Threshing Day

Labor day weekends became the annual showcase for their efforts.
The public was urged to come and watch lumber cut at the sawmill
and wheat threshed in the old-fashioned manner.

Many of the engines had colorful histories. One had been found
buried nearly to the top of its smoke stack, on a farm in Iowa.

The steam generating plant that supplied electric to the museum
had come from the city of LaPorte where it had served faithfully
for many years.

My sons, drawn by the fascination of the powerful machines,
spent many hours at the ‘Steam Show.’ They watched and
asked endless questions, constantly teasing and coaxing for rides
on the great iron stallions. The men were good-natured and
tolerant, asking questions and letting them help.

My father had grown up during the reign of steam power and these
survivors were old friends. He loved seeing them again and would
happily walk us through the ranks of restored implements standing
at parade rest.

These massive servants were part of his boyhood and he cherished
them all. He enjoyed telling tales about the engines, some funny,
some tragic. They were still experimental and the steam men were
the test pilots. Consumer protection’s widespread force field
was still decades away.

He remembered the summer that a boiler exploded one threshing
day, sending debris flying for acres around. No one was hurt and
men talked about it for years afterward.

When I was a child, my brother Walt and I had the rare
experience of enjoying one memorable threshing day. It was never to
happen again for us, but that summer is still one of the happiest
times I can remember.

We were living on the farm that Dad had grown up on. It was now
owned by a man named Rupsis and his wife. We lived with them and
Dad was back doing what he loved farmingand at the ‘old
place,’ which made it better yet.

I was quite young then and the country was struggling in the
great depression.

I recall my parents talking about voting in the presidential
election. They were going to vote for some fellow named
Rooseveltwhoever he was.

The house on the farm was huge I don’t remember how many
rooms it had, but there were a lot of them.

The farm itself was a story teller, it had been self-sustaining
long before the turn of the century. The many out-buildings
attested to this.

A grainery stood on a hill at the end of a wagon lane. Well
built, it reflected the craft of its carpenter. Compartments with
lids lined the walls. The lids kept the grains dry and clean until
they could be taken to the nearby mill and ground into flours.

The floor was rich dark oak and shone with mellowness from years
of careful brooming.

Above was a loft where sacks of flour were stored. The building
still carried the sweet scent of good grain.

Near the road was the milk house sheltering a pump, and a tall
windmill that seemed to grow out of its roof. Here was where the
milk, cream and butter were cooled.

Near the kitchen door stood the smokehouse, its walls black as
night, still pungent with hickory smoke.

The garden area was down the hill and an orchard bordered that.
Apples with quaint names grew there: Maiden Blush, Sheep Nose and
gray skinned Russets. There were all kinds of fruits to be
preserved for the winter table.

There was a wine cellar and many different kinds were prepared.
Dad told us that barrel after barrel of grape wine were made each
year. When the wine was mature and bottled, the dregs were carried
out to the pigs. Those swine would be roaring drunk for days after.
I wonder what a pig hangover is like.

This had been Dad’s home and our living there was like
sharing his boyhood.

I certainly treasure those days when the old farm was still
intact … before developers began gnawing at its perimeter.

We had been waiting for threshing day for weeks. Getting ready.
Finally it was here and excitement was high.

The sun rose early and promised a hot day. We were all up at
dawn doing chores. Walt and I followed Dad to the horse barn to
help feed and harness the horses. The women had been up for hours
already, preparing the noon meal. A lot of men were expected.

We had barely eaten our breakfast before they began arriving. In
Model A trucks, hay wagons or just walking, they came, heading out
to the fields to gather wheat that had been cut and bundled into
sheaves by the horse-drawn binder a day or two before. Thrill was
in the air as we heard the sharp whistle of the steam engine coming
up the dirt road. Thick, heavy smoke bellowed into the clear sky as
the black giant rumbled, jarring the ground as it moved. Slowly it
came into view. A beautiful engine that was, all black and shining,
trimmed in red and gold.

High above the driver’s head, across the edge of the roof,
was the owner’s name in proud, crisp letters. He saluted us
with three, ear-piercing whistles. What pride he had in his
machine! It smelled of clean oil and hot metal. What power it would
generate, we could not imagine. It puffed gently sending the huge
pistons racing. Above the boiler, like three pawnshop balls, the
governor twirled, keeping the leviathan in trim. Chains pulled taut
as the driver cranked the steering wheel and turned into the
barnyard.

The threshing team was efficient and quickly set up their rig
for work. The separator was positioned and the long belt described
a thin ‘X’ as the engine pulley accepted the load. The
driver backed up a little and the belt was tight. A lever was
pulled and the threshing machine came to life, its grappling forks
clawing greedily at the air.

The wagons came near and the horses rolled their eyes at the
commotion.

Threshing began in earnest as my brother and I watched,
spellbound. But we were there to work and were soon sent out to the
fields to carry drinking water to the workers. We rode on wagons
and trucks with the men and other youngsters that accompanied
them.

I had always been a ‘tomboy’ and persisted in being in
the thick of things. And Dad let me! How grateful I am that he did.
I vied with my brothers for favors and privileges that most girls
of my age were not allowed. But I was able to absorb the atmosphere
and join in the camaraderies with men living the last of an
age.

We worked hard that day and when dinner time came, thirty men
sat down to eat and I was with them.

Wherever threshermen gather, tales of the huge dinners and
delicious food always receive prime time. This was one of those
meals. For the first time in our lives, Walt and I were treated
like one of the workers, and we gloried in the special attention we
got that day.

After the delicious meal, we sat on the grass in the front yard.
Ancient trees spread their majestic arms over us, giving cool
shelter from the hot sun.

Walt and I kept secretly watching the steam engine over in the
barnyard, wondering if it would blow up. The men were firing it up
again for the afternoon’s work. Would it malfunction? No, it
didn’t. We were not to experience that spectacle. Just as well
it probably would not have been funny after all.

The afternoon sped by and at last we were finished. Wagonload
after wagonload of amber grain had been gleaned from the mounds of
straw that sparkled in the fading light.

The tall smokestack, freshly fueled, sent brilliant sparks into
the sky. Caught on an occasional breeze, they shot skyward only to
die quickly like falling stars.

We watched as the great machine left the barnyard and entered
the approaching dusk. We walked barefoot, in the yard-wide tracks
etched by the massive wheels.

Sharp, steel treads cut deep swaths in the roadbed as the engine
puffed softly, its sounds muffled and fading, like the muted drums
of a passing regiment.

Long after it was out of sight we could still feel the quaking
as the giant’s footsteps shook the earth, slowly marching,
forever out of our lives, leaving us with no notion at all that
what we were watching was the farewell to an era.