One of the prettiest sights I can imagine is the rows of beans and corn spreading across the acres of lush farmland. The heartland. The nation's breadbasket. Home sweet home. Even though I love the lakes, the mountains, the coast, I consider myself lucky to have come from the rich black dirt of northwest Iowa. My dad asked me if I remember when he used to pull me and my sister, Jan, in a little red wagon tied with a rope behind the tractor as he cultivated the fields. I absolutely have no memory of this, my explanation is that I must have had a head injury from bouncing around in the wagon! Or maybe the head injury was incurred during all those years before seat belts existed! Or when we rigged up a trapeze with a metal pipe and baling twine in the haymow, until it collapsed with a direct hit on the head? Or when we dug tunnels into the snowpiles, ready to cave in when the temperature warmed? It's a miracle any of us survived!
2 comments:
Ah-h-h-h. Good memories! I remember riding in the oat seeder wagon, and we had to keep scooping oats into the seeder-thing. Remember that?
Yes, I believe that would be called the hopper. The hard part was reaching over the back side to flip the lever that controlled the flow of the oats, which had to be turned off/on at the end of each row during the turn. And paying attention so the hopper didn't run out of oats! 'Cause that did not make the tractor driver happy!
Post a Comment