Machinery Playground

Machinery fills every farm yard. I grew up loving machinery.

We had a row of old machines that were in various stages of decay all lined up along a fence - an old combine, an ancient manure spreader, a broken grain truck. Tall grass weaved through the draw bars, chains spokes and mechanical parts, hiding the rusting steel. Some of the oldest machines had remnants of wooden planks that still clung to steel skeletons. The carriage bolts still grasping onto shards of dried crumbling wood. The fragrance of old grease mixed with fresh farm air.

This was my playground.

My favourite was the two row sugar beet harvester. It was narrow and tall and had a chain linked conveyor system that moved the sugar beets from the ground up into a bin and allowed the dirt and debris to fall back to the earth through the gaping links. These links were perfect ladders and walkways.

I would enter in between the discs that rested on the ground, hidden amongst the grass, thistle or kosha weed. Entering in through the bottom I would travel up, like an animated sugar beet, and eventually end up in the large bin. In the bin, I stood vigil over the war torn battle field. I spied on troop movements and kept eye on aerial maneuvers - flocks of sparrows flying sorties.
Our harvester had a boom that extend cantilevered from one side. This perch was my precarious observation deck or in times of peace a joyful balcony.

It was a sad day when my body no longer fit through the discs. Eventually I could no longer see the war zone and my vigilant surveillance was no longer required to keep farmyard peace.

But, oh how I love to see the farm yards with their rows of machines. I glimpse through those rows of machines and see ghosts of forgotten joys.

The Potato Harvest

We grew potatoes. Lots of potatoes.

Well, there were, and are, certainly larger farms but we still had about a 100 acres of potatoes, and in my book that is a lot of potatoes.

When I was too young to drive the trucks hauling the potatoes in or drive the harvester, I was given the job of pulling the boards out of the back of the truck. (Don't ask me to explain, it would take too long.) This was a job I was always willing to do.

This meant that I got to ride in the back of the truck to and from the field. I would sit up there and watch the truck slowly get filled with potatoes. Then once full, I would face the wind and ride back to the potato storage. I loved that.

Scattered amongst the potatoes were dirt lumps. Back at the storage facility, a crew would sort those out before long term storage but during that journey back they were just my personal arsenal. I sat up there as we rambled down the gravel roads and threw dirt lump after dirt lump at the fence posts. I loved to see them fly across the roads and into the dried up prairie grass. I would shout out in great happiness when I got a fence post as if there were a great crowd following each of my throws.

Now it is turning to the fall, I sometimes get a sniff of cool earth on a crisp autumn day. The damp earth smell and a slight fresh breeze and I close my eyes. Instantly, I am transported to another day, another era of my life. I feel the thrill of that country road with the fresh wind.

It renews my old bones.

The Cool Dew of the Corn Stalk

A cool crisp August morning with dew dripping from the corn leaves, remains on the edge of my memory. Sitting there in stupor, like I did many mornings. I slumped on the tailgate of an old GM pickup truck. Waiting for the yell to get picking, I sat still - my body awake and my mind still in denial.

The signal would be sent and like a swarm of insects we would spread out across the rows. Two rows per kid to begin the task of breaking off the cobs for some one's dinner. I didn't view it as food though. The distraction of a stream of dew running down my neck would furrow my brow. Then some unlucky spider would have his web destroyed by my face as I lumbered down the row.

Bend over, pick the cob, place it in the crook of my arm, get another.... arms full - then I would drop it on the conveyor and back down the row again.

My nostrils were an average size, I am sure. Somehow a corn tassel would rise up and drive its way - causing extreme sneezing. The large corn leafs would slap me across the cheek and across the backs of my hands.

By the end of the row I would hope for a delay. Some reason to stop. On we went. The corn was sweet, ripe and ready for the tables. We had to forge on. Day after day, through August we reaped the harvest. Every few days a new field would come on. The orders would demand more. The fertile soil and southern Alberta climate producing a tasty treat for farmer and city dweller alike.

One evening, by 8:00 we were done. Nearly twelve hours of work. Larry, Cam and I were driving the last truck out of the field. A dusty caravan of tired bodies ready to eat and sleep. Driving down the dusty country roads we stopped and discovered three flat tires on the old truck.

Leaving one behind, Larry and I started our walk to civilization. The first farm house we past had a dog that wouldn't let us past the gate. On we trudged. Past another house - no one was home. Finally, a Mountie drove up.

"What are you two boys doing out here at night?" He looked a little bemused. Oblivious to our aches and disappointment he rescued us and got word back home for someone to come out with some tires.

That night as I walked across the farm yard searching for my bed, I heard the crickets chirp and strolled under a canopy of bright stars and all I could think of was how cold that dew was going to be the next morning.

Haystacks and War

I loved playing in haystacks. Of course, a haystack made of alfalfa is scratchy and makes me sneeze, but a nice soft one made of straw was all fun.

Right along side the corral, my dad would stack up a hug stake of straw bales. As a little kid I would usually lounge about the partially built stack waiting for the next truckload of bales to be brought in and then watch them build this prairie skyscraper.

Secretly, I was there to try to convince my brothers to build into the stack a bunch of secret rooms and tunnels. That way I could be saved all the trouble of reconstructing the stack to fit my needs. They were less than accommodating I must say.

Inevitably the bales closest to the corral would be thrown down soonest so there would be a gradual consumption of my little castle. But this uneven usage of the stack would also lend additional terrain for many great games. The high side of the stack was the parapets of my medieval castle. The low side a construction site for new forts, or a platform to prepare weapons of war to fend of the evil invaders from the north side of the tracks.

Ah the days of make believe wars.

One summer we found a bundle of broom handle sized poles. We quickly added 2x4 chunks to one end, a clothes line clip up top (I wonder if grandma ever knew where all her clothes pins went), a notch on one end and had ourselves an arsenal of elastic band guns. Aided by the discovery of a box of elastic bands, we began a regular series of war reenactments. Capturing a flag and defending a flag or secret stratagems would be employed.

An arms race began as well, when someone discovered how to load multiple rubber bands and still only shoot one at a time. This was a decided advantage from a "one" shooter.
Perhaps these were some of my fondest moments during those years before I was so worried about dances, sports teams and social order.

As I watch my kids create games on our playhouse equipment, in our small little suburban yard, I wonder if they are constructing the same parapets and armament munition piles I once did. Perhaps that little moment of playful aggression will bring them happy solace one day as well.