Per my wife's request, I am supposed to note that as I write this article, she is bustling about the kitchen, putting dishes away, preparing dinner and setting the table. She told me to mention that. For the sake of fairness, I am obliged to point out that she could be doing a better job - my glass is empty.
Let's change gears. I don't want to get in trouble.
Rewind to the middle of last week. On an unusually spectacular day, I found myself looking up, pulling my body skyward. Hand over hand; I had a pretty good rhythm. Rung by rung, I hoisted myself toward the azure heavens. Seriously, what a fantastic day; the sky looked as though it was polished with silk. Not a blemish anywhere, bar the dust cloud I was slowly approaching.
This would be the last time this year. I gritted my teeth and smiled at the knowledge that it would be warm again, in the year 2012, before I had to once again make this trek. On this climb, I was not alone. In my left hand, I gripped a trident-sized silage fork. My right pocket sagged with the weight of several pounds of wrenches and assorted tools. An aged leather belt held my jeans in place. Without the belt, I could get halfway up and lose the entire works. What a unique picture to paint.
Almost there. My good rhythm came thanks to the multiple times I've made this journey. Left-hand grip, swing wide with the right so as not to drop the fork. Brace myself; pick up one foot and then the other. Don't bump my right pocket against the ladder; I may lose a wrench. I'd hate to have to climb twice. No safety cage, no harness. Look around, OSHA not in sight. Repeat action, for the 60 feet required to reach the summit.
At the top, I squeeze through the cage and trip the bottom. Safe at last and, man, what a view. Thanks to an entire season of performing this task, I am only slightly out of breath as I find myself atop one of my cement-stave silos. I am 60 feet in the air, suspended on a platter-sized sheet of tin. I also realize, I am in the midst of the dust cloud that I looked up at moments ago.
It is early October, and I am putting up the last of the forage that my herd of cows will require for the winter ahead. I am not alone. Sixty feet below me, my dad is operating the equipment that unloads the silage. Effortlessly, the machinery unloads tons of feed and shoots it to the apex of the structure I now find myself standing upon. A hood directs the feed into the depths of the concrete cylinder, which is now quite full. My job is to maneuver the hood so that this last bit of feed fills evenly. Better to let the machinery do the work.
I close my eyes, inhale a lungful of clean air, and stick my head into the dust cloud. The hood has done its work; very little adjustment is required. I have a few minutes before Dad is finished unloading the wagon, so I take in this incredible view that I have earned.
Looking straight down, I see the machinery that is unloading the forage. They appear small, gleaming bright green in the midday sun. From this height they are not imposing or even impressive. I am reminded of the toys I used to play with as a child. As I find myself in this familiar situation, the same weird thought crosses my mind: if I were to jump, would the tin roof of the wagon break my fall? Would I bounce innocuously away like in the wild stories of paratroopers who lived through a failed chute? In the event of a fall, would I have the presence of mind to fold myself, or would I flail wildly? What strange thinking, indeed.
I shake my head and look about my surroundings. To the north, a neighbor is getting a head start on autumn tillage. Above the din of my own equipment, I can hear his snort wildly against the earthen load it is ripping. Elsewhere, I see the fall harvest in full bloom. Fields of corn have bronzed. Acres of soybeans have dropped their leaves, their pods drying and cracking in this October sun. I wonder how many souls get to take this in, to appreciate this view.
These fields will soon be descended upon by massive exoskeletal machines, devouring every plant with the voracious appetite of millions of weevils. What I see, from 60 feet up, is just the beginning. The fields will be stripped of their bounty, an entire year's worth of productivity. The golden corn kernels, the pale soybeans will be weighed, their producer paid for his or her effort. The product of one field will be mixed with the product of other fields. Laissez-faire; they are totally indistinguishable from each other.
The corn, the soybeans can go anywhere. Some may get processed locally for a plethora of consumerism totally contrasting their appearance to me, now. Others may be loaded upon a vessel that transports them across the planet, to a faraway market, where foreign eyes will gaze upon them not unlike I do now, but in a different state.
From my vantage point, I can see where it all begins. It is beautiful: the epicenter of productivity, and that which is good. What a bountiful October this looks to be.
