If you walk into the St. Michael’s Church and go to the second to the last pew, you can inspect the wood.  You will see a spot that has been worn down by a single thumb print.  Week after week, month after month, year after year, the same thumb, the same spot.  Standing up, sitting down, the same hand grasped the end of the pew in front and left that thumb print.  Not on purpose, but the slow gradualness of time has slowly worn down the finish and the wood underneath.My father has attended services at St. Michael’s for most of his seventy-nine years.  He had a couple of years in the army and a couple of years living and working in the city.  But since 1963, almost every Sunday, you could find him in that second to the last pew.

For most of his seventy-nine years, my father has also served as one of the ushers.  Even he has lost count, but he knows it is more then sixty, and he is pretty sure it is darn close to sixty-five.

Every week, taking up collection, walking with the baskets up and down the aisles, taking gifts up when no families were selected, handing out bulletins at the back of church, greeting people as they filed out each week, cleaning up the pews after the service, and finally - on Easter and Christmas especially, finding a place for people to sit when the church was too packed.

With no pay, no recognition, and only the satisfaction of a job well done serving neighbors, his church, and his faith, Dad did his job with a quiet sense of joy.

But all that changed - whickered, errr….whisked away by a change in the baskets.

The old baskets were just that, old.  In use since probably the 1970’s (or earlier) they were the standard church collection baskets - wicker basket with a long wicker handle.  For the traditional church (with sometimes sparse attendance especially during the early service or during some of the special Masses), they worked exceptionally well.

But with a new minister came new ideas and one of them was new collection baskets.  With no handles, these baskets had to be passed down the rows.

My Dad really likes the new minister and most of the changes he has made.  While my Dad is old fashioned, he is really a common sense, level headed guy. 

Which is why he hates the new baskets.

“What happens when there is only one person sitting in a pew?  What happens when there are two are three or ten empty rows?  When happens when someone is sitting in the middle of the pew with no one around them?”  He’ll say.

Then he comes and visits his children and their varied parishes “They still use the baskets with the handles in Ohio.  They still use the baskets with the handles at that big Basilica in Minneapolis.  They still use the baskets with the handles in the little country church east of town.  Why can’t they use them at St. Mike’s?”  He’ll ask.

Dad loves his church, loves the priest, but was waging a quiet guerrilla campaign against the new baskets.

Going to church with Dad this last weekend, he decided enough was enough.  He gave up his normal pew for one half way up to the front.

“They won’t come this far up to get me to usher this week.”  He said, “Plus my emphazema is bothering me.”

Oh, but they came…but not for Dad…

I felt a tap on my shoulder, “We need you to help take up the collection,” one of the ushers quietly whispered in my ear.

So away I went.

I took up the collection, took up the gifts, handed out bulletins, and help clean up church afterwards.

As we got into the car after church, I said to Dad, “Well, your plan didn’t work so well today.”

“What are you talking about?” He said with a smile, “I didn’t have to usher.”

For us boys, chopping corn meant a couple of days out of school.  Usually there was a crew that would help, but on days when someone could make it, we were pulled into service.The job was relatively easy.  Drive back and forth from the field to the farm yard.  In the field, you would wait for the person running the chopper (for us, this was always Dad) to have a full wagon of silage.  He would pull a cord that would automatically unhook then silage box, then he would drive ahead, line up with the empty box, and back up to it so that you could hook him up.

All pretty simple stuff.

But the silage box was pretty simple piece of equipment too.  It was a simple metal wagon.  On the bottom of the wagon was two chains that ran around with paddles that would push the load of silage out of the back of the wagon.  The back of the box opened with two big swinging doors and an overhead wooden gate that would swing out as the silage was pushed out.  In the front of the box was a long power take-off shaft and a gear box.  Tight turns required that as you came into to dump you had to hook up the power take off, before you left the farmyard, you had to disconnect the PTO shaft from the tractor and secure it too the wagon.  Failure to do so would mean that the PTO shaft would split in the middle as you made one of the many turns to and from the field and cause a breakdown that would grind the operations to a halt…and may not allow you the opportunity to miss school the next time the chance came up….

