By Marian Brennen Pratt
The author of this article is a world traveler, writer, and speaker. He tells us that he grew up in rural Michigan. On page 25 of the recently published book “Emmett Township” you can find a picture of the building where he learned to interact with people and on page 28 there is a picture of his dad and the employees who operated “Fred Weir and Son Farm Implements.” So, as we see Robert (Bob) Weir is not only rural, he’s actually from Emmett. This is an article he sent to me and it reminded me of life in Emmett.
~M. Pratt
Oklahoma’s wheat fields were being harvested by great self-propelled combines, one to four per field. The colors of the grain stalks ranged from brilliant orange-gold to pale yellow, a hue l associate with angel grace. Fields of growing corn, with ear-less stalks, provided deep green accent as did occasional splashes of clover with its muted red blossoms. The fields were huge, a mile square, and most of the crops were planted in circles to accommodate the arc of expansive, revolving, above ground irrigation systems.
At one field along a “blue highway,” I stopped to take photographs of three combines–a gray Gleaner and two red Case-International Harvesters–and a grain wagon pulled by a green John Deere tractor. The Gleaner turned toward me, harvesting small swatches of grain left standing when the behemoths turned the corners a little too sharply. It came beyond the last small swatch, directly toward me, then stopped about 80 feet away.
The man in the cab beckoned, so I ran toward him, climbed the five ladder rungs to the cab platform, and climbed in. It was cool inside, air-conditioned. The man was Ralph, probably in his 60s, as am I. He’s a retired commercial crop duster pilot who now runs an insurance agency. He owns two combines (: with this one. He) and was helping (a) friends harvest; the other combine was in use on another farm 20 miles away. These are family farms, not corporate entities, Ralph explained, bouncing comfortably in a well cushioned, spring-supported seat. His grandson, at age
11, was driving the John Deere tractor with the grain wagon.
Ralph reached for the CB radio microphone in the cab and called the lad, asking him to pull alongside. The two drivers matched ground speed, just like in the documentary films, and passed hundreds of bushels of golden grain from the combine to the wagon — on the roll.
On page 30 of the book “Emmett Township”, you can see what Ralph in Oklahoma calls a grain wagon. The Peters family In Michigan calls it a grain “cart” – virtually the same piece of machinery only called by another name.
This generated memories. Not that I harvested as a boy, but my father sold farm machinery in rural Michigan where fields were much smaller, combines were pulled by tractors without cabs, and farmer’s skin became reddened and dirty with dust, sunlight, and sweat. Our family business was part of the agricultural infrastructure, and I, at a young age, learned over-the-counter service/sales, finding the parts farmers needed to repair their machines and return to their harvests.
Ralph made one rounder, then the work here was done, the last grains harvested. He dropped me off where he had picked me up. I thanked him and marveled at the opportunities that come our way when we slow down, stop to show an interest in someone else’s endeavors, and make ourselves receptive to opportunities.
