I walk fields.
Sun has dried the soybeans of summer rains and green life. Pods near split, spiral springs wound. Children laugh when the golden beans pop from their skins. Combines collect the gold pearls and I watch the great golden globe sink.
“It will be late.” Farmer Husband unwraps the sausage on a bun from its foil heat blanket, glances at his watch. The grain buggy rattles, unloading the last of the beans into the boot of the auger. He leans over to idle back the tractor.
“If we finish up the beans by 10:30… I’ll start planting the wheat right away. Keep the drill going till it’s done. Likely finish up tomorrow afternoon. Four or so? Lord willing. If nothing breaks down.”
I nod. “It’s warm enough?”
He takes a bite, smiles.
“Small window is all we’ve got, if that radar’s right.” He reaches for the thermos. “But if we just keep it going, maybe we can get all the beans off and get the wheat all in the ground before the rain. They’re thinking it won’t be till later on. We just might…”
I don’t do the math, don’t try to count the hours he’ll go without sleep. He doesn’t lay head down on pillow to put butter on bread and I’ll never be able to thank him enough.
What a man will do to beat clouds. I hope he reads the love in my eyes.
“Dad’s got to get home before seven. He’s got the youth group meeting at his place at eight. Think you can get Cale in there so Dad can train him before he goes?” He nods towards the dust in the back corner.
Farmer Husband’s Dad, Opa, rips up dirt behind the combines, laying out a warm bed for wheat seeds. He works earth; sons bring in gold. The field of the next generation ripens, boys laughing and girls running, and the cousins wave, sister-in-laws too.
The harvest is in the years, the ties.
I can’t do the math on that either.
“Yeah, I can drive over to that side and see if Dad can get Cale going before he goes.” I hand Farmer Husband another apple, a bag of cookies, pittance for a long night.
“You going to be okay?” I let the fingers linger. His hands are cold.
He winks, smiles. “I’m good.”
I step back from the tractor cab. He hollers over the engine. “I’ll see if I can swing in between loads to see Dad before he goes. And just make sure Cale’s okay.”
Our firstborn. Taking the wheel from his grandfather. His father and I watching. I picked stones off this field the day before he was born.
It takes a family to beat a storm.
He sits tall in the cab, a man beside his grandfather.
I can read that brow, the way it furrows like the dust he’s made from. Cale’s driven the Ford loader tractor, brought home the auger, picked stones. He’s never driven the Case IH, opened up the bare ground.
“I wish it was the old 1466.” I heard him mutter it, opening the truck door. Opa’s nearing the headlands, idling back.
“Oh the 1466′s got no power steering, Caleb. And it’s gears are touchy. She jolts.” How many years ago now Mama was holding the draw pin over the wagon tongue and a hired hand backed up the 1466 to hitch up when the tractor jolted, tempermental clutch, and sheered Mama’s right index finger right off. She doesn’t play the piano or guitar much any more.
“Be glad it’s the Case and not the 1466.” I had called the words after him walking up the headlands towards Opa and the cultivator.
“But if I wrecked the 1466 it wouldn’t really matter.” His words had carried back over the coming drone of the tractor.
He knows how Farmer Husband’s begrudged the 14 since that day Mama called from ER, waiting on the surgeon.
“Well, he’s right.” His younger brother had stood beside me, hands stuffed in pockets, watching Caleb run not to keep Opa waiting. “He’s likely going to wreck something.”
I frowned.
“What?” Joshua raised his hands. “It’s true. It’s his first time and there’s a lot that can go wrong.”
I could see that same worry etched all across Cale’s forehead.
Farmer Husband pulls up with the grain buggy, leaves his tractor still running, runs over to father, son. Three generations convene in a tractor cab. Engines mask those gentle voices. I don’t have to hear them. Opa pats a knee. Farmer Husband nods, lays a hand on a shoulder, points. And then Farmer’s gone for the next load of beans. Old will teach young.
I give Cale the thumbs up when Opa gives him the seat behind the wheel. Opa leans over from the buddy seat, shows him how to drop the hydraulics, lower the cultivator teeth back into earth after each headland turn.
They go. He goes.
Some torches pass without fanfare and only a silent witness.
I watch in the dust. Along time I watch in the dust. Dust burns deep places.
It’s only their laughter, those youngest boys coming up through the beans, that makes me turn away from the changing of the guard, the shifting of the seats.
I smile in dust.
Those two crazy boys stepping high over beans stalks. Another generation coming on.
I know where those two have been. Hours up in the mow of the old bank barn, playing with puppies. Romped out, I know too what they’ve now coming looking for. Looking for menfolk and rides in tractor and combines. Looking for father, uncle, grandfather and their point in time.
They’ve come looking for things that due time and God’s grace give.
The changing of the places and the wisdom of the ages.
They wait, springing pods, palms cupped with the gold orbs. The sun sets.
I take my place and walk fields home.
Related:
Harvest Workers
Power Source
Photos: our soybean harvest this year
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