Harvest Season Kate Szambecki
I sat for the sixth consecutive hour, fingers drumming on the too-big, perfectly round steering wheel along to the music. This was the first year that my tractor was equipped with an auxiliary cord. Still no air conditioning, but I could listen to something other than staticy country music. It made all the difference. My job each year is simple: wait for the crackle of my built-in walkie-talkie to scare the shit out of me. Listen for the faint voice of Kevin or Jerry or hopefully, McKee. Start the tractor, an earthquake. Lurch forward until I find my groove, creeping forward down my road, the stretches of already-cut wheat. Carefully pull up alongside the combine of choice. Watch the golden brown grain fly into my cart. Creep back, a couple of tons heavier. Fill up a grain truck. If needed, drive the grain truck into town and empty it at the co-op. Do this from 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. or later. Repeat for two straight weeks, or until all the wheat is harvested. Go home. And so I drummed my finger and waited, one eye on the darkening northern sky. Menacing, quiet, the cloud stretched over almost half the sky it seemed. The farmhouse had buzzed that morning with talk of rain, the farmer’s nemesis in harvest season. Rain meant no more cutting for the rest of that day, maybe even the next. During harvests with several consecutive days of rain, wheat often rotted or became too dark, cookies in the oven a touch too long. But these cookies could cost a farmer their livelihood. I hoped today’s rain would be brief. If I was a better farmhand, I would have hoped that it would miss us completely. But I always selfishly, secretly prayed for a thunderstorm. Besides a break in the monotony, the farm sky was naked, beauty and chaos on display. And it seemed my silent prayer would be answered—the cloud threatened to envelop any lasting blue. It took a moment to realize that the combines were inching back towards me. I unplugged my phone and heaved the tractor door open to stand outside. The air was cool and quiet. I leaned back and breathed deeply. A small, quick drop kissed my forehead. And the sky cracked open. The rain washed down my body, running its fingers through my hair, pushing my shoulders as I stumbled down the tractor steps and my sneakers squelched into mud. My shirt was soaked through inseconds. Kevin was here and running, yelling over the roar for us to tarp the grain trucks. I ran, seemingly in slow motion, but they had already finished by the time I got there. “Take this truck; get back to the farm. Be careful,” Kevin yelled, already running off to the next task. I careened into the truck cab and desperately rolled up the windows, rain pummeling through them. When I finally straightened up to go, I couldn’t see anything. All there was was rain and the faint outlines of a road. I gripped the steering wheel and slowly began moving forward. The ride to the farmhouse was a blur. Wide-eyed and rigid, I squinted at the gray windshield and prayed I stay on the road. I should have been more scared. Maybe I was. But what I remember is the awe. I remember stepping out onto the squishy grass at the farmhouse and locking eyes with McKee and running. I remember the shrieking, giggling as the thunder orchestrated our dance. I remember all the water on the linoleum floor and the hot shower, the card games and beer all afternoon. I remember the chaos, the interruption, and I remember the calm of tired farmers, secretly grateful for their day off, but hopeful that we would be as we were tomorrow.
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