What a joyous end of August Monday. Blue blue skies. Warm sun. The sound of the voices of numerous types of flocking birds coming through the open windows. Golden Rods blooming and crops in various stages of turning from green, to lime, to beige, to yellow and ultimately to gold. The hint of chill in the mild breeze in spite of the warm temperature serves as a reminder to treasurer these beautiful moments in this season of transition.
This is truly my favourite time of year. I am not sure quite why this is so. Perhaps it is because for so many years autumn meant the excitement of harvest .
Harvest.
The time when Everyone counted on the farm. Everyone had a job. Everyone was focused on the same goal. Everyone was on the same team.
If you were part of the younger set ( 12 and under) you were probably employed as an official 'gopher'--go for the hammer, go for the water jug, go for the grease gun, go for the oil can, and if your legs are long enough, go for the half ton.
Women not only kept the house organized, garden weeded , laundry done and cared for children during this weather dictated season; but they also served as fuel organizers, auger haulers, parts repair retrievers; and sometimes some became combine operators, grain haulers, and swather operators. This was the only time in rural Canada when male and female roles seem to merge--although it was the rare male that harvested AND organized the Meal in the Field.
The Meal in the Field was a culinary art form that goes back as far as the beginning of agriculture itself. The Ploughman's Lunch could perhaps be considered the first Meal in the Field. Some of the more energetic Meal makers would pack hot saucepans full of new potatoes, with pork chops or hamburgers in foil, along with another pot full of fresh vegetables gleaned from the garden. Dishes and pots were packed in cardboard boxes and newspapers for insulation , along with condiments and fresh bread/buns. I have even heard of ice cream in coolers to compliment the warm apple pie or rhubarb crisp. All this would be loaded into the backseat and trunk of the car, along with kids and dogs , and driven across and around fields (avoiding the swaths and potential oil pan damaging rocks) to the waiting stomachs of harvesters who perhaps hadn't seen the inside of a building for eight hours or more.
There is nothing quite like the smell of barely dust and hot potatoes, along with combine grease, complimented by the sound of the burring of grasshoppers to complete the portrait of dusty truck drivers and even dustier (pre cabs and air conditioning) combine operators sitting in the stubble with coffee thermos close at hand as they partake of perhaps their only hot meal since dawn and perhaps their last, if the wind stays up and the straw stays dry, until dawn returns the next morning.
I am not sure if those days really still exist. I somehow doubt it as machinery is bigger, people work off the farm so much more, convenience foods abound; along with the likelihood that the actual owner of the field is doing the harvesting is lower now as people often opt for custom combiners to do the harvest work.
I loved those days and love the memory of them. I guess running around barefoot in the stubble with a piece of chocolate cake in hand is not something one forgets easily.
This is truly my favourite time of year. I am not sure quite why this is so. Perhaps it is because for so many years autumn meant the excitement of harvest .
Harvest.
The time when Everyone counted on the farm. Everyone had a job. Everyone was focused on the same goal. Everyone was on the same team.
If you were part of the younger set ( 12 and under) you were probably employed as an official 'gopher'--go for the hammer, go for the water jug, go for the grease gun, go for the oil can, and if your legs are long enough, go for the half ton.
Women not only kept the house organized, garden weeded , laundry done and cared for children during this weather dictated season; but they also served as fuel organizers, auger haulers, parts repair retrievers; and sometimes some became combine operators, grain haulers, and swather operators. This was the only time in rural Canada when male and female roles seem to merge--although it was the rare male that harvested AND organized the Meal in the Field.
The Meal in the Field was a culinary art form that goes back as far as the beginning of agriculture itself. The Ploughman's Lunch could perhaps be considered the first Meal in the Field. Some of the more energetic Meal makers would pack hot saucepans full of new potatoes, with pork chops or hamburgers in foil, along with another pot full of fresh vegetables gleaned from the garden. Dishes and pots were packed in cardboard boxes and newspapers for insulation , along with condiments and fresh bread/buns. I have even heard of ice cream in coolers to compliment the warm apple pie or rhubarb crisp. All this would be loaded into the backseat and trunk of the car, along with kids and dogs , and driven across and around fields (avoiding the swaths and potential oil pan damaging rocks) to the waiting stomachs of harvesters who perhaps hadn't seen the inside of a building for eight hours or more.
There is nothing quite like the smell of barely dust and hot potatoes, along with combine grease, complimented by the sound of the burring of grasshoppers to complete the portrait of dusty truck drivers and even dustier (pre cabs and air conditioning) combine operators sitting in the stubble with coffee thermos close at hand as they partake of perhaps their only hot meal since dawn and perhaps their last, if the wind stays up and the straw stays dry, until dawn returns the next morning.
I loved those days and love the memory of them. I guess running around barefoot in the stubble with a piece of chocolate cake in hand is not something one forgets easily.
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