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.
Each farmer’s wife would cook and bake, burn every stick of
wood,
To make men praise her ready feast, she’d do anything she
could.
All the wives helped serve the food, to keep the workers
strong.
They knew once they threshed and stored, nothing would go
wrong.
With stories told, the laughter rolled, and the midday break did
fade.
The many pies had disappeared, eaters sauntered to the
shade.
To afternoon, the young men rushed to prove their newfound
power,
Those more mature just paced themselves, from dirty jobs they
cower.
The horses drink, then sort of sag, until called back to
work.
Important chores, each has a part, no one could ever shirk.
Last load in, grain is dumped, there is not time for sorrow.
Now there is quiet all around, until the thresher starts
tomorrow.
Wherever it goes, from farm to farm, the thresher leaves its
tracks.
Not ones of steel like those of trains, but those of loose blown
stacks.
Three tine forks are shined up now, as are the burlap bags.
Ready for another day, they stand ready for their shags.
With belts rolled up, the big machine rolls slowly down the
drive,
Tomorrow is a whole new day, more new bundles will arrive.
Such times are gone, and that is good, life is better, we have
found,
Today the combine gets the grain, before showers knock it
down.
Many years we’ve worked that soil, our purpose just the
same,
To do whatever could be done to grow us better grain.
As seasons come and seasons go, inventions join the scene,
All the pieces come together, we now have the best machine.
‘Give us this day, our daily bread’.. .and thank the
Almighty for that soil!
