“….the sun goes down in blood and pollen across
the bronzed and mown fields of old October.”

—Thomas Wolfe, “Of Time and the River”
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It’s fall again. The leaves are turning late this year. The first frost just fell this week, they will be fading soon. And another season of harvest will soon be past.

Every year at this time I think back, to the days of autumn on the farm. It was the only world we knew. We couldn’t have imagined any other.

September nights began to chill down from the summer heat. The rolling fields of corn, row upon row of whispering green stalks, faded slowly to a greenish brown. Around the community then we heard the high dull whine of the silage choppers, set up beside the great concrete silos. Neighbors gathered and helped each other, teams and wagons plodding to the fields, returning laden with long heavy bundles of corn stalks, flowing over the sides and dragging on the ground. Up the wagons crept beside the silage chopper, a hungry machine with a wide cradled feeder chain and sharp wicked blades. Powered by a tractor and pulleys and a large flat belt.

The corn bundles were thrown into the ravenous chopper and shredded to bits and propelled up the long pipes into the silo until it was bulging to the brim. The air reeked with the wet pungent odor of fresh chopped corn stalks.

And every year Mom warned the children with terrifying tales of the awful things that could happen if one didn’t respect the chopper and got too close. The classic tale of the little four year old boy from somewhere, sometime, who disappeared one fall without a trace. Right at silo-filling time, of course. Nothing was ever seen of him again until the next winter when they were throwing silage down to feed the cows. They found his chopped up remains, in tiny bits, mixed in with the silage. He had wandered too close and fallen in when they were filling the silo and the chopper had devoured him. We listened, wide eyed and appalled. I don’t know if the story was actually true. It seems the stuff of myth.

Nights shifted then, from increasing chill to downright cold as October came. The first frosts, the world white as snow until the sun came up and warmed the earth. The grass in the yard a sea of tens of thousands of tiny white spears, shimmering in the sun. The fields of green turned a dull dead brown, and it was corn husking time.

In Aylmer they husked the corn by hand in those days. They still do, as far as I know. The memory of the method survives only among a diminishing group of hoary old-timers and those who live or have lived in Amish settlements where it’s still done today.

After breakfast, around daybreak, my older brothers hitched their teams to the flatbed box wagons and headed to the fields. One side of each wagon had a higher wall, a backboard. As they husked, they threw each ear of corn against the backboard. Eventually a large lopsided pile of yellow ears accumulated on the wagon bed.

They started at the end of the field, wading into the crackling brittle stalks and leaves, still wet with frost, harvesting one row on each pass. They wore tough white cloth gloves and a husking hook with leather straps on one hand. And down the row they went, in simple rhythm, husking, throwing, husking, throwing, the bright yellow ears plopping onto the pile or plunking against the backboard, the horses moving ahead the length of the wagon, then stopping on their own in direct proportion to the husker’s speed and skill.

The morning passed and at noon they headed to the barn and unloaded the corn, shoveling it onto a creaking clattering elevator that hoisted the ears and dropped them into long narrow corn cribs made of wooden slats and wire. They then fed and watered the horses and ate the noon meal and grabbed a quick nap. Then right back to the fields again, husking until it was too dark to see. Then unloaded again by hand and finished the chores by lantern light. Those were long, hard days.

On a good day, a man could harvest about an acre of corn. And wear out a new pair of tough white cloth gloves. And that’s the way it was done.

We went out too, and helped the best we could, after school and after chores. And on Saturdays. We probably got in the way more than we helped, but it was fun, not work and we wouldn’t have missed it.

In 1975, I graduated from the eighth grade at age thirteen. That fall, when I was fourteen, was my first and only season of husking corn by hand. My brothers, Stephen and Titus and I ventured to the fields with teams and wagons, day after day for weeks. My life revolved around the twist and motion of husking and throwing ears of corn.

Usually I, as the youngest, tagged along with one of my brothers and took the row closest to the wagon. Although work was paramount, we had fun as well, laughing and chatting as we plugged away, wagon length by wagon length, across the field. Reaching the end and turning right back the other direction. And slowly, so slowly, the rows of corn diminished, almost imperceptibly at first, then more rapidly as we closed in to the finish.

