THRESHING TIME


| July/August 1974



Mount Union, Iowa 52644.

In mid-August time when the Sun raises red in the morning sky
And the dew hasn't fallen and the grass is dry,
And the wind is gentle and low
 Away to threshing I like to go.

With breakfast hurried down and the milking done
A long hard day is soon begun.
Away in the truck with the gas and grease I go
While the bundle teams follow sure and slow.

The old machine stands silent and grey with dust
And if I'm to be ready, then hurry I must.
I open the galvanized, giant blower door
Fling out the short belts lean low in the long slick cavern for more,
With a tug and a twist I roll them on soon
While roving eye estimates we will finish this field by noon.

My trusty old engine stands silently coupled ahead,
To the wide sturdy truck's oak tongue faded and red.
I pour in some gas and check the oil Snap down the impulse so it will recoil.
Pull up on the crank and out on the choke
She fires irregular and sends up blue smoke.
I turn down the gas and advance the spark
She steadies her voice and hums like a lark.

I climb on and set to the south and a trifle west
To make a good straw-pile I'll do my best.
Pull the pin and roll out the long drive belt, kinkey and black
Slip on with a twist and tighten the slack.
Swing around and run out the blower.
Next comes the grain spout and feeder to lower.