Threshing
by Kevin Meyer  

            Grandpa stands by the machine, but his eyes are looking to the west northwest.  A long, low, blue line is getting closer.  Thunderstorms.  He has been watching all day.  It's now about 1:30 in the afternoon.  It is a late July day.  Hot and humid already at 7:00 in the morning when the threshing started.

            It was hot.  You walked two steps and the sweat broke out, running into your eyes, burning.  Grandpa takes another glance at the thresher, then walks back to the Farmall Regular.  The power is the long belt to run the machine.  Grandpa checks the belt as he walks along it.

            A rain would be good.  The corn was tasseling and needs it.  Rain would make a good third cutting hay, and the pastures were getting dry.  Yes, it was going to rain.  Even Louie Slaybough, the weatherman at station WJAG, had said so.  He was the most listened to man in Northeast Nebraska.

            Yes, a rain would be good.  But first we needed to finish threshing the oats.  We were at Grandpa's nephew, Ervin Bos.  His was the last farm to be threshed this year.  We had arrived at to his farm yesterday after dinner, set the machine on the edge of the oats field next to the farmstead and were threshing by 3:00.  We ran until 7:30 at night so we'd have a chance to finish today, Friday.

            Grandpa checks the gauges on the Regular and looks to the west again.  Yes, there was a chance.  We could get done if nothing broke and the crew didn't wear out.  It was the early '60s and this was one of the last threshing crews left.  Most farmers now had their own combines.

            But Grandpa's crew were almost all in their 60s, about ready to retire.  They figured they'd just keep threshing until they quit.  You don't easily change 60 years of ritual.

            It wasn't a large crew.  Jim Spale and his teenage son, Doug, and Joe Bridicko were the only two not related.  They were in the crew as neighbors, and they all farmed Novotny land.  And of course, Polanske, the faithful Novotny hired man who started working for B.J.'s dad when he came over from Bohemia in 1898 when he was 14.  Now it's over 60 years later and he's still there.  Living in the barn.  Now because of his age, they let him sleep in the house basement during the winter.  But he's happy.  This is all he knows.

            Grandpa's cousin, Joe P. and his son, Wayne, are in the crew, as are his brother, Tom, and nephew, Ervin.  Today to try to finish, brother Jerry has been brought out from town for the final push to finish.

            The crew was a well-oiled machine.  They had worked together for 50 years.  Tom hauled the threshed grain.  Polanske stacked the straw.  All the rest but Grandpa were bundle haulers.  When it came to threshing, Grandpa was King of the Realm.  He owned the Farmall Regular that ran the machine.  The machine was owned by the company, but Grandpa was in charge.  He checked the machine, ordered the repairs, decided where to set, when to start, when to stop, kept all the records, settled all disputes, and made sure of the rotation of who was first and in what order they went.  His word was the final word.

            He'd earned this position by working on big steam outfits as a young man, but mainly due to his reputation as being someone who never lost his temper easily, being someone who kept a cool head in every emergency, and being as fair and honest as anyone who ever walked the earth.

            This summer Grandpa and crew were bigger by two.  The Old Man (me) and brother Keenan (Squirt) were drafted to help because, as Grandpa said, we had young legs and he didn't.  Because he broke his knee as a boy from being run into by the snoot of a cornpicker, Grandpa's legs were shot.  His legs so bowed out, he could walk over a 15-gallon drum and never touch it.  But with the aid of his walking stick he never gave up.

            Today, the crew was even bigger because Ervin's boys, Tom and Ron, were there to help.  Any other year, Jo would have also been there.  We'd played together many summers, but this summer, much to our surprise (Squirt's and mine) we found out Jo was JoAnn, a girl, and now she was considered too old to play.  But old enough at nine to wear dresses and work in the kitchen with her Mom, Mary Ann, and Grandma Anna, Tom's wife, cooking for the crew.

