The Rural Voice, 1989-08, Page 31tractor was a big green Allis Chalmers
and the thresher, by Geo. White and
Sons, was a metallic colour trimmed
in red. Both thresher and tractor ran
on steel — there were no rubber tires
in those days. When the rig turned in
the laneway, we knew it was finally
ours, at least for a few days. But
would the threshing machine make it
through under the overhanging maple
branches along the lane?
Part of the mystique of the tractor
for me was the way its steering wheel
required several rotations to effect a
small turn in the front wheels. I liked
watching Albert standing up on the
tractor, turning that steering wheel
around and around by its handle as he
stationed the equipment just so. Not
for him the ridiculous task of trying to
back the thresher up into the position
agreed upon. He was able to unhook
the tractor, turn it around, and then
couple the front of it to the tongue of
the thresher and drive the machine
slowly and precisely backward.
On top of the machine the big
blower rested in its cradle, a round
metal tube about 12 feet long and a
foot in diameter. Dad or Albert would
nonchalantly spin the two little wheels
that controlled its vertical and horizon-
tal movement until it was angled up in
the air with its maw looming over the
spot selected for the straw stack. It
fascinated us!
Once the wheels on the thresher
were blocked, Albert backed the trac-
tor up for 40 feet or so and unrolled
the heavy drive belt. It was perhaps
10 inches across. He looped it over
the drive pulley on the thresher and
then, after twisting it 180 degrees,
looped it over the pulley on the trac-
tor. Then he continued backing up
until the belt was taut. It was impor-
tant that the whole be aligned correct-
ly, for a belt of that size spinning off
would be dangerous. (I have thought
since that this was why, during thresh-
ing, a crowbar always stood upright,
jammed in the ground about half -way
along the belt and on its off -side.)
Then came the test! The gear on
the tractor was slowly engaged, the
belt began to squeak, and the threshing
machine sprang into life: small belts
moved, screens shook, arms ratcheted
back and forth, the blower roared and
raised dust, the knives flashed behind
the front feeding bed, and the canvas
rolled.
A poet speaks of the plowman
plodding home at night and leaving
"the world to darkness" and to him.
The grown-ups soon departed and left
all that glorious machinery to us!
There might be an hour of daylight
left! We climbed the intriguing little
ladder on the side of the thresher and
ran along its top. We even turned the
toy -like wheels to change (but only
slightly) the position of the blower.
We pretended that we were steering
some gigantic ship. We went back to
the tractor and sat up in its big seat.
We turned the large steering wheel
until we met too much resistance. (No
need to worry about keys or accidental
starts: it would be many years before
either of us could operate that big
crank hanging on the front.) We
travelled miles as we sat there.
Eventually came the call, "Bedtime!"
We were up with the sun in the
morning. We were even willing to
hurry with our chores. After breakfast
we chafed as we went on the look -out
for the first neighbour to arrive with
his team and wagon. One by one they
came down our sideroad and turned
into the lane. Some came in cars or
walked, because they would be "field
men." It would be their job to pitch
the sheaves up to the men on the
wagons. One or two young men with
spunky, snorting teams, outfitted in
gleaming harnesses and hitched to
new wagons, would come in at a
disdainful trot. Each paused only long
enough to pick up a field man and get
directions, and then sprang away back
the lanes to the field.
When a loaded wagon came up, it
was the driver's job to bring his load
as close to the side of the feeding table
with its moving canvas as he could —
but without hitting any part of the
thresher. Many a loud yell came from
a cranky looking Albert standing
watchfully nearby. The approach was
sometimes complicated by a skittish
horse afraid of standing close to the
moving belt.
The driver pitched his sheaves
onto the moving canvas, downward
when he began, upward by the time
he finished. To drop a sheaf onto the
ground between the table and the
wagon was the ultimate embarrass-
ment. A man needed to work hard to
keep up with the consumption rate of
the machine, so sometimes a second
man, a "spike pitcher," would help
him unload. Usually one or two more
loaded wagons were waiting behind
him when he was finished.
Some young fellows started away
on their empty wagons from the mach-
ine by undoing their hanging lines and
lashing the front rack with them. The
startled horses leapt away into a quick
trot. Openly, we boys agreed with our
parents that they were foolish smart
Alecs, but secretly we envied them.
The morning passed with a steady
procession of wagons from the field.
"Grain boxes" occasionally traded
places by the machine so that the
valuable cargo could be shovelled into
a bin in one of the barns. And the
golden mound of straw grew on our
ground — the new "straw stack."
We boys helped Mother and Aunt
set up the big galvanized wash -tubs on
tables under the trees in the back yard.
There were two of them to fill with
water, one for wash, one for rinse. We
were always spared the job of helping
set up for the minor banquet that was
to take place inside. I think now that
this was so that we boys could be with
the men. Sometimes a neighbour
woman would help, a favour that was
to be reciprocated, of course. There
was never any consumption of alco-
holic beverages in our threshing ring,
something that we used to hear was
not true of them all.
At a signal from Albert the
machinery ground to a halt — and
silence — for dinner. The teams were
unhitched quickly, tied up in some
convenient spot, and given some of
the hay Dad had provided. We
watched as the men soaped and
sloshed and spluttered in the wash-
tubs under the trees, and we took our
turn in this ritual too, whether we
thought we needed it or not. I was
always surprised at how white the
exposed necks and arms of most
farmers were. There was nothing
glamorous in a tan. Straw hats were
left outside, and at some mysterious
moment of agreement, the gang
moved inside to the large table.
We were good Anglicans and
certainly grace -sayers, but none was
said on these days. The men just went
AUGUST 1989 29