Silo Filling
by Keith McUmber
PA had just thrown the last bale of hay on the wagon when I saw Jeff Nelson come across the field. In the shimmering heat waves, Jeff seemed to float above the hay stubble as he came closer. Mom stopped the tractor and we waited for Jeff.
It was not yet eight A.M. and already the sun was brutal. The day promised to be long and insufferably hot. With the final haying done, I had looked forward to going to the swimming hole, but now it seemed Jeff would change that.
“Eh Jeff. What brings you ’round?” asked dad.
“Eh Gene,” rumbled Jeff. “Pop sent me over to tell you the fillers are at the end field at Swenson’s. They started at first light and should be here in a hour.” He turned and started back across the field.
The fillers – so today was the day. I had been wishing this day would never arrive.
Mom started the tractor and we headed for the barn. It took half an hour for me and Pa to off-load the hay, and then we waited for the crews and the big silo filler to arrive.
Ma was already in the kitchen, grumbling about having no notice to get things ready, and stirring up a big jug of lemonade.
The first tractor and wagon rolled into our yard. Soon everyone had arrived and the filler was set up. The first wagons headed into the field, and we were ready to begin silo filling.
One crew would stay at the silo to off-load the wagons and to feed the silo filler. The rest were in the field collecting the shocks of corn. I hoped that this year I would be on a field crew and NOT in the silo again.
But as the crews dispersed, I again found myself the one sent inside the silo, tramping the silage into layers, and directing the overhead flow all down around me. How I hated the silage raining around my head as I walked around and around, corn chaff working into every crevice of my body, and into my very soul. The roar of the machinery was deafening, and waves of green dust hung in the quivering heat until even the bandana I wore over my mouth and nose wilted and fell from my face in despair.
Just as I was ready to sink into the silage and let it bury me, the machinery ground to a stop. My ears rang from the thundering quiet. I climbed out through one of the silo doors, grateful that it was finally lunch time.
By the time I got to the house, I saw that the women had arrived to feed the crew, and that the front hall door had been removed to use as a serving table. All our chairs were out in the shade of the front lawn, and blankets covered the ground.
The men all stood around the cow tank washing in the fresh water. I waited silently for my turn, and spent the time scraping green sticky corn chaff from my eyes and mouth. I washed my face and hands as best I could, and headed for the house. With every step I took, I left a cloud of corn chaff floating in the air behind me.
The first jug of cold lemonade was gone when I got to the table, so I took plain well water. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter.
The makeshift table threatened to buckle under the weight: cold roast beef, cold chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, scalloped potatoes, bean salad, big juicy tomatoes, onions, radishes, bread, jelly jam, honey, ice cold milk, and coffee. On a card table were pies under wax paper – apple, berry, peach, and lemon. One cake stood alone, a deep rich chocolate.
Filing my plate, I sat in the shade and listened to the men talk as I ate. Someone said that it was now over 90 degrees; I knew that in the silo it was a good fifteen degrees hotter.
The women were eating in their own group. Each had brought two dishes, and this would continue, going from farm to farm, until every family’s silos were filled. No one family could do this job alone; by teaming up, all could get their crops laid by.
My stomach full, the lazy heat took over. The soft murmur of the men’s voices quoting hog prices and crop reports droned in my ears. I drifted off to sleep.
I had just dived into a beautiful cool clear river when the toe of Pa’s boot against my leg brought me sputtering back into the glaring sun.
“Time, son.” he said.
The first wagons were already coming back with their loads, and I had to run to get into the silo.
Just as I grabbed the director rope for the chute, a deluge of wet sticky corn chaff rained over my head, filling my eyes and throat. Coughing, I choked up a wad of green slime and spit it out. I cursed corn.
By days end, the north field had been cleared, and the seventh door in the silo had been locked in place. I knew that the West field was small; only one more day of this torment would keep me from my swimming hole.