My junior year of high school, we had one of those days, two of the crew couldn’t make it so my brother Jaime and I would get out of school for a day hauling silage.

The two tractors that we used was the Old Farmall H - a narrow front tractor with no cab and no real protection from the elements.  The other was a newer John Deere 3010 that had a cab with an actual heater and radio (neither of which worked).

Usually, as the younger brother, I had got the old H.

This day, after lunch, I managed to get in front my brother Jaime in the line up and took the 3010 out to the field.   I heard about it from my brother who was furious (”I have to drive the H?!?”) and from my Dad (”How come you are making Jaime drive the H?!?”).   My Dad’s cousin Urban, who was in charge of packing the pile of silage in the farmyard found some humor in it (”Jaime didn’t look too happy…can’t imagine why.”).

The job got to be routine.

Out to the field, watch Dad drop the full wagon, off the tractor, hook Dad up to the empty wagon, hook up the full wagon haul it home, pass Jaime half way home, scowl back at him, drive up to the pile, Urban opened the back of the wagon, I hooked up the PTO shaft, engage the PTO, and watch the wagon empty.  Once it was empty, unhook the PTO as Urban shut the back gate, drive back to the field, pass Jaime, scowl back at him…

Ho-hum.

It was on one of the passes in the late afternoon, as I was watching the silage flow out the back of the wagon from the driver’s seat of the John Deere 3010, half turned in the seat with my hand out the back of the tractor that I heard the snap, heard the banging, and felt the pain…

The PTO shaft had broken off the wagon - but stayed connected to the tractor - which meant it was spinning pell-mell behind the tractor at 2000 RPM’s hitting the tractor, hitting the wagon tongue, bouncing off the tires, and in general, creating quite a racket.

I disengaged the PTO as Urban came running around the box.

“Huh,” He said, “That’s a new one.”

Five minutes later, the PTO shaft was patched (a quick bolt to hold it together) and I was almost on my way.  Almost unscathed….

“What happened to your finger?” Urban asked as we were finishing up.

“It was hanging out the back of the cab when the shaft broke and it got it.” As I held up the swollen, crooked, middle finger on my right hand.

“Maybe we should be glad you weren’t driving the H today,” he smiled.

Had the shaft of broken when we were driving the H - it wouldn’t have been bouncing off the back of the cab…it would have been bouncing off my back.  I was lucky to have a broken finger and not a broken back.

With four boys (and a younger sister) a little injury like a broken finger wasn’t enough to go to the doctor - the time away from the field and the cost of the doctors bill just wasn’t worth it.

Plus I didn’t mind so much.  Now when I scowled back at Jaime on the road, I could hold up my broken, swollen, middle finger…and not get it trouble…I was just showing him my broken finger, honest!

September meant chopping corn.  Corn silage one of the great wonders of nature.  How corn, piled on the ground or put into a silo, will crust over and ferment - and create a well preserved animal feed in the process is one that chemists have found the answer too…but still boggles the mind.To get that right mix to create a good feed - the corn couldn’t be completely green, but it also couldn’t be dry either.  You needed just the right mix of dry matter and moisture to ferment…just like a fine wine.

Corn chopping was a community activity around our block.  My Dad and his cousin Urban shared the two row John Deere silage chopper.  Several neighbors would help with hauling the silage from the field to the pile in the farm yard.  If not enough neighbors were around, us kids would be pulled out of school to help.

Dad and Urban shared the responsibilities too.

Dad ran the chopper - he was good at it.  His keen directional instincts made him the logical choice for running the chopper and overseeing operations out in the field.  The corn chopper was a fairly uncomplicated piece of machinery.  The corn went in the front, was moved to one side where a huge drum with knives grazed one large bed knife, chopped the corn and shot it out the back to a trailer that was being towed.  Once a trailer was full, a hauler would have another one ready to go - Dad would hook up and go.

