A glimpse at how things have changed

Along a gravel road not far from where I live, a field of contracted sweet corn has been growing gradually taller all summer. The field has had a tough go of it, especially the low-lying part which is right along Boot Creek. Somehow the crop managed to keep growing despite being repeatedly inundated with water.

 

The other day, the giant equipment from the processing company came and the harvest began.

 

A moment of revelation came for me when I wanted to drive down the gravel road in question.  The combine, or picker, or whatever the right name is, had filled its hopper. As I approached, I saw that the field equipment had pulled up on the narrow road to transfer its load into a nearby truck.

 

Between the two vehicles, it was obvious I had two options: either wait until the load was in the truck, or turn around and take a different route.  Seeing the size of the truck and the size of the picker, I presumed the process would be time-consuming.

 

My eyes widened in wonder, though, when the hopper–big enough to hold a large truckload of ears of sweet corn–lifted into the sky above both the field equipment and the truck, then tipped itself neatly to the side, simultaneously emptying itself and filling the large cargo area of the truck. Just like that. In seconds.

 

Then the hopper lowered back down as though it had never risen and the picker was ready to drive back into the field. The first truck drove away and another was already standing there waiting for it all to happen again.

 

I thought of my grandfather who made a living and raised a family on 160 acres.

I remembered a description of how farmers from that time harvested field corn. They walked through the field picking the ears and placing them in a wagon. Then they went to the “corn crib,” and put the ears, still wrapped in their husks, inside. 

 

There are very few corn cribs still standing in southern Minnesota, but I can point to the spot where one stood until only a decade or so ago–unused, but still something of a monument to earlier times. They were usually long, slender structures which stood quite high. Their walls tended to be sided with widely spaced boards so that the ears of corn would stay inside but air could circulate freely.

 

Then the corn stayed there for months drying on the ears while the husks lost their moisture, turned brown, and shrank. By the time it was removed, it looked vastly different from when it had gone in.

 

Once it was dry, the corn could either be fed to livestock or loaded back on a wagon and taken into town to be sold.

 

Back in the corner of my grandfather’s barn, we (then) kids came across a hand-turned machine with cogs inside. We were eventually informed it was a “corn shucker,” a wonderful labor-saving device which rotated ears of dry cob corn in such a way that the kernels separated fairly smoothly from the cob. Grandpa explained it was a much better way than the one used during his childhood–removing the kernels by hand.

 

After seeing the giant picker fill a truck in a few seconds, I tried to imagine what someone from my grandfather’s generation would have said–and yes, I know field corn and sweet corn are not the same. I also know it’s been a very long time since field corn was left on the ear as it was picked. But that does not remove the wonder of the moment.

 

Hours later, I returned homeward past that same field of sweet corn. It was storming at the time, with rain pelting down. Thanks to the rain, the lightning and the thunder–oh yes, and then my phone telling me I was in the area of a tornado warning–my eyes were focused on the road.

 

Suddenly I realized there were some very bright lights off to my right.

 

It was the picker, now surreal in a whole different way because it was out there in the darkness and the storm, somehow continuing the work of harvesting that corn. There must have been about six amazingly bright spotlights shining down in front of it, showing the track it was following.

 

Again, the level of technology gave me pause. 

 

That giant piece of equipment was out there navigating the storm and the mud, still doing its job.

 

I marveled at it–how for the time I was near it, the brightness of those floodlights rivaled the impressive lightning show in the sky.

 

I thought of how muddy the field must be in all that rain, and my heart went out to the operator, speculating what it must be like trying to complete such a large-scale task when all of nature seemed to be against it.

 

I drove down the gravel road again the next afternoon.  The low-lying part of the field along Boot Creek was rutted with deep tracks. A small part of the field, a spot where standing water must have stunted the corn’s growth, stood unharvested. The road, normally the brown color of gravel, was a deep black. When I drove on through, mud sprayed up in the air, even falling on my windshield. 

 

I’m not sure I will ever see that section of road in the same way again. It’s almost as if it’s the site of a great confrontation which arose between human ingenuity and nature herself. And while, yes, ingenuity accomplished its goal, the field still shows the signs it was a fierce battle.