{"id":557,"date":"2008-10-24T18:58:49","date_gmt":"2008-10-24T22:58:49","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=557"},"modified":"2011-11-04T15:59:10","modified_gmt":"2011-11-04T19:59:10","slug":"corn-harvest","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=557","title":{"rendered":"Corn Harvest"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a> <\/p>\n

\u201c\u2026.the sun goes down in blood and pollen across
\nthe bronzed and mown fields of old October.\u201d<\/p>\n

—Thomas Wolfe, \u201cOf Time and the River\u201d
\n________________________________________<\/p>\n

It\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n

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\u2019t have imagined any other.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

And every year Mom warned the children with terrifying tales of the awful things that could happen if one didn\u2019t 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\u2019t know if the story was actually true. It seems the stuff of myth. <\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

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\u2019s still done today. <\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

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\u2019s speed and skill. <\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

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\u2019s the way it was done. <\/p>\n

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\u2019t have missed it. <\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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. <\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember any time in my forty-seven years that I slept better than I did that fall.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

The corn harvest was over. And plowing season had begun. <\/p>\n

**********************************************<\/p>\n

Congratulations to the steely-eyed young Tampa Rays for regrouping and defeating the arrogant Red Sox in seven. I didn\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n

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 \u201cDevil\u201d 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.<\/p>\n

Maybe it\u2019s just me, but one would think there\u2019s a fine stirring sermon in there some-where for some enterprising young preacher. If you happen to be that preacher, don\u2019t worry about crediting me for the idea. Public service I\u2019m happy to provide.<\/p>\n

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\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n

titus-and-sheri-3.jpg<\/a>
\nTitus and Sheri Yutzy (as of Oct. 25, 2008)<\/p>\n

On Monday, my father\u2019s 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\u2019s family, only three now remain. Dad, his older brother Abner of Aylmer, and his younger sister Rachel (Mrs. Homer) Graber of Kalona, IA. <\/p>\n

This week I chatted with a friend from out of state. He called and mentioned that he\u2019d read my last two blogs and was concerned. I\u2019ve been a bit moody and uptight lately, he thought. I should try to cheer up a bit. <\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t imagine where he got such a notion. Me moody? Uptight? Nah. Not so you\u2019d notice. Except when I write, maybe.<\/p>\n

He had a suggestion. \u201cGo get yourself a really prime, well-baked pie,\u201d he said. \u201cSit down, eat it and enjoy it. Savor every bite. Then write about how good it tasted.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t argue with his solution. Pie is always good, for any situation. I just don\u2019t eat much of it since losing all that weight three years ago.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcellent thought,\u201d I allowed cautiously. \u201cCertainly worth serious consideration. One small problem. I don\u2019t bake. Where am I gonna get the pie?\u201d<\/p>\n

Any volunteers out there? My favorites are cherry and raisin cream.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201c\u2026.the sun goes down in blood and pollen across the bronzed and mown fields of old October.\u201d —Thomas Wolfe, \u201cOf Time and the River\u201d ________________________________________ It\u2019s 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-557","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/557","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=557"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/557\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3700,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/557\/revisions\/3700"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=557"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=557"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=557"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}