The Mean Machine

She sits on the tractor, holding the engine heater switch, waiting for the motor to warm up, looking idly at the finger-nails on her other hand, smiling ruefully at the sight of one lonely longer nail. These certainly aren't the hands of a secretary anymore. "You two become farmers? You must be joking! You'll be back to the city inside three months!" Ha! How little her friends and workmates really knew her, or her husband, and what really lay underneath their city image. True, she has never worked harder physically, or in worse conditions, or for so little financial reward (as yet), but for her there is supreme satisfaction in working the land; of life revolving around the seasons; of spending twenty four hours a day with her man, working together to build their future.

She turns to look at the tall 'Hurricane' forage harvester, and even taller catching bin, both waiting to trail behind her tractor. A part of her will never get used to the oddity of operating all this big machinery, and yet she loves it; gets a feeling of power somehow, and excitement. Okay, engine warm enough now, turn the ignition keyand the tractor shudders into life. Ear muffs on now and shift the lever to engage the harvester. Now the noise begins to build up as the cutting blades start to slowly turn and swing, gathering speed, up and up, to their wildest rotation. Lift the revs higher now, tractor into gear, hand brake off, clutch out slowly...and start moving.

Today they will finish making the silage they have worked on all week, between milking cows and feeding calves. She will again be mowing the grasses, grown tall in the past months; whilst her husband stacks the loads on the wedge-shaped stack (grown huge now). He lifts the heaps with the buck-rake on the back of their other tractor...dropping, building and compacting. That's the part she hates. When he backs up to the high edge to compact the stack, and the heavy steel rake hangs far out over the edge, seeming to defy the laws of gravity and balance, and then he changes into forward gear and the tractor slips back a fraction more. Until the wheels grip, she experiences a heart-stopping moment. She imagines the tractor somersaulting over in slow motion...but it never does. He knows what he is doing.

Don't dwell on that part. Eyes on the cutting now. She does it well, and is proud of having learnt to line up a spot on the bonnet of the tractor to get the maximum width cut, without missing any rows. Even some of the older farmers around compliment her on this evenness...and she glows, remembering their praise. Carefully around the corners, especially this bottom one...the bin leans a bit on this one, and gives her a momentary chill. Back onto the straight length again, relax a little now, and enjoy the wind in her hair and face, and the fresh, clean smell of the new-mown grass as it's cut, thrown up through the funnel of the harvester, into the bin.

Watch that bin -- it's getting really full. Can she make it to the end of this round? Close! Yes, it's okay. She stops, disengages the power driving the harvester, and the noise drops dramatically - she forgets just how loud it is, until she stops...and her ears continue to ring for a few minutes. Over to the stack, as close as possible; stop again; stretch far back and grasp the handle that opens the whole back section for the load to drop out. Give the accelerator pedal a couple of quick taps to jerk the tractor, shake out all the remaining grass, and slam the big door shut again. A wave and a grin to her husband, and she's away.

Round after round goes by, with an ever-shrinking area left. Sometimes she smiles as she drives. Her thoughts often drift to how it was in a small, air-conditioned office all day, head down, fingers tap-tapping, never exposed to the extremes of the weather...so comfortable! She shudders...that would give her claustrophobia now. She feels so alive -- working in harmony with her world -- the seasons, weather, and animals dictating the jobs for each day, And while each day brings something different, everything is done to the rhythmic pattern of life and death.

Last round! Just criss-cross the paddock to clean up the corners, and come back to the stack for the final time. The supreme joy of turning everything off, and climbing down. She's stiff and sore in her spine now, and suddenly painfully aware of it. She walks around, arching and rubbing her back, watching the last load go on, and the final compaction for the day. Finally it is done, and they both walk around the stack, admiring the quantity and quality of the grass this year; and then, of course, up on top of the stack to its highest point.

They stand there, arms around each other, looking out over their cows peacefully grazing, and in the incredible quiet after the noise of the day's work, they can once again hear the birds, and a lamb in the distance, calling for its mother. She knows her husband shares not only her aching tiredness, but also her deep satisfaction in a job well done. Now the cows are assured of moist feed during the dry months, to keep them milking well -- and that keeps a smile on everyone's face -- including the bank manager! She sighs contentedly. She wouldn't swap this work or this life with anyone.

© 2010 Christine Larsen All Rights Reserved

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