Urban oversaw the piling operations in the farm yard.  The mound of silage would grow from one small wagon on the ground to a massive mound of feed that would last us all winter long.  The piler had to be responsible for overseeing the dumping of each wagon and carefully pushing and piling the silage into a neat pile that would allow for good fermentation.  There was some science behind it (and also a good deal of guts) as the tractor pushed and prodded the silage on the pile.  Sometimes leaning precariously off the edge of the 10 foot drop from the top of the pile to the ground to make sure that silage went up - and not out.

It also helped that Urban dealt with the haulers the most.  He was very laid back and had a great, dry sense of humor.  As a kid, things that would have caused my brothers to go into a blinding rage often made Urban bust into laughter.

And that was infectious.

Chopping silage, occasionally, things broke.

One day, a knife broke in the chopper.  Dad and Urban quickly had it apart and one of them ran into town for a replacement.  This was stressful for two reasons - you had a whole crew of men waiting on the chopper to be fixed - and the knives were expensive.

Luckily - this knife was a relatively quick fix.  We had the chopper buttoned up and ready to roll.  Dad fired up the tractored and engaged the PTO.

There was three load clanks, and the whole chopper froze up, shutting down the big tractor running it in the process.  We were all standing there stunned.

Very calmly, Urban turned to us and said, “Hey, any of you guys remember to take out that pipe wrench?”

It was one of the warmest Labor Day’s that I could remember.  Highs in the upper 80’s and the lows hovering around 70F.

And it was windy.

A wind advisory was posted for most of the upper great plains with winds ranging from 25 to 35 miles an hour.

A stiff breeze as those of us growing up on the plains would call it.

But the work proceeded anyway, if we wanted wood off the barn, we needed to act now.

Dad had called a gentleman that offered to take down old barns free of charge in exchange for the lumber.  It sounded like a good deal at the time, but three years later and 80% of the barn was still in tact (though leaning precarisously to one side).  As the summer wore on, the barn was contorting and collapsing with each passing week.

Like a balloon artist, mother nature was having her way with the majestic old structure.

Finally, Dad had enough.

“I’m going to bulldoze her and bury her.” He announced a couple of weeks ago.

My oldest brother and I have a sentimental streak that runs through us.  We hated to see the old barn buried under the black Minnesota soil.  It was the barn that our great uncles hands had built.  It was the center of our early working careers, where we had learned the importance of hard work, dedication, and team work (ok some lessons were harder then others).  It was where we worked next to our father.  It was where we worried over sick cows and calves with scours.  It was where we had a lot of fun.

In the end, we decided, we were going to save some of lumber.  My brother for some work in his garage, myself for some furniture projects around the house.

OK, we are sentimental and cheap.

We started work at 9am the Saturday of Labor Day, working on the south side of the barn.  Hooking up logging chains and gently…eh…not so gently tugging…eh…yanking on the old girl, we slowly tilted the roof farther and farther on its side.

We got a lot of good lumber off, one-by-twelves, two-by-sixs, and two-by-eights, and not this wimpy whittled down stuff they sell today - these were actually the demesions they promised.

After dinner, with the roof now resting only about six feet off of the hay barn floor, we decided it would be easier and faster to work upstairs in the barn and pry off some of the lumber off the roof then continue to labor on the ground.

It sounded good.  But in hindsight, it had several flaws, such as:

1. Working eight feet up in the air with a rotten floor underneath us.

2. Peeling off shingles that had 50 years of mold growing on them.

3. Working on top of 10 years worth of moldly hay and mounds of pigeon poo.

4. Running up and down stairs that we had condemned as unsafe 20 years ago.

5. A Father supervisoring that liked to hook chains onto things and start pulling when no one was looking.

But don’t worry, we had absolutely no safety equipment (do jeans count?), only feel through the floor three times (only once all the way), broke through the stairs once (though painfully), got only five splinters, one major blister, one major allergy attack, and many, many, many sore muscles…did I mention the lack of sun screen?  The roof didn’t even collapse on top of us…it took twenty whole hours after we hand left for mother nature to finish that for us…we had plenty of time to spare!

In the end, we got the lumber that we wanted, no serious harm was done, it was good bonding time with my brother, and it was also a good deal of fun.