Oh, and not to dredge up old business, but hey, my glass is still empty.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
Let's change gears. I don't want to get in trouble.
Rewind to the middle of last week. On an unusually spectacular day, I found myself looking up, pulling my body skyward. Hand over hand; I had a pretty good rhythm. Rung by rung, I hoisted myself toward the azure heavens. Seriously, what a fantastic day; the sky looked as though it was polished with silk. Not a blemish anywhere, bar the dust cloud I was slowly approaching.
This would be the last time this year. I gritted my teeth and smiled at the knowledge that it would be warm again, in the year 2012, before I had to once again make this trek. On this climb, I was not alone. In my left hand, I gripped a trident-sized silage fork. My right pocket sagged with the weight of several pounds of wrenches and assorted tools. An aged leather belt held my jeans in place. Without the belt, I could get halfway up and lose the entire works. What a unique picture to paint.
Almost there. My good rhythm came thanks to the multiple times I've made this journey. Left-hand grip, swing wide with the right so as not to drop the fork. Brace myself; pick up one foot and then the other. Don't bump my right pocket against the ladder; I may lose a wrench. I'd hate to have to climb twice. No safety cage, no harness. Look around, OSHA not in sight. Repeat action, for the 60 feet required to reach the summit.
At the top, I squeeze through the cage and trip the bottom. Safe at last and, man, what a view. Thanks to an entire season of performing this task, I am only slightly out of breath as I find myself atop one of my cement-stave silos. I am 60 feet in the air, suspended on a platter-sized sheet of tin. I also realize, I am in the midst of the dust cloud that I looked up at moments ago.
It is early October, and I am putting up the last of the forage that my herd of cows will require for the winter ahead. I am not alone. Sixty feet below me, my dad is operating the equipment that unloads the silage. Effortlessly, the machinery unloads tons of feed and shoots it to the apex of the structure I now find myself standing upon. A hood directs the feed into the depths of the concrete cylinder, which is now quite full. My job is to maneuver the hood so that this last bit of feed fills evenly. Better to let the machinery do the work.
I close my eyes, inhale a lungful of clean air, and stick my head into the dust cloud. The hood has done its work; very little adjustment is required. I have a few minutes before Dad is finished unloading the wagon, so I take in this incredible view that I have earned.
Looking straight down, I see the machinery that is unloading the forage. They appear small, gleaming bright green in the midday sun. From this height they are not imposing or even impressive. I am reminded of the toys I used to play with as a child. As I find myself in this familiar situation, the same weird thought crosses my mind: if I were to jump, would the tin roof of the wagon break my fall? Would I bounce innocuously away like in the wild stories of paratroopers who lived through a failed chute? In the event of a fall, would I have the presence of mind to fold myself, or would I flail wildly? What strange thinking, indeed.
I shake my head and look about my surroundings. To the north, a neighbor is getting a head start on autumn tillage. Above the din of my own equipment, I can hear his snort wildly against the earthen load it is ripping. Elsewhere, I see the fall harvest in full bloom. Fields of corn have bronzed. Acres of soybeans have dropped their leaves, their pods drying and cracking in this October sun. I wonder how many souls get to take this in, to appreciate this view.
These fields will soon be descended upon by massive exoskeletal machines, devouring every plant with the voracious appetite of millions of weevils. What I see, from 60 feet up, is just the beginning. The fields will be stripped of their bounty, an entire year's worth of productivity. The golden corn kernels, the pale soybeans will be weighed, their producer paid for his or her effort. The product of one field will be mixed with the product of other fields. Laissez-faire; they are totally indistinguishable from each other.
The corn, the soybeans can go anywhere. Some may get processed locally for a plethora of consumerism totally contrasting their appearance to me, now. Others may be loaded upon a vessel that transports them across the planet, to a faraway market, where foreign eyes will gaze upon them not unlike I do now, but in a different state.
From my vantage point, I can see where it all begins. It is beautiful: the epicenter of productivity, and that which is good. What a bountiful October this looks to be.
Oh, and not to dredge up old business, but hey, my glass is still empty.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
