Corn Harvest Memories

I recently took an exciting ride in a spendy vehicle, the kind that comes with a price tag well into the six figures.

A Bentley? A Rolls Royce? A Dragon spaceship?

Nope. It was my neighbor’s combine.

Modern combines are a marvel of high technology. Their cabs feature multiple touch screens, automated steering systems, and doodads that monitor grain yields and moisture. I wouldn’t be surprised if it could also whip up a cappuccino.

The cabs are heated and air conditioned, with a comfy seat that cushions the operator like a baby in a cradle. It has all the comforts of home except for a bathroom.

The combine had a 12-row corn head and gobbled the crop like an insatiable green dinosaur. I’m not sure about its ground speed but would estimate that it was “a fast, breathless trot” in human terms.

This latest corn harvest stands out in stark contrast to my first corn harvest.

Dad harvested corn with a 2-row Case picker when I was a kid. This was the era when ear corn ruled the world of corn harvest. Corn was picked on the ear and stored in cribs. These were honest to goodness cribs, made of wood and/or wire. In other words, they weren’t some sort of slang term carelessly tossed out by today’s youth. 

We had a wooden corn crib that was so old that it’s quite possible it was originally used by Neanderthals. It was creaky and rickety but, as Dad would often say, paid for.

None of our tractors had cabs back then, so you got cold when it was cold out, dusty when it was dry, and wet when it rained. Dad often insisted on continuing the harvest even after it began to snow. By the end of the day, we resembled Frosty the Snowman.

Picking operations had to be halted if it rained too much. This was because the loaded wagon would make the picker slide sideways, causing it to run down the corn instead of picking it. And what’s the point of that?

During wet falls, we often had to wait for the ground to freeze before we could resume picking. This meant that the ruts you had made previously were also frozen. Crossing them with a tractor was the sort of thing that could cause severe tooth loosening.

The ancient Case corn picker was what was known as a “snapper.” This meant that it lacked a husking bed to remove the husks from the ears. It instead had a humungous squirrel cage fan that blew away most of the loose trash that came with the ears of corn. The fan emitted an ominous, low growl when operating at full speed. It was actually kind of cool.

Corn picking ran very late one rainy fall. The ground finally froze and was promptly coated with a couple inches of snow.

Dad and I were picking corn on a field located a mile from our farmstead. Dad decided to crib the corn on the headland, reasoning that we could retrieve it later when the weather was more clement. I was all for anything that speeded up corn harvest.

I was tasked with making the crib. This was accomplished with long rolls of red wooden slats that were connected by a series of twisted wires. You often see this item used as a snow fence. To this day, whenever I see such a fence I think “corn crib.”

I situated our old Kelly Ryan elevator in a likely spot and started piling ear corn. When the pile had achieved the proper diameter, I spooled out a roll of corn cribbing and stood it up around the pile. It took some doing, but I finally got the pile surrounded.

Despite all of this, I reckoned that I had the better part of the deal. I was able to warm up some as I scooped corn out of our flare wagons. Dad could only sit on the tractor seat and try not to think about how cold it was or how hard the wind was blowing.

I recall how snow swirled around the elevator’s hopper as I scooped ear corn out of the wagon. The climate-controlled comfort of a modern combine would have seemed like something out of Star Trek.

Mom would drive our car out to the headland and bring us lunch. Dad and I warmed up in the car as we slurped hot coffee and wolfed down liverwurst sandwiches.

Maybe that’s what was missing from my recent combine ride. Maybe I would have felt more at home if the cab had been able to produce the aroma of hot coffee and liverwurst sandwiches.

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.