The land is how we made our living. In addition to planting a thousand acres of wheat, oats, barley, flax and corn, we had livestock for market and our dinner table and a large garden to ensure a well-stocked cellar.
The land produces, but only in cooperation with the weather. Farmers cannot assume they are in control. Farmers are the ultimate gamblers.
My dad was a farmer who lived in tune with the land and weather. He relied on instinct, experience and a dialogue with the heavens to guide his farming decisions.
Every spring a farmer must decide when, what and where to plant. He makes a commitment to the land and must lovingly tend and cultivate that crop through the growing season. Upon harvest, decisions begin all over again. What fields to harvest first, when to sell, where to store it and, because a farmer must race against time, whether to hire custom combine crews to help with the harvest.
A typical harvest day meant early breakfast when Dad would dictate which son worked which field. Noon meals, often eaten in the fields, included consultation about soil conditions, yields, machinery repair and often a call for “Who’s available to run to town for machinery parts?” The workday ended with a late supper when the day was assessed and plans were made for the next day.
In memory, such days were always tension charged, as our financial future lay ready for harvest. Everyone worked together, always with an eye to the sky. We all shared the concern, but Dad carried the load.
The North Dakota horizon is endless. Even on our farm where the groves of trees called “shelterbelts” ran north and south, east and west, one could see for miles, hear the distant rumble of thunder and wait to see if the crops we had tended and nurtured were at risk by the hand of nature.
After supper Dad parked himself on the front steps searching the sky for weather signs. A farmer knows that the clouds above could turn dark and dangerous, or that the quiet stillness and extreme heat might easily bump into a Canadian front, resulting in unpleasant weather activity that could cripple the harvest, or worse, destroy the crop.
Dad smoked one cigarette after another, the roll-your-own kind made from a can of tobacco in his front pocket - Sir Walter Raleigh or Prince Albert - his royalty of choice. Fred, the loyal collie dog, tail wagging by his side, was tuned to his master’s mood and scanned the sky, growling or whining his opinion while Dad prayed for a clear sky to bless the harvest.
Our financial future was at the mercy of the heavens. No radar weather station was available to predict our fate.
A day that often began at 6 a.m. might not end until Dad surrendered his sky-watch on the front steps long after twilight.
Dad relied on instinct. Perhaps he consulted my mother regarding farm decisions, I don’t remember. My brothers were included in farm discussions as were my uncles on neighboring farms, but the final decisions belonged to Dad. He operated on raw courage and took huge risks. By his own admission, it worked well and he encountered his share of luck. But I believe that his personal success hinged most of all on his attitude. You see, Dad loved his work and accepted with dignity and without complaint whatever fate the heavens declared.
That is the most important lesson we children learned from our dad, the PRAIRIE GAMBLER.
Carol Just – Prairie lights - 2011
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