Social Events: Threshing

 Social Events

THRESHING

In 1939 Route 220 was still a tortuous two-lane road winding over and around the rocky clay hills of Botetourt County. It took us a full hour to drive the forty miles or so from our house to the Barger farm, which lay just off the highway between Fincastle and Eagle Rock; but we had risen before daybreak so that we could get an early start on this special day. It took nearly a half-hour to drive across town and out Route 11, but once we turned off onto Route 220 we were in real farm country. By now the sun was high enough to start burning off the fog that lay in the lower valleys, and my mother kept pointing out picturesque rustic landscapes. But my father was concentrating on driving, because he was in a hurry, and it was almost impossible to pass a car on the narrow winding road; and Betty and I were taking advantage of the many dairy farms along the way to relieve the travel boredom by "counting cows". She always chose the left side of the road going toward the farm, because she remembered that we would pass Mount Zion Church, which was on the right side of the road, and which had a cemetery where I would have to "bury" my cows and then start over.

Despite my father's concerns we arrived at the farm ahead of the threshing machine, and he had plenty of time to change into work clothes before Uncle Carl came in the house with the announcement, "They're coming up the road now". Sure enough, the contraption was just starting up the road from the highway, being pulled slowly by a tractor driven by a young man. An older man (who turned out to be the father of the tractor driver) walked along side, watching the mechanism like a cat, and frowning every time it emitted a rattle from striking a bump or a rut. Since the road had never been paved and had suffered the vicissitudes of rain erosion and vehicle traffic for years, the quarter-mile trek from the highway to the barn was one of nearly constant clatter.

Maneuvering the device into position behind the barn was a painfully slow process, and by the time it was settled in the right location with its blower duct attached along with the terminating elbow, nearly an hour had passed since it had first appeared. Other farmers had arrived, perhaps a half-dozen young men, all dressed in the overalls and blue denim shirt that seemed to be almost an official uniform in the local farm community. They came as part of the informal threshing period cooperative work sharing arrangement. Each day this week one of my uncles had helped with the threshing at one of the other farms, and now it was those farmers' turn to put in their time at the Barger farm. Usually, a farm owner would send one of his grown sons, possibly because the owners were reluctant to leave the management of the farm to anyone else.

The work at the threshing machine was not the only work that was shared. Two or three young ladies came to help with the cooking; but, although I didn't realize it at the time, this particular volunteerism was not simply a matter of work sharing. It was also related to the presence of the young unmarried men, in the event that one of them might have an eye out for a prospective wife.

The task of assembling the blower duct, and of testing the drive belts was carried out under the meticulous supervision of the machine owner. He was not argumentative or critical, but his businesslike, unsmiling demeanor appeared to have an unsettling effect on the Bargers, who were in the habit of joking and kidding with their neighbor farmers. More than once I overheard my father or one of his brothers remark that that man acted "awful serious".

Finally, the machine was cranked up, and the threshing was begun. What an impression this monster made! With the clatter of the beater and the roar of the winnowing blower, the contraption steadily devoured the stalks of wheat fed into it, acting for all the world like a mechanical dragon, spewing out straw instead of fire. Its owner stood watching carefully and listening intently to assure that no mishap should occur to his prized possession. If, through all that noise, he detected an unexpected sound, or if he observed anything out of the ordinary, he would shut down the machinery while he made a quick check or adjustment.

During one of these relatively quiet periods, Grandma Barger rang the dinner bell. Actually, this was the call for the "first sitting" at the table. I believe the plan was to serve the neighboring farmers, the threshing machine owner, and his son at the first sitting, the Barger men, including Grandaddy Barger and me, at the second, and the women at the third. However, as always happened in this situation, some of the men protested that they were not yet hungry and would prefer to wait for a later sitting, so I ate at the first sitting, because I was always hungry.

I have eaten at restaurants that advertised "country style cooking" but I have not yet found one that could rival Grandma Barger's talent. She could take the simplest food and prepare it in such a way that everyone asked for seconds and thirds. For example, she would take a couple of pounds of navy beans, add water, smoked ham hocks, chopped onion, salt, pepper, a dash of molasses, and I-don't-know-what-else, and make a pot of thick bean soup that I would eat and eat until I actually had to pass up dessert. Of course, I was always on the go at the farm, whether playing in the fields or working as water boy as I was today, and that activity in the fresh country air contributed to my appetite and my appreciation of the cooking. But, regardless of that, there is still a world of difference between food that is carefully prepared for the sole purpose of tasting good, and food that is cooked with strict dietary considerations.

On threshing day, the meal was special, although, as I remember, the fare consisted of basic dishes, like fried chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, and creamy coleslaw - all seasoned to perfection; and I definitely recall there was homemade loaf bread with fresh butter and apple pie. On this special occasion Grandma Barger permitted her young volunteers to add their own individual touch to the various delicacies; and she also left the chore of serving the dishes to them. She stood at the dining room door, watching to make sure that everyone got plenty to eat, and often exhorting someone to have another helping. Whenever one of the young men complimented her on a particular dish, she would reply in such a way that one of the young ladies would somehow get the credit for the special touch that made that recipe notable. On the face of it, that would appear to be an obvious ploy, but Grandma Barger had a knack for handling these compliments in such a subtle way that the men probably didn't realize they were being propagandized.

All the time that we were eating we could hear the distant sound of the threshing. Evidently, the owner had got all the "bugs" out early on, because now the drone was steady and unceasing. When we finished eating, we rose quickly and hurried out so that the dishes could be washed and the table cleared off and prepared for the second sitting. My water boy assignment was not a steady job, and I spent most of the time just watching the contraption with its flailing and blowing, depositing a pile of straw that was slowly growing into a small mountain of gold, gleaming in the Autumn sunlight.

I once made the mistake of referring to a pile of straw as a "haystack", and I was quickly corrected. Hay, I was informed, is an edible fodder, like alfalfa, clover, or lespedeza, whereas straw has no nutritional value, and is used for purposes like covering the barn floor so that manure can be easily removed. Unfortunately, I didn't absorb much information of this type about agricultural science. But I did observe that farmers are especially proud of the technical aspects of their vocation. Many times I have heard them relate anecdotes about city dwellers that manage to display their ignorance of some farming term or activity; and at times this attitude actually extended to the point of playing practical jokes on urban visitors to the rural community.

By now the roar of the thresher had continued for hours, as the wheat stalks disappeared into the contraption, the straw stack grew, and the sacks of grain were carefully weighed and tied. Then, having completed its chore, the monster suddenly fell silent; and the silence was breathtaking.

Grandma Barger appeared on the porch, and Uncle Carl walked over to inform her of the final tally, while Uncle Dallas conducted the business of paying the threshing machine owner a percentage of the product. As always, the owner maintained a stern visage as his sacks of grain were counted out and stacked to one side; but then his expression markedly relaxed as he shook hands with Uncle Dallas and arranged to leave his threshing machine over Sunday. After detaching the tractor from the threshing machine, he and his son mounted it and proceeded down the dirt road toward the highway. After some parting banter, the other farmers proceeded to the house to say goodbye to the ladies, and then head for home in their respective cars and trucks. My father and my uncles proceeded to move the sacks of wheat to the granary via horse-drawn wagon. And I proceeded to romp in the new straw stack.

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