Stephen always stashed his single shot 12-gauge somewhere on the wagon, wrapped in a coat, just in case the odd pheasant or duck ventured too close. Once in a great while one did, and we proudly carried the wild game home to be plucked and butchered.

I remember those days, when the labor of harvest was stripped to the barest elements of man and sweat. The biting northwest winds, the cloud-swept skies, the forest of brown corn stalks in the spongy semi-firm fields. The geese and ducks migrating south in gigantic Vs, sprawling sideways in the wind, their wild harsh cries now clear and close, now faint and far.

And I heard and saw them, sweeping along in great rafts, disappearing into the southern skies. I breathed deep the frigid air, a nameless longing always stirred inside, an undefined yearning for something out there in the vast beyond. Something I knew I would one day seek.

We were young and strong and solid like rocks, our muscles hardened by the endless hours of unceasing labor. At the end of each day after the sun had set, we headed in the pitch black darkness or under the light of the harvest moon to the corn cribs to unload, exhausted to the bone. Wrapped up the chores and fed the horses and stumbled to the house, ravenous. There we wolfed our food (eating way too fast, as always) and fell into our beds, too tired to even read. Got up before daybreak the next morning to do it all again.

I can’t remember any time in my forty-seven years that I slept better than I did that fall.

And the days and weeks passed, we slogged on and on, and suddenly one day it was done. The last ear from the last row in the last field. A feeling of great satisfaction and accomplishment swept over us, we whooped and hollered like little children. But there was little time for extended celebration.

The corn harvest was over. And plowing season had begun.

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Congratulations to the steely-eyed young Tampa Rays for regrouping and defeating the arrogant Red Sox in seven. I didn’t think they had it in them after their historic collapse in game five. Now if they can only take out the Phillies, which seems quite possible after winning one of the first two games.

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays have been around for about ten years, one of the youngest teams in the league. They were awful up until this year, usually finishing dead last. Then this year, they dropped the “Devil” from their name and promptly shot from worst to first. And the World Series. No worst-to-first team in any professional sport has ever won the championship. Ever.

Maybe it’s just me, but one would think there’s a fine stirring sermon in there some-where for some enterprising young preacher. If you happen to be that preacher, don’t worry about crediting me for the idea. Public service I’m happy to provide.

A great gathering of Waglers and Yutzys assembled from all points of the country this weekend in Hutchinson, KS for the wedding of my nephew, Titus Aden Yutzy and Sherilyn Kay Kuepfer. I couldn’t make the long trip. Besides, I was just out there in July. But of course I do wish the young couple all the best and a long and fruitful marriage.

Titus and Sheri Yutzy (as of Oct. 25, 2008)

On Monday, my father’s older brother, Noah Wagler of Daviess County, IN passed on to his reward. He was 94 years old. His funeral was yesterday. Of my father’s family, only three now remain. Dad, his older brother Abner of Aylmer, and his younger sister Rachel (Mrs. Homer) Graber of Kalona, IA.

This week I chatted with a friend from out of state. He called and mentioned that he’d read my last two blogs and was concerned. I’ve been a bit moody and uptight lately, he thought. I should try to cheer up a bit.

I couldn’t imagine where he got such a notion. Me moody? Uptight? Nah. Not so you’d notice. Except when I write, maybe.

He had a suggestion. “Go get yourself a really prime, well-baked pie,” he said. “Sit down, eat it and enjoy it. Savor every bite. Then write about how good it tasted.”

I couldn’t argue with his solution. Pie is always good, for any situation. I just don’t eat much of it since losing all that weight three years ago.

“Excellent thought,” I allowed cautiously. “Certainly worth serious consideration. One small problem. I don’t bake. Where am I gonna get the pie?”

Any volunteers out there? My favorites are cherry and raisin cream.

“Where will it end? How low do you have to
stoop in this country to be President?”

