Sunday morning I woke up thinking I would help Jeff sweep out a grain bin, maybe accompany him on a trip to the elevator, then come home and do laundry and cleaning around the house, and some canning. I would make dinner at home and bring it out to the field that evening.
What actually happened on Sunday was quite different.
The day started out as expected. We rose early and swept out a big bin and installed the aeration tubing. Now it was ready to go for wheat storage. We hopped in the semi and started taking off down the road when suddenly the truck stalled out, fully loaded with wheat, and we were broke down. These things happen, and always during the busiest time of the year!
Jeff, Tom, and I spent the rest of the morning getting the truck unloaded and back to the yard so it could be worked on. Luckily, we had only gone about a mile from our house. If we had to be broke-down, better to be on our lonely, seldom-travelled dirt road where we were in nobody's way than in the middle of Highway 2 where we would have most certainly been a hazard.
At lunch time, the three of us were sitting around the table, Jeff and Tom discussing how the afternoon might go, me quietly eating my lunch. With Tom now slated to go on a parts run to Havre, that left Jeff and I here with a very nice winter wheat crop up in the field just asking to be cut. As I sat there, Jeff said, "Katie could run the combine and I could drive truck..." Tom said, "Yes, she could. That could work." Then they both turned and looked at me, expectantly awaiting my response. I said, "I could learn if it would help us stay productive today." As if I would say no. What I was thinking was,"You really think I could operate that thing on my own!? You both must be crazy!"
A short while later, I found myself face to face with the beast.
As I walked up the ladder into the cab with Jeff, I told myself that if Jeff and Tom trust me and think I can do it, I'll be fine. Just focus and listen to Jeff while he explains everything. It's really no big deal. I am capable.
The first round, Jeff drove and I sat in the buddy seat and he explained everything he could think of, very patiently. The second round, I drove and Jeff helped me through flipping the different switches and buttons at the right times. I felt a little overwhelmed, but I was taking it all in nevertheless. The passes I cut were very wobbly and uneven compared to Jeff's perfectly straight lines of cut wheat. This, of course, made me feel very self-conscious. Jeff said, "Don't feel bad. I have been doing this since I was ten." The only thing I could think of I had done since I was ten was using a sewing machine. Jeff read my mind and followed up with, "You couldn't sit me down in front of a sewing machine and expect me to sew in a straight line, either." Once I got past the entertaining notion of Jeff sewing, I admitted he had a point. "Besides," Jeff said, "Leaving a few patches of wheat here and there give the wildlife something to munch on. Antelope gotta eat, too." Fair enough, I suppose. But later when I asked him again about my wobbly lines and the small patches of wheat still standing he said, "Oh don't worry about those-- those are just your wages," with a smirky half-smile. Ha ha.
When Jeff verbally ran through all the different sequences of button-pushing and lever-shifting with me again, one last time, and turned me loose on my own, I had a momentary panic attack. That whooshed-out feeling in your stomach when you ride a roller-coaster or cruise just a little too fast on a hilly road. I watched him jaunt down the ladder and skip over to the now-full truck and head back to the yard. But then, there was no time left to feel nervous. I just had to do it. I had to run the combine and cut wheat and there was no stopping now.
I turned the machine toward the field and started the next pass, remembering everything Jeff had said. Through my mind I instantly recalled that feeling of learning how to ride a bike- the first time Dad let go of the handlebars. Fear, trepidation, apprehension, sense of impending danger gave way to feelings of confidence, freedom, accomplishment and smiles. I can do this. Funny what the mind recalls sometimes, but the sensations were definitely the same.
Jeff made it back with the truck in time to climb back in the combine with me and talk me through unloading, which was definitely the most challenging aspect of the job for me. I don't know whether he was timing it out on purpose or not, but each time he got back just a little later so I would have to do just a little more on my own in the process of unloading. My very last unload I did completely by myself.
To many of my seasoned farming readers, it may seem not like a big deal to learn how to drive a combine. Just like riding a bike, right? But to me, growing up in town a thousand miles away, thinking in college I was destined for a fashion career in New York City, this was a big task. It feels great to have helped out when needed and to learn something that had been so intimidating to me.
Five or six hours after climbing up the ladder to the cab of the combine, wide-eyed and nervous, Tom had made it out to the field. He had come back from Havre and, with Stan's help, fixed the semi, and was here to relieve me and Jeff. We all joked that there were going to be quite a few fat antelope in this north field of Horr Hill, north of Goldstone, but we were all smiles. Driving back to the house with Jeff, I felt pretty content.
To read about some previous years harvest experiences, check out these older posts:
Harvest 2012 -- A good overview of last year's harvest.
Memories Past and Present -- One of my earliest blog posts, and one of the most popular posts I've written.
