The Rural Voice, 1992-10, Page 8Copper
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4 THE RURAL VOICE
Gisele Ireland
Our spirits sinking under water
Any rewards we might have real-
ized in farming this year have been
watered down to the point where they
are too few to mention. The punish-
ment for us on our waterlogged acres
this year has
been what we've
been trying to
fame with — the
machinery.
No matter
where I look, I
can't get away
from it. Not only
is the crippled
stuff choking off
entrance to the
shop and shed,
it's scattered
elsewhere too.
The pockets of
the workpants
carry an assortment of things that
even a junk dealer would have
trouble identifying. They thunk in
the washer and clunk in the dryer.
There is something resembling an
iguana with wires on the shelves
above the stove, drying out. There is
a head for something vital, I'm sure,
dropped on the mat in the entrance-
way. My trunk has housed the most
incredibly greasy assortment of parts
either on the way to getting another
one just like it or getting the one in
the trunk fixed. At no cost if
possible. The grease marks are
permanent and a constant reminder.
In a normal year, the repairs seem
to have been taken in stride. Not this
year. The machinery is well on the
way to being admitted to the Smith-
sonian Institute and gets cantanker-
ous in the damp weather. When there
are a few short hours of sunlight, one
would expect enough mercy to hope
nothing breaks down. Somehow, this
year, it didn't work that way.
Super Wrench's conversations
inevitably drift to the quirks devel-
oped in the combine or the arthritic
performance of the swather. The
piece of equipment I teamed to hate
most this year is the grain auger.
On Saturday evening, just about
supper time, Super Wrench tore into
the house, breathless. "You'll never
guess what we did," he panted.
"We've got three grain wagons full
and the combine is still running."
I was impressed and asked when
they wanted supper. They didn't.
They were on a roll and all they
needed was me to help load the grain
into the trailer. If we did that, we
might actually sell it and get some
money. I didn't need any further
urging. We sped to the field.
The first load went off and getting
the wagons just right to the auger was
tricky. Super Wrench was up for the
challenge and did a superb job. I
didn't. I was so excited hearing the
combine purr in the field I let the
wagon tongue drop on my foot, clad
only in a flimsy running shoe. As I
lay beside the wagon, doing my ver-
sion of the funky chicken, Super
Wrench hovered over me solicitous-
ly, unsure whether to bawl with me,
shoot me or call 911. I recovered
enough to hook up the second wagon.
The grain flow balked within minutes
and Super Wrench pronounced in
ominous tones that the flighting in the
auger was broken. We moaned and
beat our chests in frustration. At 8:15
on a Saturday night, the only option
left was to shut the works down until
Monday morning. We did that, and
since hindsight is such a wonderful
thing, should have done a bit more.
But we didn't.
Before dawn on Sunday morning I
awakened to the sound of rain against
the bedroom window. The grain
sitting uncovered in the field rose like
a haunting spectre. We hastily
grabbed anything resembling clothes
and sped to the field.
We got the tarp over the trailer
with no problems. The first wagon
we hooked up and tried to back into
the barn. The tongue bent back on it.
We unhooked it and pushed it in. I
got a lesson on how to use a bunting
pole while slipping on a greasy
incline and wiping torrents of rain out
of my eyes.
The second wagon was quickly
hooked to the pickup and taken home.
We backed it into the shed with a sigh
of relief. Our son climbed up the side
of it to test the wetness of the grain
and nearly fell off it laughing. "You
are a real pair of heroes," he chortled.
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