Threshing Time


| September/October 1998



999 W. Dansville Road, Mason, Michigan 48854

That field was worked until quite soft, before the seeds were planted.
Small blades peeked, then burst forth, once sun and rain were granted.
With time and toil and patient prayer, that grain turned golden brown.
When nature smiles on man's hard work, food emerges from the ground.

Even before the combine came, there were ways to get the grain.
Those days so long, and sun so hot, man scarce could stand the strain.
And then one day the farmer smiled, the grain was ripe and round.
The following day, with team and binder he cut every stalk he found.

Around and around that field he went, until all was gone but stubble.
Then he rushed and shocked it up, so rain didn't burst his bubble.
The binder dumped the bundles into clustered, scattered piles.
Once every bundle stands on end, again he stops and smiles.

With tractor leading, and coupe behind, the thresher makes its way.
The word was spread, in evenings, cool, 'tomorrow is threshing day.'
As dew burns off with morning sun, the wagons pulled by horses,
Brings in loads of dry ripe grain, to test the thresher's forces.

Pitching away, then getting more, until every stalk was shagged.
The hopper swings from side to side, young men lug the bags.
They all worked on, with jokes and jabs, at such a hurried pace,
Then come noon, there was a break, for food, for rest, for grace.