his own
wagon. Woe to the dog who ventured under the wrong wagon! When Gus
and his crew finished at our place, he traveled to another farm. At
the end of the threshing season, the crew celebrated by throwing
their well-worn straw hats into the machine.

In the early pioneer days it took sixty-four hours of labor per
acre to bring a crop from seedtime to harvest. I can bear witness
to the fact that, even after the advent of the binder and the
threshing machine, a great deal of sweat was required. These
mechanical devices, however, were giant steps toward progress.
Nevertheless, the comradeship developed during the threshing season
remains a delightful memory.