The Hard Land-Part 10
A story of love and survival
Earl arrived before Thomas finished his breakfast. “We need to get a move on,” Earl said, “we’ve got to be in Glendale before eight o’clock. The dew is usually off the field by nine and the machinery needs to be prepped before the first load of grain comes in from the field.”
“I’m ready to go,” Thomas said, grabbing the last piece of bacon and heading for the door.
“Not quite,” Earl said as he pulled a red bandana from his pocket. “You’ll need this.” He handed the bandana to Thomas.
“Why do I need a bandana?”
“You’ll see. Just tie it around your neck for now.”
They walked to the gate where two horses stood saddled and ready to go. Thomas and Earl swung into the saddle simultaneously. The pair rode north from the farm until they came to Sugar Creek then rode east until the creek joined Cub River. Crossing the river, they followed it upstream past the confluence with Foster Creek and then turned northwest.
The road wound through fields for a couple of miles before a steep climb over a hill. As soon as they crested the hill, the road dropped equally steep down the other side before leveling out into more farmland.
Earl pointed to a gate across a narrow lane at the side of the road. Plum trees grew along the fence on one side. The fruit was just beginning to turn from green to purple.
“That’s where we go.”
Thomas jumped from the saddle, opened the gate, and led his horse through.
Earl rode through and Thomas closed the gate and remounted his horse.
“How did they get the threshing machine down here,” Thomas asked, eyeing the narrow space between the two fences.
“They didn’t. They brought the machine across the field up there,” Earl said pointing to a field where shocks of grain stood.
Through openings between the plum trees, Thomas could see the shocks had been cleared, making a path through the field. Wheel tracks were easily visible in the stubble.
They rode past a small farmhouse and a rickety barn before the threshing equipment came into view. Harry Nash stood beside the threshing machine with a bucket of grease beside him. When he saw Earl and Thomas, he motioned to them.
They tied their horses to the fence and walked across the yard.
Harry nodded at Earl and eyed the young man beside him. “You’re Thomas,” he said, more a statement than a question.
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said.
“Okay, here is your first job.” Harry handed Thomas a wooden ladle covered in grease. “There are several grease pots located at various points on the threshing machine. You need to fill each one with grease before we start every day.”
He pointed out the location of each of the grease pots and left Thomas to fill them.
Earl followed Harry to the steam engine that powered the threshing machine and climbed up the side. Another worker handed up buckets of water, and Earl poured them into the water reservoir. It took forty-five minutes to fill the water tank.
Harry and another worker loaded the wood into the firebox and ignited the wood. When the steam was at the proper pressure, Harry began moving levers and opening valves. The flywheel on the steam engine began to turn. The long flat belt running from the steam engine to the threshing machine moved slowly at first but then began to pick up speed.
Thomas finished filling the last of the grease pots and climbed down as the threshing machine came to life. Pulleys turned, the infeed conveyor creaked, and the screens shook back and forth. Fans spun pulling air through the machine.
“It’s time to go,” Harry said as a wagon arrived from the field stacked high with shocks of grain. “Thomas, you’re up there.”
Thomas wiped the grease from his hands and climbed onto the wagon.
A young man dressed in a long sleeve flannel shirt buttoned to the neck handed him a three-pronged pitchfork. “I’m Mark,” he said.
“Thomas.” The two nodded at each other.
Following Mark’s example, Thomas began pitching shocks of grain into the infeed conveyor. As soon as the first bundles worked their way through the machine a steady stream of straw shot out the spout at the opposite end. A gust of wind carried the chaff back toward Thomas and Mark. Mark pulled his bandana up over his nose. Thomas did the same. Now he knew why Earl had given him the bandana.
As soon as they finished unloading the wagon, Mark stepped onto the frame of the infeed conveyor. Thomas stepped up beside him. The wagon pulled out and another pulled in to be unloaded. They stepped from the framework onto the new wagon and continued pitching the bundles onto the conveyor.
The day grew hotter as Thomas, Mark, and two other teams emptied wagon after wagon into the insatiable throat of the beast. Sweat soaked Thomas’s shirt, and droplets of perspiration ran from his forehead, stinging his eyes. On one exchange of wagons, Thomas lifted his hat and discovered perspiration had spread past the sweatband and moistened the brim.
At one in the afternoon, a whistle sounded. “It’s mealtime,” Mark said, jabbing his pitchfork into the sheaves and jumping from the wagon.
Thomas jumped down and followed Mark around the barn, surprised to find the entire crew assembling around two long tables extending the full length of the barn. The tables were covered with plates of roast beef, bowls of mashed potatoes, and baskets of homemade bread. It was more food than Thomas had ever seen in one place.
Thomas scanned the crowd of men searching for Earl. Spotting him at the far end of one of the tables, he pushed his way through the throng, dodging elbows and offering apologies until he reached Earl’s side. He took an empty seat next to Earl and turned his attention to the food.
Thomas hadn’t eaten since five o’clock in the morning and he was hungry. He loaded up his plate and ate like a starving man.
“Better take it easy,” Earl said. “You need to save room for pie.”
“Pie?” Thomas asked.
“Yep,” Earl said. “Every kind you can imagine.”
Thomas’s eyes widened as several women and girls emerged from the house carrying tin pie plates. The aroma of freshly baked pies wafted through the air. This was a feast.
“Do we eat like this every day?”
Earl grinned. “It’s a contest, each farmer’s wife trying to outdo the others.”
“I think I’m going to like it,” Thomas said as a woman set a large piece of apple pie in front of him.
When they finished eating, Earl motioned for Thomas to follow him. They stopped in the shade of a big tree growing between the barn and the house.
“You might want to take a short nap before you head back out to work.”
The two men lay down under the canopy of the tree alongside several other workers and were soon sleeping.
At 2:15 another whistle blew, and Earl shook Thomas’s shoulder.
Thomas opened his eyes. “Is it time to go back to work already?”
“It is,” Earl said. “I’ll see you after work.”
Thomas stood and stretched. The nap had felt good, but stepping back into the scorching afternoon sun was torture. Thomas’s muscles ached, and the sweat had dried on his shirt, leaving white salt rings under his armpits.
He hobbled across the yard and crawled back onto the wagon. As he picked up his pitchfork the image of a red, horned demon popped into his mind. He knew why cartoonists depicted the devil in hell with a pitchfork in his hand.
At seven in the evening, the whistle blew signaling the end of the workday. Thomas slowly climbed down from the empty wagon. He found Earl leading the horses toward him.
“Mount up,” Earl said, we still have a two-hour horseback ride home.
Thomas groaned as he put his foot in the stirrup. His leg did not slide over the saddle as easily as it had that morning.
By the time they reached home, it was almost dark. They put the horses away. Earl headed toward the cabin and Thomas stumbled toward the house.
“Wash up,” Anna said when Thomas pushed open the backdoor. “I’ve got your supper ready.”
Thomas collapsed onto the chair.
“How was your first day?” Frank asked.
“It was tiring,” Thomas said. “I’m heading to bed as soon as I finish supper. Five o’clock will come too soon.”
