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Harvest of the Storm
Copyright © 2011 Jim Northum
ISBN: 978-1-55487-885-7
Cover art by Martine Jardin
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Harvest of the Storm
By
Jim Northum
Dedication
From the vast, lonely sweep of Wyoming and Montana cattle ranches, the intense produce fields of California, the small fruit orchards in the Northeast, the heat of the Southern woodlands, the horizon to horizon wheat fields of Kansas to the hot humid river bottom farms, a cadre of American women have answered the call to preserve a cherished way of life. Often with little support, while facing hostile attitudes from all sides, at times even from their families, these women have soldiered on maintain and nurture a treasured aspect of American life.
One of these women, Connie Waters Boyster (daughter of Cornelius and Peggy Waters) of Newport, Arkansas was the inspiration for this work. One brief afternoon spent with this lady while inspecting a Conservation Reserve Planting, gave me an insight into the love she has for her family farm and a tiny bit of the sacrifices she made to keep it together and operating as a farm should.
Ladies, you are vital part of the fabric that made this country great and will keep it great. Hold your heads up high, you deserve all the praise sent you way.
Carry On!
Chapter One
Beth Jackson, MB to her friends, sat at the controls of the lead combine, harvesting a bumper crop of rice. This wasn't an idyllic golden days of autumn harvest. No, today was a desperate race against an approaching storm. Let's see now, we have five combines harvesting about two hundred feet per pass. If this storm holds off about three hours, we should just beat it. Everything, combines, grain trailers, grain trucks and the fuel truck, are in place and operating at peak speed.
The harvest was a ballet of smoothly running machines operated by skilled drivers. When a combine hopper neared capacity, the operator would radio for a grain trailer to pull alongside to take the grain without stopping. A full trailer made a beeline to waiting trucks. MB watched the entire operation as much as she could and still operate her combine. It will be close, but I think we can pull this off. If we get bogged down unloading trucks back at headquarters, we can cover the last grain trailer loads with tarps if we have to. These clouds are really building up fast and the wind is picking up. We'll be okay.
Her mind slipped pleasantly down memory lane as the powerful diesel engine propelled the machine across the thousand-acre field. This very field had been the start of her love for the bottomland farm that had been in her family for three generations before her. As a kid, she had helped clear this field by picking up sticks and roots. In the old days, literally miles of levees wound in close serpentine patterns over the field to hold the flood for the rice crop--picturesque, but not very efficient. The field was now divided into only two sections by levees. She had battled her dad long and hard to undertake an expensive land leveling process, but she prevailed and he finally agreed it was a good move.
Modern farming on a large scale was an intense pressure cooker. There was very little leisure time just to goof off. Something was always demanding attention--machinery broke down, workers quit at the most inopportune time, the weather didn't cooperate, the market soured or any of a thousand other things could happen.
This was her world and she thrived in it. She developed a web of professional consultants and technical advisors that covered everything but the weather. Though she never attended college, she knew all the people to call concerning any aspect of modern agriculture. With speed dial, she could have an expert on the phone within minutes and have said expert on the ground within a few hours. In many ways, this was better than trying to know and keep up with rapidly changing technology and techniques herself. She wasn't afraid to experiment with new crop varieties, pest management strategies or new machinery. She had installed one of the first tail-water recovery systems in the state to catch and reuse surface runoff instead of deep well pumps to irrigate crops. She implemented practical mechanization to reduce needed workers and speed operations.
She was jolted out of her reminiscing as the combine lurched and ground to a halt at a crazy tilt with one end of the cutter head jammed into the soft ground. The next combine steered around her and back onto its line, the other three did the same. The approaching storm demanded that machines didn't stop except for fuel or a breakdown. What the heck! I know this field like the back of my hand and there are no holes anywhere in it. She shut down and climbed out of the cab. One drive wheel was buried in a hog wallow. That wallow must be three feet deep! Was that hog trying to dig to China? I'm getting tired of the trouble and damage these hogs are causing. She crawled under the combine to access the damage. A frame member had snapped under the sudden strain. The cutter head seemed to be okay. Just what I need right now. I can't afford to lose this machine for long. When this storm hits, we need to have all this rice in the bin. High winds and heavy rain will flatten everything. Just a little more time, just a little more time. It seems that has been the theme lately. Always something bad happening, all the time!
She called the farm shop to send a tractor and the service truck. As she waited for the repair truck, she hit the speed dial for the County Extension Agent.
"Stan, MB here. Do you know any good hog hunters? I want the best, someone who will know what he is doing and will do the job right. Most of the guys around here just want to have a good time and are not too concerned about controlling hog populations." She wrote the number in the dust on the combine and then called it.
The service truck and tractor arrived. She donned a pair of coveralls and dragged jacks and a come-along under the combine. It was a struggle to get the broken frame member back into alignment for welding. Glad this is the last harvest for this machine. I don't want to have to depend on it any more than necessary. "Let's just weld fillets on each side of the frame to strengthen it and go with it." When she crawled from under the machine, she was covered in mud, had rice straw in her hair and was soaked in muddy water. This is so frustrating. The best harvest in years and we're going to lose part it because of a stupid hog. As she climbed back into the cab, she took a quick look around.
To her amazement, there were now three blue New Holland combines and six more grain trailers in the field. Her neighbor had risked fines by running his machinery down the state highway to come to her aid. When I get back into line, we'll have eight combines operating. That is about three hundred twenty feet per pass. We're going to beat this storm yet.
