Summers with Dad

This time of year, believe it or not... is hard for me.  Most everybody else is getting geared up for summer.  Hair is getting lighter, skin is getting darker, drinks are going into the coolers, music is getting turned up a little louder, and water is beginning to get warmer.  Here I am, thinking of memories of sitting in the cab of a windrower or combine driving around in circles for 10 or more hours a day.

When I think back, my summers have always consisted of some sort of farming.  My dad taught me how to drive everything.  I remember my summers being spent with my dad.

My memories go back to an age I'm not quite sure of.  However, I remember my red Mickey Mouse alarm clock (the loud ringing bell kind), my Igloo lunch box that was turquoise and yellow, and my first pair of work boots.  I can remember waking up with Mickey, attempting to pack my own lunch, and getting dressed and ready to go to the farm with Dad.  My dad has worked for Knife River (formerly Morse Bros.) driving a cement mixer my entire life.  You do the math, we've already established that I'm now 30 years old.  He has, for as long as I can remember, taken 2 weeks off during the summer-time to work on the farm.  His friend's farm, to help out.  That was his vacation.  Something he enjoyed doing... mom probably would have wanted to go on an actual vacation, but dad's heart needed the tractors.  The smell of ripening ryegrass, diesel fumes, and a plethora of dust and dirt.
I always took a pillow with me, despite the cabs being small and quite cramped back then... I always found a place to curl up and sleep.  When I wasn't napping on the floor, I was sitting either in dads lap or right next to him.  I can very distinctly remember driving a combine, sitting on dad's lap.  I turned around, and his head was tipped back sleeping.  I woke him up at every corner because I was worried I couldn't do it myself.

The first time I had to squat to pee in the field was an experience of it's own.  I was with dad, he didn't know how to explain how to squat, he didn't have to worry about that.  It's easy for boys to pee when you're out in the field.  But dad treated me just like the boys that were out there.  The first time was pretty painless... I had dad there to run interference.  But as I got older and began driving equipment on my own during the summer, it became more difficult.  Being the only girl on the crew out in the field, if my machine came to a stop (so that I could get out and pee), here came the boss in the pickup bombing across the field to make sure I hadn't broken down or plugged or something.  There's no telling how many times boss-man saw my little white rear-end.  I had to get creative.  Spacing myself perfectly with the other people driving, and waiting until the furthest corner away to ensure extra time, or making sure I could do the first round so that I could be right up next to the tree line for some privacy.

Dad teaching me how to pull the 18-bottom plow.

All of the things that I know had to quickly become common knowledge.  Every single bit of it came from my dad at some point.  He taught me how to drive, how to drive straight, how to turn a corner, how to round a pointed corner so that it was easier for the next driver to get his header in the small space to cut the grass.  He showed me how to look at my sickle bar and check for problems.  He bought me my first pocket knife to pluck the mud out from under my guards, and to cut the straw out of my header when I plugged it.  He taught me to pack more food than you'll need, just in case you work longer hours and need more to eat.  Not to mention, you eat when you're bored... which is a lot.  He showed me the basics of driving a seed truck.  He showed me how to combine the first row of a field with a lot of trees... how to slowly inch my header in there to suck up the swath and then back away and take a different angle to get back in there so that the tree branches didn't scratch the machine or break something important in the rear end where my straw chopper, fans, and engine were located.  He gave me enough confidence and enough independence to become good at these things.  When I did something wrong, or broke something because I had made a mistake, dad and the boss gave me just enough hollering to make me not want to let them down again, and enough constructive criticism to do better next time and be more careful.  I learned to have my coffee drank by the time I got to the shop in the morning so that I can use the restroom before we head out to the field.  I learned to top a truck, on the go with the New Zealand kiwi driving and hanging out the window throwing hand signals my way before the days of being in a machine that had a functioning CB radio.

When dad's vacation was over and I was out there by myself, he came out almost every night.  Bringing a cold brew to the boss, sitting around the bed of a pickup, chit-chatting about the day's production as the crew finished up and so anxiously awaited the dust to settle in and lay down, making it almost impossible to see your swath in front of you.  Round and round you'd go, looking towards the trucks where we'd park the machines for the night, waiting and waiting for those headlights to flash 2 or 3 times... signaling us to come in for the night and park them to cool down.

The first time I drove a large piece of equipment down the road, I was 14  years old.  Everyone believed I was responsible enough to do it.  I, myself was nervous.  Somebody always came and helped me.  If anything, boss would trade me... he would drive my combine and I would follow slowly in his pickup.  But the first time I had to... we were short handed.  My dad was out there (I think it was on a weekend) helping.  He had left the field to take a full seed truck to the warehouse.  He wasn't back in time to help us with the move.  So boss said I had to drive it on my own.  I'd be the middle combine, with somebody leading the way in front of me and someone behind me.  He had faith that I could do it by myself.  It was one of the longest "road-trips" we had on the farm.  2 fields that were pretty far away from each other.  I succeeded.  I made it to the field, I didn't hit anything.  Everybody was safe and sound.  Except for my dad.  He still wasn't back and it wasn't until later that evening when my mom came to pick me up that I'd been informed that while driving to the warehouse in the truck, he'd been t-boned by someone driving a hay squeeze (semi truck in the front, fork lift in the back).  Mom took me from the farm to the scene of the wreck.  All I can really remember was the cab of the truck was not where it was supposed to be, sitting crooked on the frame of the truck.  Dad had gone for quite a ride, having flipped over onto it's side after impact.  The person driving the hay squeeze had run the stop sign.  Besides a hurt knee and being slightly rattled, dad was okay.

Dad and I enjoying some R&R last summer.  WCMF '15.

As an adult, even up until just a few years ago, I was following in my father's footsteps.  Taking a 2 week vacation during the summer months to help on the farm when I was needed.  It is a relaxing change of pace, leaving a desk job and being outside, in the sunshine, getting dirty, and helping a farmer get their crop in.  It's a good feeling, a sense of accomplishment.  Each day you can see how much you've gotten done.  How many acres you've windrowed, how much you've gotten thrashed. Or if your turning dirt, how many more hours will it take? And should you just keep going until you're done, whether that puts you home at 9pm or 1am.  I quickly learned after high school was over and I was working full time, that I too, just like my father had diesel running through my veins.  Dust belonged in my ears, I enjoy the horsepower, I like wearing my jeans and boots to work each day, putting my hair in a pony tail and being left to drive.

Best 4th of July ever.  Sneaking selfies and
chatting dad's ear off in the combine.

Each spring, I hear from my dad that this is his last summer helping out on the farm.  I always bring to his attention that he has said that same thing for the past 5 years... but it's always the same old song and dance.  This year really is the last.  Most recently, even though I was not taking the time off to work during the summer, I did spend my 4th of July in the combine with my dad.   Just like the summer that we spent the 4th of July evening cutting a field late into the night.  Watching fireworks from the dark cab of the windrower. Like I said, this time of year is almost bitter sweet.  I miss farming with my dad.  I miss being involved.  Don't get me wrong, I have fun summer plans this year.  Lots of camping trips and plans to enjoy my summer and wonderful warm weather.

But I'll always miss my summers with dad.  It wasn't just my summer job.  It was my best childhood memories and I cherish them.