The Rural Voice, 2004-09, Page 46As late as the 1980s, Tom and
Bill Leiper of Lob`desborotigh
-' still used a'threshing
machine.
Remembering the
Threshers
In the dags of threshing, harvest was
part of the social fabric
of rural neighbourhoods
By Barbara Weiler
As the hot hazy days of July slip past, and the haying
is done, farmers keep close watch on the grain,
looking forward to the harvest. On a farm of the
1940s that meant that arrangements would be made for the
threshing of the grain with a local contractor and the farmer
would join a co-operative threshing crew. When our
family moved to a new community the threshing agreement
was a top priority for my father.
Our grain was cut and bound into sheaves with our team
of grey work horses, Nell and Doll, pulling the binder. We
stacked the golden sheaves on end and built them into
wigwam -shaped stooks so the grain could dry in the sun.
When it was our turn for threshing, the threshing
machine rumbled into the yard early so the owner could set
up and level his machine before the threshing crew pulled
in with teams and wagons.
These were a diverse group: farmers, teenage sons, and
hired men or boys from the village, sent to represent a
farmer who had too much work at home to come on that
particular day. It did not occur to me to ask how the
negotiations were accomplished, who brought teams and
wagons and who supplied only manpower, as there were
more than twice the number of men as there were teams
and wagons.
Threshing day was a stressful time for farm wives.
Seasonal tasks such as canning and pickling were put aside
to prepare for 12 or more hungry men with little warning,
42 THE RURAL VOICE
depending on the variables of weather and machinery
breakage. It was understood that the day and time might
change at short notice.
My job was to help Mother. She lit the woodstove in the
back kitchen to cook the huge roasts of beef or ham, and
the mammoth pots of potatoes and vegetables from our
garden. Several kinds of pies and cakes had been baked
the day before and we brought jars of preserved fruit from
the cellar. The meal was served in the cooler, main part of
the house and we set the table with Mother's good china
and silverware.
As mealtime drew near my mother asked one of us to
check with Dad on the time the men should be expected.
"Be sure you don't get in the way of the machine", she
warned.
Out by the barn the noise of the threshing machine was
deafening and we had to yell in Dad's ear to be heard. The
air swirled with chaff and dust as the huge teams of
Clydesdales and Percherons pulled up to the machine and
the men fed the sheaves into the feeder. A conveyor moved
the sheaves along through shuddering rollers which
separated the grain from the straw. The owner of the
machine presided and my father stayed close by to see that
everything went smoothly. The men working near the
machine tied red or blue dotted handkerchiefs over their
mouths to protect them from the flying chaff and dust. The
grain poured into a waiting wagon and the straw blew out
of the long pipe onto a rising golden mound.
There was a fierce sort of camaraderie and energy here, a
rhythm among men, machine and beasts that was almost
palpable. As a girl child delivering some message to my
father, speaking into his cupped ear above the noise, I felt
out of my orbit, in a strange masculine land, although it
was usual for my sister and me to work at haying or
shovelling grain at other times.
When Mother sent the message that dinner was ready,
the first group of men washed at the hand pump in the back
kitchen. Now it was their turn to exhibit a shy
awkwardness as they trooped into my mother's dining