LAST RITES FOR A GRAND MACHINE OF DAYS LONG GONE
ALAN Skeoch
March 2018
“Son, I can no longer walk and can only get around on this god-damned SCOOTER but there were days not so long ago that…”
“Dad, not that long ago…”
“When you were a tiny tad like your boys here are now…”
“And you were the top man feeding the sheaves into this great machine while the horses with their rippling loads of sheaves lined
up like ships of straw on a sea of stubble. I remember dad.”
“And here we are…it has come to this…the bloody auction.’
“Could we not?. The barn is on the verge of collapse behind there …
“And the farm has been sold to that monied city slicker who plans to build a bastardly flower garden in the ruin of that great building.”
“’tis a sad day but one to remember…try top close the eyes and remember the hiss and steam of the distant engine and slap slap slap of the great
long drive belt.”
“And the greased whir of all those wheels that culminated in the flailing of the sheaves and pouring forth of the golden grain.”
“And you, my lad, stuck up in the granary with your brother as the grain poured out in an airborne stream that seemed to have no end.”
“Remember it well, Dad, with you yelling “Push the son of a bitching stuff back deep in the granary before you die smothered”…and all the time
smiling and singing as if there was no tomorrow.”
“And, lad, there was no tomorrow…before long those great wheeled and motored combines raped and reaped the fields shedding disdain for this proud giant which had become
as obsolete as the crocks of hard cider that slaked our thirst while we threw the sheaves on the carts and the horses stamped their
feet in the great joy that comes from being useful in this world.”
“When was rhe last time a horse with feathered feet worked here, Dad”
“Long time ago, maybe last one in the 1950’s…remember our last team, Old Dolly and Dick?…one white as the driven show and the other as richly brown as the chestnut of
which he was an immense and breathing duplicate..
“Good times and bad times, Dad…some got into the drink a little too much.”
“Strong men with stronger liquid in their guts…fights fomented by the sheer energy of the harvesting.”
“ And dangers always present with that great machine…a hand caught between a belt and a pully resulting in a bloody flattened mess of fingernails and blood.”
“And the odd clutch ofguinea hens young ones mistakenly forked into the mouth of the yawning thresher and ground into pulp. The field mice beneath the stukes
ran exposed through the stubble while hawks slobbered in exultation high above.”
“Not all sweeties and light…but grand”
“A happening for all…sometimes 10 or more of us at work here with as may women piling stews and pumpkin pies on the tables outdoors.”
“All gone now”
“Farms gone too, Dad”
“Mcecherns, MacLeans, Macdonalds, Freemans, Saunders, Leitches, Johnsons, Butlers,…all gone from here.”
“Happ[ening all over the county Dad…The Skeoch’s once had good farms here and there across Wellington County. Now there are no longer any.”
“No need anymore. Farming like this has become a poor man’s game. Big farmers like the Anthony Brothers can tend 10,000 acres with clutch of $100,000 tractors and $200,000 combines. Land they rent from city people who want the country life without the work.”
“People like me, Dad…with kids like these who will never farm…”
“Son, your boys will never even remember this day…never remember gazing on this old thresher…meaningless now and completely forgotten in the future.
“He’s come now”
“Who?”
“The auctioneer with a small bunch of bidders…maybe none…maybe this machine will just sit here and rot.”
“Not likely, I see two scrap men in the crowd. They want the metal parts…
“Set her alight tonight…let her burn and then gather up those drive wheels and axles tomorrow morning for their last
drive to the scrapyard…”
“Let’s move along , dad, I do not want to see this happen.”
“Come on kids, I’ll buy you a drink and a piece of pie over at the ladies booth.”
“Dad, what is this machine?”
“Too complicated for me to say…one of you can ride on the wheelchair with your grandpa…
alan skeoch
March 2018