You Can't Know Wheat
If you're not from the prairie, you can't know wheat.
This morning as I motored along on my way to work at finishing things up at school, I passed between fields of wheat bordering both sides of the road. In the two and one-fourth miles between our home and US 50, the wheat fields of at least five different landowners ran together or were sharply bisected by section lines. (These are the roads that carve up the landscape into squares precisely one mile long on each side.)
Several fields of alfalfa, one pasture of native prairie grasses, and one fallow field being prepared for planting milo gave some variety to the scene along my travel route, but the wheat was ubiquitous.
Earlier this spring, after a winter-long drought, the winter wheat traced very thin lines on the surface of the fields, fading to nothing on the slight rises in the terrain. The plants looked dark and cold and miserable and hesitant to grow. And then, after the first rain, the narrow drilled rows muscled themselves into full and robust lines, and the color lightened and brightened. A luscious shag carpet gradually grew, as warm sunny weather arrived and more rain fell.
One day I noticed with pleasure that our gusty spring winds brushed and slightly roiled the wheat that had grown tall enough to bend and sway. Its color was darker green again except in low spots where growth was inhibited by standing water, causing the lime green to prevail. It's probably beginning to joint I thought. "God, please spare us any more freezes," I prayed. Low temperatures would kill the heads forming inside the elongating stalk, and the crop would be worthless for harvesting as grain.
I'm not sure when it happened, but long-awned heads emerged from those rippling fields, and now they sport a silver cast. The wind can still excite movement, but the crop is growing up and does not undulate as sensuously as in the past. It behaves quite circumspectly, and the heads stand tall. But the stems are shamefully short--not much good for anyone hoping for a nice crop of straw to put in the barn after the grain harvest is over. Drought does that to wheat.
The next changes in store for these fields will be hard to catch from the confines of my 55 miles-per-hour-traveling vehicle. I will need to pull over and stop, or walk somewhere along a field. A soft rustling sound as the drying awns and the now-plump heads rub together will reach my ears.
The heavy heads will begin to bend over and a subtle wash of gold will brush the fields.
And then one day on my way to the mailbox I will know that now it is TIME. The fields will be a uniformly sunny gold. The breeze will evoke the rattling sound of completely dry awns brushing their neighbors. If the sun is bright and diappearing dew accentuates it, I will breathe in the clean smell of warm straw.
The road will fill with lumbering harvesting-machine behemoths on a mission. Support vehicles will accompany them, wives or daughters or young sons often operating them.
A few preliminary bites from the combines will produce enough "test" wheat to get a moisture reading. Between 13 and 14%, it's just right. The "harvest mentality" kicks in, and woe to the ignoramus who operates from any other mentality.
One small patch of stubble at the edge of the wheat fields will fill up with fuel/service trucks, grain trucks, tractors with tow chains if it's a wet year, run-about vehicles, and perhaps a small travel trailer pressed into service as a cook shack. If the field is lucky enough to know children, the back of the grain truck will boast laughter and happy shouts as it shivers occasionally with the grain-dulled bounces of children at play. Warm fresh wheat will provide a chewy any-time snack and lemonade will be taken in swigs from the jug when the combine arrives to unload, and grow the pile in the truck bed. All the adults will wear wide smiles unless a cloud bank in the west or an equipment breakdown intrudes, and tension mounts. Then the harvest mentality assumes a grim aspect and threatens to become an obsession.
Even if it looks like rain though, quitting at 12:00 on Saturday nights has always been a ritual carefully observed in our family. On other weeknights, if the wind is up, cutting wheat may extend into the early moring hours.
Thinking about it all stirs my anticipation.
I don't know corn or soybeans or cotton. But I know wheat. And that's because I'm from the prairie.
(Apologies to the author of the wonderful book If You're Not From the Prairie.)
This morning as I motored along on my way to work at finishing things up at school, I passed between fields of wheat bordering both sides of the road. In the two and one-fourth miles between our home and US 50, the wheat fields of at least five different landowners ran together or were sharply bisected by section lines. (These are the roads that carve up the landscape into squares precisely one mile long on each side.)
Several fields of alfalfa, one pasture of native prairie grasses, and one fallow field being prepared for planting milo gave some variety to the scene along my travel route, but the wheat was ubiquitous.
Earlier this spring, after a winter-long drought, the winter wheat traced very thin lines on the surface of the fields, fading to nothing on the slight rises in the terrain. The plants looked dark and cold and miserable and hesitant to grow. And then, after the first rain, the narrow drilled rows muscled themselves into full and robust lines, and the color lightened and brightened. A luscious shag carpet gradually grew, as warm sunny weather arrived and more rain fell.
One day I noticed with pleasure that our gusty spring winds brushed and slightly roiled the wheat that had grown tall enough to bend and sway. Its color was darker green again except in low spots where growth was inhibited by standing water, causing the lime green to prevail. It's probably beginning to joint I thought. "God, please spare us any more freezes," I prayed. Low temperatures would kill the heads forming inside the elongating stalk, and the crop would be worthless for harvesting as grain.
I'm not sure when it happened, but long-awned heads emerged from those rippling fields, and now they sport a silver cast. The wind can still excite movement, but the crop is growing up and does not undulate as sensuously as in the past. It behaves quite circumspectly, and the heads stand tall. But the stems are shamefully short--not much good for anyone hoping for a nice crop of straw to put in the barn after the grain harvest is over. Drought does that to wheat.
The next changes in store for these fields will be hard to catch from the confines of my 55 miles-per-hour-traveling vehicle. I will need to pull over and stop, or walk somewhere along a field. A soft rustling sound as the drying awns and the now-plump heads rub together will reach my ears.
The heavy heads will begin to bend over and a subtle wash of gold will brush the fields.
And then one day on my way to the mailbox I will know that now it is TIME. The fields will be a uniformly sunny gold. The breeze will evoke the rattling sound of completely dry awns brushing their neighbors. If the sun is bright and diappearing dew accentuates it, I will breathe in the clean smell of warm straw.
The road will fill with lumbering harvesting-machine behemoths on a mission. Support vehicles will accompany them, wives or daughters or young sons often operating them.
A few preliminary bites from the combines will produce enough "test" wheat to get a moisture reading. Between 13 and 14%, it's just right. The "harvest mentality" kicks in, and woe to the ignoramus who operates from any other mentality.
One small patch of stubble at the edge of the wheat fields will fill up with fuel/service trucks, grain trucks, tractors with tow chains if it's a wet year, run-about vehicles, and perhaps a small travel trailer pressed into service as a cook shack. If the field is lucky enough to know children, the back of the grain truck will boast laughter and happy shouts as it shivers occasionally with the grain-dulled bounces of children at play. Warm fresh wheat will provide a chewy any-time snack and lemonade will be taken in swigs from the jug when the combine arrives to unload, and grow the pile in the truck bed. All the adults will wear wide smiles unless a cloud bank in the west or an equipment breakdown intrudes, and tension mounts. Then the harvest mentality assumes a grim aspect and threatens to become an obsession.
Even if it looks like rain though, quitting at 12:00 on Saturday nights has always been a ritual carefully observed in our family. On other weeknights, if the wind is up, cutting wheat may extend into the early moring hours.
Thinking about it all stirs my anticipation.
I don't know corn or soybeans or cotton. But I know wheat. And that's because I'm from the prairie.
(Apologies to the author of the wonderful book If You're Not From the Prairie.)
posted by Mrs. I at
10:28 PM
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