Driving through southern Indiana recently, I saw what appeared to be a twilight fog bank drifting over Indiana 67. However, the gray haze proved to be a cloud of dust from a combine harvesting soybeans, a cloud so thick that it obscured the machine’s shadowy hulk.
The scene reminded me of threshing wheat on our East Tennessee farm back in the 1950s. My father owned a threshing machine—a belt-driven dinosaur of galvanized sheet metal that chewed up bundles of wheat, extracted the grain, and blew straw out a chute on its backside. Few farmers in the area had such a contraption, so they came to our place and volunteered to help harvest our crop in return for use of the machine in the weeks that followed. So, June and July were a round-robin of threshing days as my father’s monstrous Allis-Chalmers tractor towed the machine from one barn to another.
The crew of a dozen or so volunteers needed lunch when we threshed our own crop, so Mother rose to the challenge. She seated those sunburnt men around our maple dining table to feast on fried chicken, gravy and dumplings, green beans and corn, cornbread and buttermilk. Laughter filled the farmhouse as they traded tales of harvests past. I believe the satisfied smile on Mother’s perspiring face was more radiant than any other, and my father was relieved to know they would keep our wheat safe from autumn storms.
Not every harvest turned out that way, of course. Thunderstorms could bring gales of wind and torrents of rain that mashed our wheat to the ground, where the grain rotted. In such a year, we tried to offset the loss by selling straw to building contractors, who scattered it on lawns. That was a pitiful return on our investment, but we managed to get by.
Self-propelled combines took the place of threshing machines in the 1960s and 70s. They were faster, more efficient, and took less labor to operate, so Dad bought one and parked his threshing machine beneath the barn’s shed. There it was destroyed along with the tractor and baler when the barn caught fire some thirty years ago.
Call me sentimental, but I think we lost more than a metal dinosaur when that threshing machine melted into a pile of scrap. Like an Amish barn-raising, wheat threshing time was one of the few events that knit our community together.