As I chatted with my doctor Tuesday afternoon about my major allergy flair up…he looked up from my chart and made a good observation…

“Ya know, you haven’t had a tentenous shoot in about fifteen years.”

It was the last weekend of summer.  Even for adults, Labor Day is the turning point between summer and fall.  Regardless if it is hot, or cold, rainy, or a clear blue summer like day, we know the end has come.

Labor Day means that summer is over, school is starting, and fall and the pending winter is on the way.

This Labor Day was no exception.  The temperatures soared into the high 80’s and low 90’s across the upper great plains.  Traveling to the home farm over the long weekend the forcast was clear in mind.  My oldest brother Tom and I had big plans we were going to work on getting some of the boards off of the old barn.

It is sad to see the old farmstead slowly fade away.  First it was the fringe buildings, the old brooder house, the old pump house, then the old corn crib.

None of those buildings were in use for as long as I can remember.

The week dad sold the cows, the hayshed rolled across the yard with a tornado.  As Dad’s retirement took hold, some of the core buildings started to go as time and decay took their toll and we hurried them along to hopefully salvage something out of them.

The pole barn was the first to go.  The poles went to one relative, the rafters to another.  The old shop was next, sold for $5 on Dad’s auction sale - bought by an uncle that carted it off to be rebuild or lumber reused elsewhere.  Then came one of the steel bins, also hauled off the farm for use.

We worked on the barn this weekend.  Its once lofty roof now only feet off the haybarn floor.

The only buildings left are the old wooden grainery, converted into new use as a garage, the steel machine shed, rented to neighbors for storage, one steel bin - also rented, and the sturdy old house.

The Saturday of Labor Day weekend, we had a little celebration.  Three of us kids came home with families, and in some cases, extended families.  We decided to invite some of the neighbors over too.  Before long, we had were serving fourteen people.

We set up tables in the garage, roasted a beef tenderloin on the grill, broke out the old cool-aid pitchers, put the leaves in the dining room table, and as the left overs were counted, realized we could have feed fourteen more.

There was laughing, visiting, and good cheer all around.

It was a very statisfying gathering.

Seeing the old farmstead slowly fade was painful, but like summer fading to fall on a Labor Day weekend, it doesn’t mean the end, but only a transition into something different, something not quite the same, but something very familiar.

And something about as special as we set out to make it.

It would be hot summer labor, but the forcast going forward was anything but summer like.  A cold

Last Thursday night, I had the chance to go back to my old county fair.

My Dad was being honored (tortured in his opinion) with the outstanding senior citizen of the county.  An award that he truly believe he didn’t, doesn’t, and never will truly deserve.

“A lot more people do a lot more then I do.” Was all he would say.

While I doubt that, his threatening to avoid the awards ceremony and a quick call to my oldest brother from the county extension agent got our family into action. 

The awards were to start at 6:30 at the grandstands.  By 5:30pm, three of us kids, one daughter-in-law, two grand daughters, and a grandson were on hand to make sure that Dad made it to the fair and the family was represented.

It was strange driving into the fair.  As a kid, there are such memories about how big everything was.  The rides, the shows, the crowds, the barns, the exhibits…the memories.

It some ways, the fair seemed to have shrunk.  Fewer people, fewer rides, and barns and buildings sitting half or three quarters full.

We waited outside the grandstands about twenty until about ten minutes before the awards started. 

I did have to laugh to myself.  It looked like a scene out of Bonanza - my Dad playing the part of old Ben Cartwright, hard working, humble, being recongized in the community he loved.  His three sons surrounding him (ok we did have a daughter-in-law and some grandkids too…and none of us had guns…there was no salloon…though I do look a bit like Hoss…I digress).

The ceremony was nice.  They read a little narrative on why my Dad won the award, they presented a few other awards (Farm Couple, Ag Leaders, Outstanding Pie) and the awards were done.  There was maybe 20 people in attendance.  As Dad said later - “luckily none of them that knew me that well.”

We said hello to a few friends and neighbors then headed for the 4-H Buildings for some good 4-H stand food - burgers, hot dogs, and ham sandwiches.  All of us kids weren’t there, but it was neat to be back in the 4-H building and the fair as a family.  Looking down the table it brought a warm feeling to my chest…f course so did the heartburn from the greasy hamburger.

