You can’t help but notice that the oat fields are being harvested. One look at the remaining stubble left on the fields takes me back to a time when I was helping my Dad during the oat harvest. Though still at the age of going to the rural country school, I was old enough to be watchful of the auger running the harvested grain into the granary.
Dad had just pulled a full flare box of oats up to the yard when a fairly large black sedan pulled into the yard right behind him. A fellow dressed in a black suit got out and walked up to Dad and held his hand out for Dad to shake it. The fellow had a grin from ear to ear and Dad’s face was one of serious puzzlement. Little did I know just how much trouble I was in.
I had forgotten about the art contest I had entered a time back for a chance at a huge prize. All I had to do was enter a drawing for the chance. This fellow was doing the follow up to hawk a mail correspondence art course. Ugh!
As dirty and hot as Dad was from living a long day on the farm, hour by hour, he showed great restraint while indicating to the visitor how he could leave the same way he had come.
That night after the evening chores and milking was done I was taken to task. No more mail was to go out by me unless approved a head of time. Calvin and Michael were thrilled it was me on the hot seat for some time to come.
For that summer and a few summers after that, if I felt inclined to be creative, I cut and pieced quilt squares for my Mom. Ah, yes, it’s amazing the memories that come back during harvest seasons.