Since I can’t get my hands on Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, I’ll have to settle for my own version to make it through harvest. Because on the second day, things aren’t going so well.
This is not the call a farm wife likes to get, “Come pick me up. My truck’s broke down.”
That call actually came last week, ironically on the heels of a dinner conversation about My Farmer’s truck. It is ten years old – to us – and has lived a good life serving our farm. I gently encouraged the purchase of a newer truck before harvest began, just in case this trusty vehicle decided to quit during crunch time.
Then I got the call.
Nope. I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t say it.
This week harvest began in earnest. The guys hit the soybean field midday on Monday and hit a minor snag when a belt broke on the combine. The delay didn’t last long, thankfully.
Tuesday morning, My Farmer started the semi at 5 a.m. Still curled up in bed, I mentally prepared myself because this was it . . . this was the beginning of harvest, the beginning of months of 5 a.m. to 10 p.m. days, meals to the field, stress and triumph, the single wives club.
Midway through my pep talk, I heard the semi sputter and peeking into the dim morning light saw the hood fall back.
Breakdown numero two.
My Farmer didn’t even come to the house, but sped out the drive . . . in his dad’s pick-up. His is still at the shop.
That’s when my cloak came out. It doesn’t make me invisible like Harry Potter’s magic cover, but it does give me strength.
See, I’m not the farm wife who runs equipment with My Farmer. I love him too much to work that closely with him. I am not the farm wife who handles the book work. Numbers, seriously, are not my thing. And while I jokingly classify myself as chef, chauffer and go-fer, I find during harvest in particular, those are the roles I play.
In addition to Pollyanna. Because on some harvest days a shot of positivity is necessary.
Mid-morning the call came. “Come pick me up.”
And I did, plastering a supportive smile on my face. On the drive from the semi repair shop to the seed corn field where a broken dump cart awaited, I cheerfully told My Farmer some cute kid stories which received no response. Plan B. Pat his hand and drive in silence. This was not a good day.
An hour later, the phone rang again. I was in the car with a lunch before I answered, “Yes dear. Be there in a minute.”
On the drive from the seed corn field where My Farmer had to take a cylinder out of a neighbor’s dump cart to put on our broken cart only to discover the cart was loaded too heavy thus needing the backhoe to unload the extra weight . . .
. . . deep breath . . .
. . . I nodded and groaned with empathy, pulling my positivity cloak tighter.
That night I hesitantly called My Farmer. He had been combining beans by himself all afternoon and hadn’t been back to dump a load for a few hours. I had a feeling . . .
“Is everything okay? Would you like dinner?” I squeaked.
The answer was short. “No. A belt broke.”
This is only day two. Wrap that cloak tight. This could be a long harvest.