The green and blue machines continued to harvest rice at an astounding rate. Every time they passed a point, over one hundred yards of harvested field lay behind. The rising wind caused swirls and ripples in the ripe grain. Any other time the effect would have been pretty, but pretty didn't come to mind right now. Increasing humidity required the combines slow down to properly clean the grain. Looking across the fields into the distance, Beth could see curtains of heavy rain falling. This is going to be too close for comfort! Luckily as the last trailer was covered, the storm struck with gusting wind and torrential rain. Drained, Beth leaned forward and rested her head on the steering wheel. Thank the Lord for good neighbors. I'll service his equipment and invite him and his crew to our post-harvest cookout. Small price to pay for such help.
Chapter Two
Beth was in the welding bay of the farm shop fabricating the frame for a new grain trailer. Welding was a job she enjoyed, seeing something useful come together out of various pieces of steel gave her a sense of accomplishment as well as saving the farm a bunch of money. Her dad and granddad had been notorious for keeping all sorts of scrap iron and steel so she had a huge pile of raw material from which to choose.
A deep, soft voice rattled her composure. "Pardon me. I'm looking for MB Jackson. Can you tell me where to find him?" She flipped up the visor of the welding helmet as she turned. Holy Cow, what a man she thought as she took in the sight of the tall, broad shouldered male standing before her. Dressed in faded jeans, an ancient flannel shirt and work worn boots, the man seemed to own the space he occupied. Slight touches of gray in his otherwise dark hair, frosted his temples. Removing the helmet and shaking her hair down she said, "You've found MB Jackson. How may I help you?"
If the man was the least bit surprised, he didn't show it. "I'm Max Dugan. You contacted my office last week about some hog problems. Sorry it took so long to get here, but I was in Florida finishing a job." The man's voice was as smooth as velvet, yet as powerful as an electric current. A tingling sensation ran over her as he watched her.
* * * *
His first impression was of a reasonably attractive late forties to early fifties woman dressed in worn, dirty work clothes, wearing a welding helmet and heavy leather gloves. Gray sprinkled her brown hair, right now stringy with sweat. Warm smile and nice eyes, has a confident air about her without being arrogant about it. Hard to tell just what she looks like. Get to that later, maybe.
* * * *
"I wasn't expecting you this quickly," she said, peeling off the gloves and extending her hand. The firm handshake made her skin tingle and a quick spike of warm nerves shot through her. Get a grip, girl.
"What are you welding? Looks like some type of trailer."
"I'm making a new grain trailer. Dad and Granddad kept all sorts of steel and iron. You saw the pile outside. Believe it or not, there is an old John Deere tractor under that pile of stuff. One of these days, I'm going to dig it out, restore it, and add it to my museum. Guess I inherited the packrat gene. I scrounged a bunch of mobile home axles that I think will make good grain trailers. The bearings should be good and I don't need the springs. Save some money and recycle some good steel at the same time."
"If I may ask, what is this about a museum? I enjoy looking at old equipment. Some of that old stuff was over-engineered to the max where it was built to last and last. If machinery was built that way today, it would be prohibitively expensive."
"Years ago I found the first John Deere tractor Granddad bought right before the Depression. That Model D was his all-time favorite. Though he used just about every model John Deere made, he always said it was the best tractor ever built. The one under the scrap iron pile, the last tractor he bought, is a Model R, John Deere's first diesel. He bought it in ninety forty-nine for the princely sum of five thousand dollars and thought it was second best to the D, though it was much more powerful and faster. It just about broke his heart when the John Deere line was redesigned and went to four and six cylinder engines instead of the two-cylinder Popping Johnny. Said it would be the end of John Deere. He didn't think they could compete with International and Case. In reality, if they hadn't redesigned, John Deere would have faded away as Granddad's generation passed away. That old Model D was the start of my restoration projects. I guess you could say this is my one and only hobby. I'll be glad to give you a guided tour if you wish."
* * * *
Max jumped at the chance and spent the next two hours browsing through a step back in time. "This is not a museum, but a restoration." Every tractor, plow, and combine was properly painted in sparkling green and yellow…spotlessly clean with correct decals, model numbers, seats and instrumentation. In addition, each had the purchase date and invoice price. "This is fantastic, a time line of John Deere equipment."
"I try to keep everything proper and every tractor and motor runs as it should. As a matter of fact, I use the old equipment one day each season just as a nod to the old days. Lots of people show up when the old stuff rolls out. Then we have to spend a few days cleaning and repainting. Glad we have the equipment we now have since we can do so much more with fewer machines and operators. One of my big diesel rigs can cover more ground in an hour than that old Model D could in an entire day. Of course, five thousand dollars will barely buy a decent lawn tractor now!"
They continued to talk as he inspected the welding back in the welding bay. "You have a nice touch. I've never seen better welding than this. I might be willing to take some of the springs off your hands, if you don't need them."
"Take all you can use. What would you do with them?"
"I forge knives from spring steel. Makes excellent blades, will take a fine edge and hold it for a long time. I usually try to have enough on hand for butchering hogs, leave them with local men when I leave as a sort of parting gift for a job well done. I also forge a few nice knives just to be doing."
Max continued, "Tell me a little about your hog problem. This is a little far north to have a real problem, yet. Further south, they are a real pest. The job I was on in Florida is typical. Three years ago, the area had only a few hogs. I trapped and caught one hundred thirty five in the last month. Between the alligators and me, we cleaned that area out. Of course, they will filter back into the area. I trained a young fellow while I was there. Smart kid, he can have a good business if he acts right."