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Three-year-old me rides shotgun with
Grandma Mavis Petrie during the harvest of 1986.
Though I work in an office now,
the farm is never
far from my heart.
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When
farm kids grow up and move away, they don’t cease to be farm kids.
Those
who grew up on a farm know the connection is something that stays with you
forever, no matter where you may end up in this big old world.
For
me, it’s a place I often return to when I start to feel adrift.
Though
I enjoy living and working in the semi-urban business world here in Red Deer, I
often feel a sense of longing for the freedom and simplicity of life on our
small family grain farm outside of Chauvin, AB – though I’m sure if you asked
my parents, they wouldn’t describe it as ‘simple.’
Every
fall, when I see the combines start to roll, my heart feels a little heavy,
because I know that while I’m driving to the office, my dad and younger brother
are heading for the fields.
As
a little kid, the day harvest began ranked right up there with birthdays and
Christmas. My brother and I would run around squealing with excitement when dad
pulled the combine out of the shed. We’d ride with him or grandpa in the cab,
sitting shotgun on a five-gallon pale or laying on the floor with our faces
pressed to the windshield, watching the pickup inhale mile after mile of wheat
swath. The best part was when we were allowed to pull the lever that put the
auger out for unloading.
When
we got a little bit older, we were given real jobs to do – like running lunches
out to the field, or climbing into the bowels of the combine with carpet knives
and pliers whenever it got plugged up.
A
few seasons later, we were upgraded to pilot status, running the combine for
hours on end while dad ran the grain truck. By the time we were teenagers, Aric
and I could pretty much carry on with a day of harvesting without any help at
all – barring any serious mechanical problems, of course. We’d put in long
days, sometimes working well into the night, depending on the threat of rain or
snow.
One
special memory that stands out for me is the year the lights wouldn’t work in
our old Massey 750. We tinkered with wiring and fuses for hours, but couldn’t
solve the mystery. It could have been a real setback, but we caught a lucky
break; the moon was so bright that fall, we were able to keep going into the
night. I’ll never forget sitting in the grain truck, watching the combine
roaring through the hills in near total darkness, with the wheat swaths seeming
to glow in the moonlight.
Field
lunches also stand out as a favourite memory; scarfing down soup and sandwiches
on an old blanket, while listening to grandpa telling us all what harvest was
like in the days of threshing machines and pitch forks.
These
days, I usually manage to join the harvest effort for at least a few days. The
reality is that I’m more of an ‘occasional helper’ than a real part of the farm
scene – a fact I’ve gradually come to accept in the years since I left.
When
the strains of the urban rat race start to weigh me down, just getting behind
the wheel of a combine, a tractor or a grain truck for a few hours does my mind
a world of good.
I
know damn well that the farm doesn’t need me anymore, but I’m pretty sure I
still need the farm.
Leo is a former Advocate editor.
Contact him by email at newsdeadline@gmail.com or
follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/LeoPare
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