            It has long been debated who did more work--the men threshing or the women, cooking and serving a morning lunch, noon meal, afternoon lunch and often a supper (leftovers were permitted here) to a crew of 10-15 men and boys.  In those days there were no convenience foods, running water, air conditioning, automatic washers, or dishwashers.  Mostly, a small fridge, wood stove bringing the temperature in most farm kitchens up to about a steady 110 degrees, chicken on the hoof, baking supplies in the pantry, veggies in the garden and fruit on the trees.

            The only thing else the women had to do were their regular duties of cleaning house, sewing, washing clothes, the garden, flowers, mowing the lawn, taking care of the chickens, ducks and geese, milking the cows, and carrying in water, wood and cobs.  And carrying ashes and dirty water out.  And incidentally raising 3-9 children.  In their spare time they could pretty much do as they pleased.  Who did more work I leave everyone to decide on their own.    

            Due to the expanded crew, Grandpa had one eye on the Regular, one on the belts, gears and chains of the thresher, one eye on the clean grain, one on the strawpile, one eye on the bundle haulers, and one eye on the weather.  In his spare time he watched Tom, Ron, Squirt and I, having us bring water, hook up wagons, level the oats wagon, bring him one of the dozen oil cans or grease guns or belt dressing bars from the orange crate strapped to the Regular or from the trunk of the Chevy parked strategically close.  All of this Grandpa handled with ease, giving his Grandpa grin and wink, and telling us to be careful.  For some strange reason, I think, besides our younger legs, Grandpa just like having us around, but he didn't want any accidents where we had to explain things to Grandma which could provoke a sharp, quick stream of Bohemian.  "So," as Grandpa would say, "as long as everything turns out OK, Mama doesn't need to know everything."

            After the machine was shut down for the evening, it was decided we would start at 7:00 this morning and to try and finish for the season and beat the rain.  We wouldn't stop for dinner (a highly unusual decision) but Mary Ann would bring out a lunch at 9:30 and 12:30.  Us kids would pass it out to the men and we'd keep going.

            It's 3:00.  The last bundles are on the rack and next to the feeder.  Grandpa opens the Regular, full bore, trying to speed things up.  Two more men climb on the rack to pitch in more bundles.  We get in an empty wagon to hold the last of the grain.  Tom has all the other loads in the granary.  Grandpa has one eye on the threshing, the other on the weather.  The long, blue line has turned to high thunderheads all over the west and northwest, as high as you can see.  Gray, black, purple and green.  It's going to be close.  The last bundle is in the feeder.  The knives cut it up.  The last oats go in the wagon.  Tom takes off for the shed.  The last straw is out of the blower.  Grandpa shuts down the belt pulley on the Regular.  Instead of waiting for it to stop, he takes his walking stick and throws the belt.  Dangerous business.  We kids know this is serious.  We run to roll up the belt.  Grandpa backs the Regular to the thresher tongue.  We hook him up.  The men have folded the feeder.  One eye on the weather, Grandpa sees the first lightning.  He hollers, "Everybody to the place.  In the barn."

            We all take off-racks, tractors, horses, and Grandpa with the machine.  Someone drives the old Chevy in.  We can hear the thunder.  There's more lightning.  We're on the place.  The tractors are shut off.  Grandpa, in charge to the end, hollers, "Horses and everyone to the barn."

            We head in.  Ervin and the boys come from the house.  He's carrying a case of beer.  The boys, pop.  We're all in the barn.  Cleaner than a lot of people's houses.  We spread out, sitting on bales, buckets and an old bench.  Ervin says lunch will be ready in about 40 minutes.  We'll wait in the barn. 

            The lightning flashes.  Thunder claps.  The first rain is hitting the roof.  Everyone relaxes.  Ervin looks at Grandpa, still in charge.

            "Yes," he nods, "give them pivo."  (After seeing an alcohol-related bad accident when he was working with the steamers, Grandpa allows no booze for his crew if the machine is running or is going to run.)  The men take pivo.  We boys are offered pop, the usual Bos short 7-ups and Dodger grape.

