A harvest poem

Allergies have kicked in high gear. Dust is a flyin'. That's a sure sign to country folk:
Harvest is upon us. Get out the combine. Let's get to trucking. What's the joke?
Yeah, I know it's only the end of August, but that corn's looking dry and brittle.
Why, if we'd get a storm, it could flatten the field; then we'd be in a real pickle.
I can remember years when we took our time getting that green machine on the ground.
All of a sudden we'd be in a wet spell and have mud to the sickle every round.
Be harvesting on cold winter nights when the ground would be frozen and wonder,
will we get this crop out before next spring, before it starts to lightning and thunder?
Crop looks good this year but they always say, "You ain't got it 'til it's in the bin."
"So let's get to picking. Mama get to hauling," Dad says with a half-way grin.

So Mom gets her house cleaning done--in the trucks, that is. Windows sparkle and shine.
Mirrors adjusted, water jug full, a crossword puzzle, just in case there's a line.
To the south end she heads, for her first dump of the season with both eyes peeled.
Then comes a voice over the CB, "Can you follow me around the field?"
Ma puts it in low and bobbles over the rows with a jiggle and a bump.
She follows the dust cloud waiting for the signal of ready to dump.
The auger comes out on the combine like magic, as if to say here's the target.
If Ma lines up and stops when she should, things will turn out almost perfect.
"See, that wasn't so hard," Ma says to herself. "I got one good one under my belt.
That only leaves 999 dumps I have to catch before I melt.
It must be 150 degrees in this truck with the windows rolled up tight."
She doesn't want the cab messed up with dust, cobs and red stuff in flight.
"I know I could fix bacon and eggs on this black plastic seat.
When your ankles begin to sweat, you know that's intensive heat."

"Now the field's opened up. I'll open windows, cool and park at the end row."
And then there's this voice on the CB, "Hon, let's dump on the go."
"Now, how'd I do that last year? Was I three or four rows away?
What gear was I in? What speed to catch all the 'green' spout throws my way?"
At last Ma's loaded, but before she departs for the elevator.
Dad throws her a sample. But where's the moisture tester?
Ma grabs a kernel, chomps on it once, chews it like hard candy.
By the end of the season she'll know exact moisture when the tester's not handy.

To town on the river road, shift gears in a pattern, grasp the wheel with a firm grip.
"Could meet Billy Joe on that blind corner. He's due back from an earlier trip."
Then Lewis Mill hill. The stories it could tell about truckers and the stunts they pull.
I remember one time Ma missed a gear and stalled halfway up that hill.
She restarted the truck, put it in dual low. Getting it to move forward, proved too much.
The throttle knob's gone, she only has two feet--for the brake, gas pedal and clutch.
Ma said a prayer and gritted her teeth. Did fancy foot work and after a long while,
Uphill she started, looked and to her disgrace, traffic was backed up a half mile.
She waved them around, one by one, as she gradually made her way to the top.
For she knew in low gear she had it made, and she wasn't going to chance another stop.
She must have made national news that day, because as she rolled onto the scale,
"Didn't expect you this soon," says Ron. "Heard you had a little trouble on the hill."
But Ma had learned her lesson well and didn't blink an eye.
"Oh, this old truck acts up once in a while" was Ma's matter-of-fact reply.
But that hands-on experience proved to be a blessing in disguise.
Because after it and Bear Creek hill, her stomach lost most of its butterflies.

Harvest is drawing to a close and we've got mixed emotions. There's a reason.
Trucking memories for Ma are endless, as she recalls her sum of seasons.
There's those nightmares of the downtown hill with the Muddy Mo opposite its summit.
If brakes would fail and you didn't make the corner, into the river you'd plummet.
Ma has rehearsed with every load as she's journeyed down that steep hill.
Would she bail out before she picked up speed or ride that truck through the ordeal?
One plan of action she's devised and she has Tri County Trust to thank.
She could make a sizeable grain deposit at the local bank.
Aim for the telephone building or take for the bushes on the right.
No matter what the course of action, she'd pray for God's mercy with all her might.

But you're not a real trucker till you've had the "in line" experience.
Sitting and waiting your turn, where the majority of drivers are gents.
There you meet a mixed breed, some courteous and friendly.
They'll tip their hat, exchange small talk and even treat you kindly.
They're friends who'd let you know your end gate's open, or you're leaving a trail of oil.
When there's steam under the hood, they say, "Ma'am, your radiator's on the boil."
When you hear a gunshot and you know it's no truck backfire,
"Just thought I'd tell you ma'am, you've blown your back inside tire."
But just pull around them, they possess a nature of a different kind.
An overalled man (we'll call him Junior) said, "Missus, back your truck up behind mine."

"Oh, I thought you had trouble," Ma replies, "and had left for some parts."
She couldn't understand how a little thing could get a body so out of sorts.
Ma knows some of those guys are waiting for "the woman driver" to make a mistake,
when all of a sudden the ground starts to tremble, like in an earthquake.
Some poor soul was in an awful rush and now's wearing the biggest frown.
He misjudged the front of his truck--tried to run the scale office down.

Ma thinks to herself, as she sometimes does, "How did I get into this state?"
It goes way back to when she first married Dad, something to do with fate.
Dad has a golden rule, you see. Ma lives it to the letter.
"Anything anyone else does, I can do and learn to do it better."
So over the years she's graduated from a pickup to a tandem 13 speed with pride.
Now there's a great big semi and trailer sitting in their drive.
As she hurries from her 10th trip to town, Dad asks if all went fine.
"Next season, honey," she says, "My job'd be easier, driving the John Deere combine!"