—Hunter S. Thompson
___________________________________

It’s down now to the last few weeks. The air froths with tension. The crescendo of blather, the simpering insipid press, blah, blah, blah, on and on it goes. The endless cycle of this daily poll and that daily poll, an incessant cyclone of noise and thunder.

I know how a lot of you are feeling. As the Presidential election looms, now just days away. So much at stake, and so many seem to sleep.

You know who you are. The ones with the sweaty palms, the palpitating heartbeats, shortness of breath, cold night sweats. The ones who hyperventilate at the thought their candidate might not win. That he probably won’t. The ones who can’t imagine the country in the hands of the enemies of all they hold dear.

I know who you are, too. I can sympathize. I used to be one of you. I was right in there with you during the last two Presidential campaigns. AlGore drove me bonkers. I still can’t stand to see him or listen to his deranged rantings about global warming. The pompous gasbag prophet. The haughty John Kerry and his equally haughty wife Teresa stirred their own apocalyptic visions in my head.

All the strain and stress of worrying and fretting about politics. It’s enough to unhinge sound minds and turn the strongest heart to quivering jelly.

And I wonder why we do it. Why we allow ourselves to become so wrapped up, so obsessed with the outcome of a political process.

Deep down, do we consider it our salvation? Not of our souls, but of our “heaven on earth?” If we do, we should know better. Politics is a vile and dishonorable profession; it poisons all it touches. Including you, if you drink too deeply of its tainted dregs.

All the characters running for office are deeply flawed. Corrupted by their years in office or by the process itself. They will promise anything they think we want to hear, but after they are elected, we are forgotten. As are their promises.

So I’m not doing it. Not this time. The strain and stress and hyperventilation, I mean. And it’s not about voting or not voting, or who you’re voting for. Do what you want. Vote pragmatically or vote your conscience. I’ll do the same. I won’t think less of you. You may think of me however you wish.

It’s about keeping perspective. And sanity.

I don’t know who will win. You don’t either. A few weeks ago it seemed like McCain. Lately, Obama has momentum, if the sycophant press can be believed. Somehow, I remain highly skeptical of the breathless media reports that it’s all over. Methinks they protest too much; they are “whistling past the graveyard,” hoping that because they say so will make it so. We’re still two-plus weeks out. We won’t know who won until November 4th comes and goes.

I’m going out on a limb here. I still think it will be McCain and Palin. The polls will tighten in the last week, when even the blatantly biased pollsters will want to get it right. Because of the Bradley effect, if Obama doesn’t go into election day with a substantial (5% to 7%) lead, he will lose.

If that happens, there will be riots in the cities. Especially if it’s too close to call and goes to the courts again like it did in 2000. If that happens, heaven help us all.

But I don’t know. It’s just my opinion. I’m not a prophet.

I’m irritated at the slobbering, slithering press and its blatant backing of Obama. They make no bones about it. Maybe they’ll get their wish. If so, he’ll bite the hands that fed him soon enough.

I’m irritated at a lot of other things too.

At McCain and his incoherent ramblings. Probably the most incompetent campaigner in the history of Presidential politics. The man said a few weeks ago that he’d consult AlGore on global warming. At his big government solutions to all things that ail the country. And probably most of all, for his co-sponsorship of the despicable McCain-Feingold Act and the suppression of free political speech. It’s just abominable. For that vile betrayal alone, the man does not deserve to be President. Period.

I’m irritated at Obama too, mostly for being a vacuous empty suit with a messianic complex, who spouts vacant socialistic platitudes about “change.” And that anyone who opposes him is instantly pegged as racist by the unhinged left. He can say nothing better than anyone I’ve ever heard. Not that I listen to him much. I’m sure the man is not the demon he’s portrayed to be. Yes, he’s a leftist, and yes, he’s a liberal, but if elected, his policies will not automatically become law. Any country that survived eight years of the degenerate Clinton can take on about anything. I do believe an Obama administration would be even more corrupt than Clinton’s was.

