Trudeau Bin

This is what was once called a Trudeau Bin and I helped my dad build several of them 

circa 1968. 

Big yields combined with no quota resulted in a glut of grain on the prairies 

and therefore many farmers were searching for a storage solution for all the grain that c

could not be sold.

 Pierre Trudeau was the Prime Minister at the time...so Trudeau Bin was aptly named as was the

 Bennet Buggy in the 1930's. 

Bennet Buggies were cars that were drawn by horses because of the lack of money to buy

gas. R.B. Bennet was the then Prime Minister.

September in Saskatchewan

Dots of moisture make polka dot splashes on quiet combines.
Thermoses half filled with coffee lay cold on the seats of stilled grain trucks. Dusty jackets smelling of barley and diesel tossed on the back entrance beside the boots that have carried in the evidence of one more round before it got tough. Farmers gathering in a warm and dry cafe warily watching and listening for the quietness of bright sunshine so they may again hear the whirring and rustle of harvest .

September in Saskatchewan

Ready to Eat!

Yes it is harvest time on the prairies !

 These are the times when lights traveling across the field in long angled trails, sometimes twirling, sometimes seeming to magically   multiply as combines, tractors, and trucks join together only to part again and continue on to  travel on imaginary highways avoiding sloughs and rocks, while  momentarily disappearing behind softly rising hills and dips on the prairie landscape.

These are the days when tomato sandwiches and mayonnaise taste the best.  Purple plums eaten with hands that have handled the hose of diesel fuel, messed with greasy pulleys,  and  probably swept out at least one mouse nest  from the grain truck have a flavour and savouriness not found anywhere else on the planet. 

Yes, harvest meals are truly a unique experience and  are  almost  a welcome challenge to the meal makers as they prepare, pack, and transport meals to the harvest field.  Pots full of mashed potatoes, roasters of fried chicken, casseroles of hot buttered corn, along with a fresh pie or two are only a small example of the nutritious fare travelled out to the back forty; packed in newspapers in cardboard boxes, along with 'real' dishes and metal utensils...all in accordance with  that  heretofore little known by urbanites harvest meal law  that  somewhere on some grain box is sketched out in a combination of axle grease and barely dust:

  Items such as cold Cheese Whiz sandwiches on white bread, canned fruit, and bags of potato chips are NEVER EVER to be disguised as a meal for a Harvesting Prairie Farmer.

 Alas,there was once a time when I, as a mother of two preschoolers, married to a then farmer who was 'out combining in his field'  mistakenly and yes ,  brazenly, thought that this above previously unproven agriculturally based law could be broken.

I thought of this because I was tired, busy, and wanted to cut corners...soooooo...I went to the nearby rural general store and purchased some bottles of Coke, a bag of Doritos,  a few chocolate bars, and some garlic sausage and proceeded to travel fifteen miles out to the field, with the children strapped in their seats, over gravel and dirt  roads  until I finally reached the approach closest to where the combine and  more importantly my combiner was busily traveling around and around on the field.

  I remember distinctly that it was an almost festive time.  The children played in the dusty stubble as my husband sat in the car eating Doritos and hunks of sausage listening to the sound of grasshoppers and children laughing. All too soon it was time to pack up paper and wrappers when alas, alas, alas, as I picked up the plastic label that had once protected the garlic sausage I saw these words:

This is a RAW meat product.  Do not consume until it is fully cooked.

The  truth of  the Harvest Law of  the Meal had made itself evident.

For the last 30 years I have always always checked for this sign whenever I purchase over the counter meat products.

Harvest #1

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.