| January/February 1959

Mendon, Utah

TWILIGHT WAS SOFTLY gathering on a late Autumn evening. The Harvest Moon was slowly rising above the Wasatch range to mingle its gorgeous colors with the crimson sky which indicated the days of summer were over and an early winter was about to be ushered in. My anxious father stood gazing in the distance and listened as he sat the pail of fresh milk down on the back step where mother appeared in the open door and the fumes from a wholesome cooked supper filled the night air with an appetizing odor. It was no small task to cook for a hungry lot of threshers and the spirit of rivalry prevailing in the neighborhood. So each woman tried to outdo the neighbor women in cooking.

Consequently, the meals for the hungry and dusty lot were almost banquets, and mother was obliged to call in a neighbor girl to assist with the supper which had been so carefully prepared for the expectant crew that were due an hour previous. 'I wonder what is keeping them so late,' mother said and a worried look shown on her face as she feared the meal would be cold and spoiled after their big task of preparing the same. Our threshing job was the last on the route and that old machine been grinding since August first and it was now late in November. We had to wait our turn. The hands were all engaged as well as paid for as no money was in circulation. It was necessary to exchange work and the thresher took up toll. The good board they received and the common hospitality made it an easy matter to get plenty of men to work. In fact a job on a thresher was coveted and engaged many months ahead. While we youngsters look forward from one year to the next for the happy event and the chance to watch a threshing job generally came by invitation and especially to be permitted to push the wheat back in the bin and eat at the second table after the big men were through. To run around the track the horses had made with the sweep power after the machine had gone was also quite a privilege. So naturally my youthful heart was filled with rapture at the thought of the threshers coming. My father and mother were no more anxious than I was as we waited for the approach of the coming machine.

Suddenly the silence was broken by the rumbling of wide iron tires over the frozen ground. 'That's them,' father said, 'Better open the big gate.' Which command I eagerly obeyed and watched the big red monster drawn inside the lot with two span of horses, followed by the horse power trap wagon and toll wagon and the men all in a jolly mood, laughing and shouting, to me it was the crowning feature of the day. Father designated the way to set and assisted with the horse, the jumbling of tumbling rods, equalizers and chains was all music to me, and I felt honored to walk up to the house with the real boss. A tub of warm water was waiting outside and soon it was surrounded by the dusty and hungry threshing crew, laughing and cutting their little pranks. Around the table which was heavily laden with wholesome food they all sat. While Grace was being said I was praying in my own heart that mother wouldn't ask me to wait. And sure enough there was a vacant place right next to the boss feeder and share holder and I was allowed to occupy it. I felt honored and somewhat embarrassed among all the big men who were heroes in my young eyes and I marveled that they could operate such a great machine and hoped that someday I might be like them. The usual jest and jovial humor continued during the meal. Hey! you straw monkey, some one over here wants potatoes too. The old man referred to followed the machine to stack straw for a bushel of wheat a day and of course felt entitled to his board and there was nothing dainty about him after bucking straw all day. Happenings of the days and plans for the morrow were talked over. Finally the last man had filed out after hearing instructions for breakfast next morning at six.

I didn't sleep much that night and before the first man was on the job the next morning, I was out looking over that machine. Got a liberal supply of dust on me to look and smell like a real thresherman. At seven o'clock breakfast was all over and the horses were all hitched. The crack of the whip and the cogs on the power began to rumble, the face wheel on the separator began its familiar grind and soon the hum of the cylinder sent out strains of music through the keen morning air. Pitchers were dropping bundles in all shapes from the top of the stack until an old experienced feeder let out a yell at a red faced husky who was fresh on the job. The clean wheat began to pour out in the half bushel measures with father, my uncle and even a third party was called to assist carrying the bags on their shoulders to the granny.

Everything was running nicely and it seemed assured our grain would be threshed in good shape before winter, even though we were the last on the string.


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