            But Ervin is of a younger generation.  There's also root beer, creme soda, orange and strawberry.  Everyone is relaxed.  Some of the men take a second beer.  They start telling stories in Bohemian.  Of course, we listen but don't understand it all.  We have another pop, play with the horses and cats.  Hear a few more stories.  The rain lets up.  Mary Ann hollers, "Lunch is ready.  Boys, run get it."

            We do.  Mary Ann brings the coffee.  Everyone eats, but the exhaustion and pressure of the race with the weather is starting to tell.  Everyone is tired, ready to go home with the rain, and tomorrow being Saturday, we can rest Saturday and Sunday.

            In between rains, Grandpa checks the Regular and thresher.  It's all okay.  If it's dry tomorrow, we'll come take it home.  For now everything can sit here.

            We pile into the Chevy and head home, and put the car in the garage.  We'll unload it tomorrow.  We head for the house.  Grandma caught rainwater and is heating it for baths.  Nothing like a bath after threshing.  We go in the house.

            "Oh,” says Grandma, "I heard you'd gotten done."

            Grandpa says, "We did."

            She replies, "You still have your hat."  In all the rush, we'd forgotten the old tradition that at the end of the last job all the straw hats went into the machine.  This year Grandpa gets to save his sweat-stained hat with the green plastic visor.  First time in years.

            Grandma has the chores done.  Squirt, Grandpa and I each take a bath and put on clean clothes.  Grandma puts Squirt and my clothes in a tub of rainwater to soak.  Grandpa's, as every year, she throws in a pile to burn.

            We sit down for supper.  Now Grandma's all questions.  What did you have to eat?  Who all was there?  Any news from town?  How was the oats?  You really ate in the barn?   Did anything break?  How far ahead of the rain did you get finished?

            Grandpa eats in silence.  Squirt and I answer the questions.  We start telling her about being in the barn.  It starts to rain again.  Grandpa gets interested looking out the window.  We tell Grandma more about the time in the barn.  It's raining harder.  Grandpa's looking out the window, interested in something.  We tell Grandma more about the barn, some of the Bohemian phrases we've heard and committed to memory.  Grandma gets quiet, lays down her fork and looks at Grandpa.

            By now, Grandpa's really interested in looking outside and watching the rain.  Squirt and I tell Grandma a few more choice Bohemian phrases we've learned in the barn.  Squirt and I stop talking.  Grandma clears her throat and says something to Grandpa in Bohemian.

            Grandpa's really interested in watching out the window and doesn't hear her.  She speaks up.  He still doesn't hear.  Squirt and I look out the window.  What is so fascinating that Grandpa sees and we don't? 

            Grandma speaks up louder, all in Bohemian.  We don't understand it all but catch some words.  Little pitchers have big ears, something about Mary Ann should have washed everybody's mouth out with soap, something about pivo loosening up tongues, and something about--is that all you men can think and talk about?  She gets up and goes to the parlor.

            Whatever Grandpa saw outside must be gone.  He finishes supper and goes to read the paper in his rocker.  Next day things are kind of quiet and when we go to town Saturday night, Grandma warns Grandpa and Squirt and I about going into the tavern, suggests the cafe might be better and church on Sunday morning wouldn't hurt.  Grandpa still doesn't seem to hear.

            On Sunday, Dad, Mom and Potato come to Grandpa and Grandma's to check on us and to see if we're ready to go home. (We're not.)  Mom, Potato and Grandma are in the kitchen.  Grandma's telling Mom something in Bohemian, whispering.  Squirt and I aren't supposed to hear, but they're both shaking their heads.

            We wander out to the porch where Grandpa and Dad are.  Dad asks if we were any help.                         

Grandpa says, "Yes, lots."

            Dad asks if we learned anything.

            Grandpa says, "Yes, lots."  He starts grinning, his eyes twinkle, he leans over and whispers something to Dad.  They both laugh. 

            From the kitchen comes a disgusted "Humph," from Grandma. 

            Grandpa winks at us and gives us his Grandpa grin, leans over and whispers, "Mama don't need to know everything."