Turn Backward Turn Backward Oh Time In Thy Flight

toward the land surges strongest in me, come spring. It was that
way too, when I was a small boy. When the snow, the cold, and the
mud were gone, when grass grew and water ran, the annual miracle of
regrowth burst forth everywhere. Once again birds sang, animals
returned to outdoor pasture and April showers brought May
flowers.

The good earth sliding black and fertile from the moldboard of a
plow had a nice smell all its own. Pigeons would swoop down on it
to feast on earthworms recently evicted into the sunshine. First,
the oats crop started to green the fields. Then, a happy shout,
‘You can row the corn’ announced that a stand of tiny corn
plants was thru the surface and on its way.

Spring dissolved into summer. There was the chirp of crickets,
the buzzing of the katydids on a hot summer night, and the sun
rising brilliant and hot between the barn and the corncrib. Nature
give the and it can also suddenly take away. The onset of a
thunderstorm from a black, lightning-pierced sky looked as if the
end of the world was at hand. But the crescendo hit and passed and
brought with it the pricesless rain; water, water for the land, and
renewed promise of a crop.

There was the snort and whinny of horses, the creaking of their
leather harness, the sharp clop of wagon wheel hubs sidewise on
their axles. Hogs aren’t very romantic. They just grunt, and
squeal, and root, and smell some, and pay the billsand help feed
the world. The mooing of cattle is much nicer, especially when they
are white-faced Herefords dotting a grassy pasture.

Almost as if it were yesterday, I can see our old John Deere
Model ‘D’ coming home from the fields at nightfall after a
long day. Because lugged steel wheels were rough, you stood up some
of the time to avoid the jolts. The short flame from the exhaust
stabbed out into the darkness beside the radiator, and the staccato
tutt-tutt-tutt grew steadily louder as it emerged thru the grove
back of the house.

Few odors are as pleasing as that of freshly mowed clover hay.
Few spectacles were as impressive to a small farm boy as seeing
enormous ball-shaped chunks of loose hay hoisted high up to the big
haydoor at the peak of the barn, ropes and pulleys singing under
the strain. Before disappearing into the mysterious depths of the
haymow, the huge hayball would swing sharply outward. And the sound
of the fork carrier rapidly changed as it rolled in out of sight on
its steel rail track.

Eight feet each round the grain binder transformed the amber
waves of grain into bundles; sweat, muscle, and hard work arranged
the bundles into neat rows of shocks, and picturesque scenes loved
by calendar artists.

I suppose we tend to think that the most exciting day of the
year for a small boy on a 1920’s farm would have been Christmas
and yes, Christmas was a big and meaningful occasion. But the most
exciting day of the year wasn’t Christmas, it was Thrashin’
Day. In my small world then the thrill of thrills came while I
stood with eyes wide and heart racing, pressing my face against the
woven wire of the houseyard fence.

‘Here it comes’ I probably shouted as the giant
gray-black Reeves steam engine slowly turned into our driveway I
remember its distinctive arched canopy. In unstoppable, massive
majesty it came ever closer, obediently followed by an equally
large dull red Nichols & Shepard Red River Special thresher.
The uphill slope of our driveway made the engine hint at its great
Dower, like an enormous fist in a velvet glove. The little boy eyes
were saucer-sized as the great wheels pressed wide, flat tracks
onto the ground. Reciprocating cylinders and cams contrasted with
the smooth rotation of the cast iron flywheel. An auro of heat,
steam and smoke seemed to surround the engine. Stray drops of water
scattered with a spitting sound as they landed on the hot
boiler.

More than anything else the exhaust sound kind of brought goose
bumps. Sonorous, slow, clipped, soft but mighty, the chuffa,
chuffa, chuffa seemed to come charging up from the bowels of the
boiler and out the smokestack.

The engineer’s name was John Kahler. Yes, he saw me gazing
up thru the fence. Reaching for the whistle cord, he rewarded me
with a splitting blast from the brass whistle. I suppose I looked
up at him then with the same wonder and admiration as a child today
might look upon Apollo astronaut, Neil Armstrong and his lunar
landing.

Eagerly, and from a respectful distance, I got to watch the
ponderous threshing outfit ‘set’ and begin its work. Power
flowed down the long crossed belt, while the now stationary steamer
had a gentle undulating motion. With a comfortable load on it, the
engines exhaust responded with surging power to variations in the
steady stream of bundles moving head first into the feeder
conveyor. A bundle pitched in crossways brought an instant no-no
signal from the boss man standing atop the threshing machine. With
feet planted well apart, his body seemed to gently move back and
forth with his machine, much as a skipper on the deck of his ship
as well he was.

Rather like a pipe organ background, the steam engine dominated
a pageant of horses, bundle wagons, flashing pitchforks, water
jugs, coal smoke, chaff, oil cans, bib overalls, straw hats, and a
straw stack. And all the time, filled grain wagons clattered off to
the granary.

Thrashin’ Day lasted until after dark. Tired people
dispersed, genuinely tired tired in a satisfying physical way. But
this little guy had to take one more look at the now silent
monsters out by the new straw stack silent except that those
occasional water drops still went ‘spitt’ on the boiler.
John Kahler’s final act for the day was to tie down the whistle
cord to release the steam pressure. In the quiet of the night the
whistle, much like a great trumpet, sent waves of sound shimmering
out over the miles, across the cornfields, and thru the
countryside.

My father wasn’t as impressed with all the thresher activity
as I. He brought me down to earth with, ‘I’m glad to see
them come; and I’m glad to see them go’. For me it was
different. Though the gentle steam monarchs of the plains no longer
rule the harvest fields, they truly wield a spell over me, a spell
begun on Thrashin’ Day long ago.

Foxtail grew high in the oat stubble, it got dark earlier,
leaves of brown came tumbling down, and frost ended the life span
of the corn stalks. The corn picker rattled and chattered its way
thru the brittle dry corn rows. Again the snort of the horses, the
creak of the harness, and the slap of the neckyoke and doubletrees
was heard. The ear corn was moving to the corncrib; the breath of
the straining horses could be seen in the chill air. In due time
the crib was full, and for that year the harvest was gathered
in.

The seasons came full circle when sundogs preceded the awesome
isolation of a silent, frozen winter night. When it was that cold
you probably opened the oven door on the kitchen cookstove to keep
warm and there was ample time to reflect and to be thankful. But
the promise of another year soon took over. The conversation would
get to family plans and a few dreams for the next year.

There by the warm stove with Mother, Dad, and sister, my little
world seemed so simple, so secure. Soon it would be Christmas, and
in what then seemed light-years away, there would be another
wondrous Thrashin’ Day.