After supper, as a family we roamed through the 4-H exhibits, the commercial building, the barns, and the open class buiding.  Stopping to visit with people we knew as we walked through.  Looking at the cattle, the chickens, the rabbits, the pig or two. 

We topped it off with a malt from the County Dairy Board as we all sat in the open class building talking and remininscing.

“I remember working at the Ladies Aid stand frying burgers when it was 100F outside.  I mean it was hot.  Scorching.  You guys were lucky you never had to do that.  You had it SOOOO easy.”  My oldest brother Tom said.

“There there was then next year when we watched the tornado’s skip the ground to the north of here.” He followed it up with.

Getting to see tornado’s up close?  Now who is the lucky one?

The stories flew back and forth for a while.  The poeple, the places, the memories.  But all to soon, it was time for my brothers to drive back to their homes with their families.

As we were walking towards the car, the big orange end of summer sunset shone in the distance.

The fair may not be as big as it was in my memory…but the new memories are just as special.

“Well, I think I’ve got everything.  Clothes, TV, books, paper.” I said.

“OK, well, call us when you get there.” Dad said.

“Well, don’t know that I’ll have a phone working for a couple of days.”

“OK, well, find a phone if you have problems, otherwise, we’ll see you next week.”

I hugged Mom and I walked out the door.  Off to college.

My little Pontiac had almost everything that I owned.  A couple of pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, a pillow, a towel, a set of sheets, a TV, and a mini-fridge that I had inherited from my older brothers, and finally book or two to keep me company.

I was off to face the world.

It wasn’t that long of a drive as I started my freshman year at North Dakota State University fourteen years ago.  It was really only about 70 miles, but it could have been 70 light years away in my mind.

This was it.  This would determine if I was going to sink or swim in this world. 

I was going forth into the world

I was terrified.

What if I failed my classes?  What if I couldn’t handle the acedemics?  What if I turned out to me a complete doorknob and nobody liked me?  What if I couldn’t cope in the real world?  What if ran with the wrong crowd?  What happened if I got caught doing something that I knew I shouldn’t be doing and got kicked out of school…all though I really didn’t know what that thing that I would be caught doing would be but fully realized that while it may be fun but probably not worth it in the end…

Whew.

I knew I was going to have to take this in stages.

First, must find Fargo.  I had taken my mother to the hospital several times so that wasn’t difficult.

Second, must find my dorm.  A campus tour and oreintation earlier in the year helped get me to the right side of campus.  From their it was just looking for the Reed-Johnson cell block…er….dorm on the north side of campus.  A trip or two around campus and I found it.

Third, find dorm room.  A quick trip to the front desk, show some ID and the slip that said I would be rooming in Reed Hall and two keys were handed over - one for the dorm, one for the front door.  Up one flight of stairs, a quick left and a quick right, three doors down and there I was.

The dorm room was already furnished.  A metal desk.  A metal desk chair.  A metal bed frame.  A mattress.  A dresser built into the closet.

Luckily there was never a scrap drive outside of the Reed Johnson cell block or the dorm rooms would have been empty.

Finally it was just a matter of moving things in.  One trip for the TV.  One trip for the refriderator. One trip for all of my personal belongings.

Success.  I was officailly a college student.  My life was in order.  The planets aligned.  My schedule was set.  And all things were calm and orderly and in place.

I breathed the first sigh of relief all day.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Dud!  I’m your new roomate!  This is awesome!  These are my folks!  This is the first cart with all of my stuff!  Is this all the room we have?  Are you going to use all of your closet space? Mind if I put some stuff in your fridge?  Mind if my girlfriend stays for a bit?  You smoke?  Pot?”

Oh boy.

The Minnesota State Fair was a long way from home.

Growing up, we were about 250 miles from the state fair grounds, which was a huge way to travel with 30 head of dairy cattle to milk twice a day.  In addition, those ten days around Labor Day were pretty precious on the northern prairie - it usually meant the last of the small grain harvest and maybe starting on the chopping of corn or the third cutting of alfalfa.

