Wheat

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When he wasn’t ranching or farming or drinking coffee in Mack’s Cafe, this is where my father could normally be found.
At the Amana Colonies on a visit to my sister who was attending Cornell College in Iowa. As you can see, my father cleaned up well.
ANTIQUE JAR

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Wheat

A stalk of it usually extended from between his teeth when he was out inspecting a field come June or July. It collected in his pants cuffs and in the hat band of his broad-brimmed work hat.  Bags of it wintered in a huge pile that filled our garage one year when there had been a good crop and all the barns and silos were full to bursting. The cars stood outside in the gravel driveway just off the alley and behind the garage that winter and our house was strangely empty of mice as they took shelter in the garage instead. Our outside cat grew fat even though he rarely came to the back door to be fed.

Ours was a little ecological system all its own.  Mice feasted on  grain spilled from burst seams in the garage. The cat feasted on the mice and we feasted on the steaks of Black Angus cattle who had eaten the ensilage from wheat stripped of its grains.

If I have always worked hard to furnish the bread and butter of my life, it is wheat that has furnished the dessert–my college education, my first car and, after my dad died and I inherited 1/6 interest in the farm and ranch, my first house.

Our lives were run by wheat and cattle.  During the summer, no time for family vacations. Wheat and cattle were my dad’s alarm clock. He rose before sunrise every morning and was often asleep in his chair before sunset, wheat spilling out of his pants cuffs or high top boots or stuck by the hooked spines of its beards to the fabric footstool in front of his rocker.

He slept hard, my father, and rose early to insure everything worked to the cycle of the nature that had surrounded him from the time, as a three-year-old boy, he had stepped off the Union Pacific train that had brought him and his mother to the little South Dakota town both he and later I grew up in. As they descended the metal steps, my grandmother had held one hand down to grasp the hand of my three-year-old father. The other was extended upward, holding a cage with two canaries. My grandfather and teenaged aunts were there to greet him and my grandmother, who, even though she had been the one who decreed that they should leave their safe security in Iowa to claim a homestead on the Dakota prairie,  had not traveled by wagon, but instead had sent her young girls and husband on ahead to prepare a way for her and her youngest.

My grandfather––a Dutch immigrant who was not a farmer, but rather a baker better suited for working with wheat in its miled state––did what most people did when my grandmother issued demands.  He complied.  It made for a hard life for them all–fighting the harsh South Dakota winters out on the plains as well as prairie fires, plagues of grasshoppers and schizophrenic weather that could furnish either drought, unseasonal rain or hail–all of which could ruin a wheat crop. So that later, when I asked my dad why he never frequented the games parlor where the other men played poker and lofted a beer or two, he said that he had no need for games of chance. His whole life as a rancher and farmer had been the biggest gamble of all.

My grandparents never did learn the correct formula, but my father, surrounded by the prairie from age three to seventy, learned its secrets well. Enough to buy out his parents as well as others who tried and failed. Enough to ensure the comfort of his wife and children and his grandchildren. Enough to die at what, now that I am nearly  69,  seems like the young age of 70.

Year after year, as he tilled the rich South Dakota soil to plant the grains of wheat he’d saved to seed a new crop––he seeded my life as well, along with that of my mother, my sisters, my nieces and nephews–all of our lives growing and prospering from those millions of shafts of grain that he planted and watched over and harvested and stored and replanted over a period  of fifty years.

The WordPress prompt today was “Grain.”

17 thoughts on “Wheat”

        1. lifelessons Post author

          I know…I think as products of the depression that they didn’t want their kids to lack for as much. When I see kids today, though, it seems like we had very little in comparison. The number of toys and electrical devices even tiny kids have now is sort of obscene.

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  2. CarolynEliason

    Grew up in Iowa and spent most of my life there, I perked up when I saw the pic of your dad in the Amana Colonies. My parents college friends started the Zubers restaurant there.

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    1. lifelessons Post author

      At the time, perhaps still, everything was served family style. I was pleased I could have as many mashed potatoes as I desired. Unfortunate, though, as I certainly didn’t need them!

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  3. parentsfriend

    My son’s in-laws are corn farmers in Nebraska. My father’s family were also farmers. Loved this and shared on Facebook. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

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  6. Leland Olson Hoel

    Judy, I thank you for much for the nostalgic trip back in time to our early years on the Prairies of South Dakota. I know growing wheat in the Murdo area was a very hard task in the days when your father settled their. It is a semiarid area, as your father said he didn’t need to go to any gaming places, farming was the biggest Gamble there was. Rain could be very, very scarce on those Western prairies. I could read stories like yours all day long, thank you again for sharing.

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      1. Leland Olson Hoel

        If you sent a list of your Murdo stories that would be nice. I visited your friend’s blog site, I have to go back and visit from time to time. I should send a note to your old classmate and United States Sen. John Thune. I should ask him why he claims Sioux Falls as his hometown instead of Murdo? Hope all is well with you and yours and you are missing out on the storms and crazy weather, that has been rampaging across the southern states. We are finally getting warm weather, I put my tomato plants out a few days ago. I have to learn to use my phone/camera, I bought a selfy stick and I can try to use the camera that way but now have to learn the different camera settings and get that figured out. My hands are getting very useless sure don’t want to dwell on that.

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        1. lifelessons Post author

          We’ve had a bit of wind each night and a few spits of rain. Rainy season is coming, heralded by the rainbirds (what they call cicadas here–deafening sometimes.) John Thune grew up across the street from me…In two different houses, I was kitty corner across from him on the other side of the block. My dad once backed out of our driveway and ran over his brother who was so bundled up in a snowsuit in a big snowdrift that he wasn’t even hurt! His sister was salutatorian in my class the year I was valedictorian. He grew up in Murdo but probably lived in Sioux Falls as an adult. Here is my list of Murdo Stories. There may have been one or two in the last two days since I compiled this list for Mary:

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