Set back amongst the weeds and trees in Fort Rice, I spotted this old threshing machine. I think those iron and steel wonders might just last forever being that they've been constructed with so much galvanized metal. As we drove around the rest of that day I began reminiscing about my days as a custom combiner in Kansas and Nebraska. Mary found it interesting and insisted I write-up some of those experiences. Here is one of them.
In the spring of 1965 about to finish my first year of teaching, I was approached by a man asking if I would like to accompany him south to Kansas and work for him as a custom combiner. After giving it some thought, I agreed to accompany him during my summer break. To get to southern Kansas I had to drive an old truck on which was loaded a combine complete with its 14 foot header, a three-day, white-knuckle experience. We finally arrived in Medicine Lodge, Kansas, and began looking for acres to harvest. A patient man, the owner was content to wait until someone came up to ask for our services. Eventually one did.
It was a hard-luck story he gave. His wheat crop, located near Lake City, looked especially good until the Medicine Lodge River flooded and left it flat on the ground and strewn with branches and logs. No custom operators were interested in tackling the job because of the condition of the ground. Wanting to get started our boss accepted and we moved to Lake City. The story ended well for the farmer: we salvaged 60 bushels per acre for him. For us, it was a headache, what with stopping the machine to clear away branches, running the headers as low as we could to the ground to pick up the prone straw, and continuously getting stuck in muddy spots.
And rain fell occasionally which caused us to park our machines and wait for dry weather. What to do during our downtime stretched our imaginations some. We tried fishing one day and sat on the sandy bank where we had been cautioned to watch out for the bites of crayfish. We drove a few miles to Sun City and drank too many schooners of 3.2 beer. We sat in a little country store, the only business in town, eating cheese and crackers and listening to the yarns of the locals.
From a local we learned the sad story of the man whose acres we were combining. His only son and heir had committed suicide, his wife was losing her mind, and the maintenance of their house and buildings was being ignored. He drove a grand old Chrysler Imperial that had driven its best miles and his well-fitting clothes were soiled and neglected. Everything about him spoke of a well-to-do past, but now his only motivation seemed to be to survive a bit longer.
The success of our harvest work did please him and he said so. I often wonder how much longer he held on and what has become of that little collection of buildings that comprised Lake City. I still remember one encouraging sign as we drove out of town that last time and looked into my rear view mirror: a Case tractor plowing his red Kansas soil in preparation to plant another crop.
A few years back I wrote this poem in remembrance:
I recall another place,
another time: winter wheat
fields near Lake City, Kansas.
Summer, nineteen sixty-five.
A custom combine crew, we
sat parked in Medicine Lodge
looking for acres to whet
the appetites of famished
machines we hauled chained to trucks.
Russell Lake came - bottom land
flooded, bumper crop flattened,
now spurned by would-be cutters.
(Who'd take their machines to fields
of hidden driftwood and mud?)
He proffered, we accepted.
"Well, boys, we came to cut wheat.
Put your headers way down low.
Let's get his wheat harvested!"
A gentleman, Mr. Lake.
His world showed little future,
his heir shot himself, his wife
talked strangely to canaries,
and white paint peeled from his home.
Our work cheered him, though. Bushels
flowed at sixty per acre.
(I'll be able to pay bills.")
Fields harvested, I recall
my rear view in the mirror...
his Case tractor plowing red
Kansas dirt for next year's wheat.
In the spring of 1965 about to finish my first year of teaching, I was approached by a man asking if I would like to accompany him south to Kansas and work for him as a custom combiner. After giving it some thought, I agreed to accompany him during my summer break. To get to southern Kansas I had to drive an old truck on which was loaded a combine complete with its 14 foot header, a three-day, white-knuckle experience. We finally arrived in Medicine Lodge, Kansas, and began looking for acres to harvest. A patient man, the owner was content to wait until someone came up to ask for our services. Eventually one did.
It was a hard-luck story he gave. His wheat crop, located near Lake City, looked especially good until the Medicine Lodge River flooded and left it flat on the ground and strewn with branches and logs. No custom operators were interested in tackling the job because of the condition of the ground. Wanting to get started our boss accepted and we moved to Lake City. The story ended well for the farmer: we salvaged 60 bushels per acre for him. For us, it was a headache, what with stopping the machine to clear away branches, running the headers as low as we could to the ground to pick up the prone straw, and continuously getting stuck in muddy spots.
And rain fell occasionally which caused us to park our machines and wait for dry weather. What to do during our downtime stretched our imaginations some. We tried fishing one day and sat on the sandy bank where we had been cautioned to watch out for the bites of crayfish. We drove a few miles to Sun City and drank too many schooners of 3.2 beer. We sat in a little country store, the only business in town, eating cheese and crackers and listening to the yarns of the locals.
From a local we learned the sad story of the man whose acres we were combining. His only son and heir had committed suicide, his wife was losing her mind, and the maintenance of their house and buildings was being ignored. He drove a grand old Chrysler Imperial that had driven its best miles and his well-fitting clothes were soiled and neglected. Everything about him spoke of a well-to-do past, but now his only motivation seemed to be to survive a bit longer.
The success of our harvest work did please him and he said so. I often wonder how much longer he held on and what has become of that little collection of buildings that comprised Lake City. I still remember one encouraging sign as we drove out of town that last time and looked into my rear view mirror: a Case tractor plowing his red Kansas soil in preparation to plant another crop.
A few years back I wrote this poem in remembrance:
I recall another place,
another time: winter wheat
fields near Lake City, Kansas.
Summer, nineteen sixty-five.
A custom combine crew, we
sat parked in Medicine Lodge
looking for acres to whet
the appetites of famished
machines we hauled chained to trucks.
Russell Lake came - bottom land
flooded, bumper crop flattened,
now spurned by would-be cutters.
(Who'd take their machines to fields
of hidden driftwood and mud?)
He proffered, we accepted.
"Well, boys, we came to cut wheat.
Put your headers way down low.
Let's get his wheat harvested!"
A gentleman, Mr. Lake.
His world showed little future,
his heir shot himself, his wife
talked strangely to canaries,
and white paint peeled from his home.
Our work cheered him, though. Bushels
flowed at sixty per acre.
(I'll be able to pay bills.")
Fields harvested, I recall
my rear view in the mirror...
his Case tractor plowing red
Kansas dirt for next year's wheat.