Plus it was the last couple of weeks before Dad’s labor force got knocked down due to the start of school, so at the very least, the last of the major projects like painting, fixing, and last minute jobs before winter took place.

It short, the timing of the Minnesota State Fair for those of us in the upper north western reaches was just flat out bad.

I would hear all of the wonders of the fair - Machinery Hill, the big old barns, the blocks of commercial buildings, and any and every type of food you could think of on a stick (corn dogs - on a stick; walleyes - on a stick; deep fried candy bars - on a stick; hotdish - on a stick; boiled tree bark - on a stick…you get the idea).

In short, the thought of visiting the Minnesota State Fair was like a thought of going to some type of mysteries land filled with strange people, strange food, and strange experiences.

Which I would find out, was all true.

Dad sold the cows about five days before graduation, which meant I could find employment off the farm for the first time in my short life.  All summer, I worked two jobs, about seventy hours a week when you threw the hours together.

By the end of the summer, I was tired.

Then like a magical letter from some wizard school, the letter came with the official seal of the Minnesota State Fair…

I was asked to volunteer at the Moo Booth located in the heart of the barns at the Minnesota State Fair.  They could arrange lodging and tickets, all I needed to do was show up and talk about milking cows.

Talk about milking cows?  Where they serious?  It really isn’t work unless you have a direct threat of two thousand pounds of beef taking a shoot at your head with a back hoof.

A quick call to the county extension office and our two very helpful county extension agents had me on the 4-H bus heading to St. Paul.

With ticket in hand, I walked to the gates with my sleeping bag and small pack of clothes.

I found the barns and proceeded to the Moo Booth.  It was a bit of a caotic affair with volunteers coming and going and literally hundred’s of thousands of people seeing the wonders of the dairy industry.

They escorted me to my lodging…the bottom bunk in one of the large dorms above the barns.  And when I say bottom I mean bottom…these bunks were surplus World War II and stacked four high in some places.

For the three days I was there, I would work about twenty hours at the Moo Booth, the rest of the time was wondering around and seeing the wonders of the state fair.  Both the ordinary - The livestock shows, the 4-H building, the lawn equipment on machinery hill, and the bizarre - the food…on a stick, some of the music, and some of the people.

Looking back it was probably one of the craziest things I’ve done - launching off into the middle of something I had never experienced, knew nothing about, and had no idea what I was getting myselt into…

And it was a darn good time.

If every I’m asked to list my heros, at the top of the list is always my parents.

My mother was a saint, growing up in some rough circumstances - losing her mother at eleven years of age, moving out of her home at sixteen, but still made a life  - and a good one - for herself, Dad, and all of us kids, and always with a sense of humor.

My dad is a pretty humble guy, but has lead a pretty interesting life.  Growing up mainly in his hometown, but also with some stints in southern Minnesota staying with relatives.  Time spent studying and living in the Minneapolis/St. Paul metro area, a tour in Korea.

He moved back to the hometown about forty-five years ago and has never looked back.  He and Mom raised five healthy kids on his little farm and managed to instill in us the common-sense values that aren’t as common as they should be today.

Even today, he is pretty active.  He suffers from emphazema, so he has a hard time catching his breath, uses oxygen at night, and takes a host of pills.

But it really hasn’t slowed him down.

My dad is also pretty darn stubborn.  Over the years, it has served him well.  He has stuck to his guns on some pretty important issues in the community.  When he realized the town didn’t have handicapped parking, he went to the city administrator who told him there was plenty of parking in town.  So he called a friend of his who as an attorney for a local government organization.  A couple of calls later, the town got handicapped parking spaces.  But when asked about his involvement he will always say “I had nothing to do with it…but it was the right thing to do…”

His stubborness has has lead to his most recent predicament - he was nominated and won the outstanding senior citizen of our county, recognizing outstanding seniors who have contributed to the community - and he is not happy.

“There are a lot of other people that deserve it more then I do,” Dad said when he was nominated.

“Well, that’s why they have judges.” I told him.