I still naturally react viscerally against all things liberal, the socialism, the base class envy at the core of all the Democrats believe and do. I have few illusions. Obama and Pelosi and Reid will drive our country straight over the cliff. Into oblivion. About five miles per hour faster than McCain would.

The Republicans had all the opportunities in the world to change things. Back when they owned the Presidency and both houses of Congress. That was their chance. Instead of seizing it, they dramatically expanded government, and spent money like drunken bums. Which they are.

The truth is that Bush has decimated the Constitution far worse than Clinton could ever have dreamed of doing. And far worse than either AlGore or Kerry would have done, had they been President. I’ve heard it said years ago that a Republican President will do more damage to the country than a Democrat, simply because those who should be on guard, the conservative base, always have their guards down and don’t protest as they should. I believe this is true.

With the recent bailout, federal powers have increased dramatically as the government seized control of practically every aspect of banking and finance. What government takes with its heavy hand, it does not easily relinquish. The market showed its confi-dence in the takeover by blasting up over 900 points on Monday, only to drop more than 700 points two days later. Dropped again today.

We are still in for a long dry slog through the desert. The piper will be paid.

More ominously, since Oct. 1, for the first time, we now have a brigade of troops stationed in our own country to respond to natural disasters and DOMESTIC CIVIL UNREST. In direct violation of Posse Comitatus [military personnel may not be directly involved in law enforcement]. The separation has been in effect since 1878. But Bush broke down the wall, and now they’re here. Heaven only knows what dark storms they portend. Before it’s over, the blood of American citizens will be flowing in the streets.

That’s what I fear and loathe. Not so much who’s running for President, or who will be President, but what our government has become. Where we are heading, regardless of who wins this election.

It’s OK to loathe. It’s not worth the effort and energy required to hate. And fear, well, we have the choice on whether or not it paralyzes us. A healthy fear is good, a paralyzing fear is not.

I believe that an old house with a rotting foundation that is falling down should be assisted in its fall, not shored up. Obama will take the house down faster than McCain. So if the country votes him in, it will get what it deserves. More severe pain, more quickly. But also a real chance for those who love freedom to clean up the mess. A mess that will have to be cleaned up sooner or later. Might as well be sooner.

Maybe in my lifetime. Maybe not. Whatever happens, it won’t affect who I am and what I believe.

Whoever wins, my tirades will be unleashed against them from time to time. As long as I’m allowed to keep this site. I fully expect the day to come, and it’s not that far off, when internet free speech will be a thing of the past. The Demoncrats are slobbering at the bit for the Fairness Doctrine and a lot more. All sites will be licensed and curtailed. And ultimately silenced.

Until then, I’ll keep plugging on.

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Congratulations to the Phillies for crushing the Dodgers in five games. Unfortunately, Tampa collapsed last night after leading the arrogant Red Sox, 7-0. Lost 8-7. With a swing like that, it will be a miracle if the Rays still pull it out in the next two games. But hope springs eternal, and all that.

If the Red Sox do make it, I will be in the extremely awkward position of cheering for the Phillies. And I mean awkward. It’s like the sun rising in the west. Maybe I’d just sit it out. Be neutral. As if that would be possible.

I stopped at Amelia’s Discount Groceries the other night on the way home from the gym. To pick up a few items for supper. As usual, I loaded up with more stuff than I had planned. The middle-aged Plain Mennonite cashier rang up my purchases.

“Fifteen twenty-eight,” she said pleasantly. I opened my wallet and extracted the cash.

To my horror, I had exactly fourteen bucks. I shuffled uncomfortably.

“I guess I’ll have to remove an item,” I stammered, pointing to a box of ice cream I didn’t need anyway, and hadn’t planned to buy. “I’ve got exactly fourteen dollars.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” the Plain Mennonite lady said soothingly. “It’s certainly not the first time something like this happened.” She re-rang the total. Thirteen seventy-eight.

I handed her all my money, took my change, and thanked her. “Thought I was better organized. I usually carry more cash.” I mumbled. She smiled kindly. She’d heard all the excuses before.

Embarrassing. Can’t remember the last time something like that happened to me. Probably when I was a teenager.