“There won’t be any judging for me,” he said smugly, “When Sharon called to tell me I was nominated and she needed to interview me, I said I wasn’t interested and don’t call back.”

His ploy didn’t work.  He won.

But now they are having a heck of a time convincing him that he actually deserves it.

The person organizing the event is a little frustrated with him - Sharon and her husband Gene have been life-long friends of the family.  For as long as I can remember, they helped us out, volunteered for a lot of the same things, and are all around good people - and almost every bit as stubborn as Dad.

In the end, she took the end round and called my older brother to enlist some help.

Dad wasn’t happy to hear from his kids about the issue either, but Sharon won in the end.

“I keep on saying that I don’t deserve it.  I didn’t do a darn thing to deserve it.  Plus I’ve been to darn busy with the garden.  I ran some cabbage and califower over to the senior center.  I brought some beets over to the neighbors and I may have to drive someone to Fargo for a doctors appointment on Thursday - what happens if I’m not back on time.”

I know I’m biased, but in my short time on this earth, I’ve rarely met anyone that looks out for his friends and neighbors as well as Dad does.

But if they also gave out an aware for stubborness, he would probably get that one too.

“The west is getting pretty dark” Dad said matter-of-factly as he took a pull on the water jug.  “I don’t like it.”

Dad sat up in the open door of the combine as we unloaded the contents of the combine’s hopper into the gravity box wagon I was pulling with the tractor.

“We’ll get one more hopper and see how she looks then.” As Dad roared the old Massy 510 combine back into full RPM’s and rumbled off down the windrows of barley.

The grain had to be combined while dry, a good shower would put us out of the field for at least the balance of the day and good downpour for maybe another twenty-four hours.  Precious time on the farm.

Part of being a farmer is watching the sky, knowing when, where, or even if the storm would hit.  If it was an isolated storm and veered off one direction or another, you would could keep on going until the dew or humidity made the grain to “tough” - wet - to combine.

It never failed on the northern plains to get at least one good thunderstorm during harvest.  And this time proved no exception.

“Get this load home and in the bin, I’ll get one more hopper and head for home.” Dad said, this time with lightening in the distance.

Rain on a full gravity box could spell trouble.  If you got moisture into a grain bin, even a little bit could spell trouble, a rotten spot in the bin could spread, or whose, if the grain got wet, it would heat up as the grain rotted and cause a fire.

Dad swung the auger back in on the combine and rumbled off as I swung the tractor and gravity box around and headed for home with the sound of distant thunder crackled in the distance.

I pulled the load up to the auger leading up to the top of the bin - being careful to line up the spout on the side of the box carefully - to close and you could run over the auger box on the bottom, too far away and you would miss it completely.  The margin of error was about six inches either side.

Then it was starting up the old Farmall H and getting the PTO going to run the auger, then crack open the gravity box.

“Come on, come on, come on” I mumbled to the grain as a cool breeze was starting to blow - the vanguard of the storm to come.

With the gravity box almost empty, I hopped up on one tire of the box and shook it, shaking loose any grain stuck on the side of the box.  Then with my big work boots, kicked the sides of the auger box - trying to get as much grain up the auger as possible.  With the gravity box empty, the auger box as empty as possible, all that was left was making sure the bin was closed.

There is just nothing like climbing to the top of a metal grain bin in 45 mph winds in the middle of lightening storm to get the heart pumping…and the mind questioning its sanity.

After raising the auger slightly so that it was no longer in the hole at the top of the bin, there I went, up the aluminum ladder, up the small ladder on top of the bin, up to the peak.  There I wrestled with the bin cover and got it wired down just as the first drops of rain started to hit.

I scurried down and scadadled for the house where Dad was already waiting (the combine just making it into the shed before the first drops started to fall).

From the safety of the porch we would sit and watch the rain come in sheets, the wind whip the trees, and the ground shake with the might roar of the thunder.

Until the storm slowly lost its intensity and moved east.  Then as the last rain drops fell, Dad looked at me and said, “Quite a storm yeah.  Well, geuss we better start the evening chores.  We’ll have some wet cows to milk tonight.”