Some of the neighbors are picking corn. We're not, yet, but it won't be long. It's important not to be first, because yield reports have to be adjusted to the neighborhood levels. That is: the stories have to be adjusted, not the yield monitor. Although that's important, as well.
My wife Julie was once at a meeting with a farmer from southeast Missouri while I was combining. I sent her a text with instructions to forward to Dan: my yield monitor is reporting yields of 220 bushels per acre. Without missing a beat, he recommended that I recalibrate my monitor.
It's important that reported yields be good enough, but not too good. In bad years, it's ok to have the lowest yields; while in good years, it's important not to brag too much.
My favorite stories are harvest stories, and the best ones revolve around disasters. Yep, I'll always remember last year, when our yields were fantastic, and breakdowns were at, but didn't exceed, the expected level. To quote Lyle Lovett, last year we operated at an "acceptable level of ecstasy."
The combine we had when I began farming had a cab that leaked so bad the operator would end the day covered in a half inch of bean dust. That fall we never went a day without going to John Deere for parts. At the end of the season, I caught the offending combine on fire. I leaped from the cab, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and started dowsing the flames. My brother Brooks arrived on the scene, surveyed the situation, and with perfect timing, asked if I really wanted to put the fire out.
I remember the last year my grandfather ran the combine. Eighty-five years old, he couldn't hear the monitors, and once managed to keep the combine heading forward long enough to force shelled grain out the front of the feeder house.
Then there was the day we turned over a truck full of grain….the year that it didn't rain until September, when it rained 14 inches in two days...a couple years ago, when I ran over the diesel pump and broke a 2-inch line running from an 8,000-gallon tank. My dad happened to be standing nearby, and reached down and turned the valve off. He did this without visible sign of emotion, or comment of any kind.
When you are in your 70s, you face disaster with an equanimity that can only be admired. I'm striving for that state, but haven't reached it yet.
Down corn debacle A couple years ago, we had some down corn in 3/4 mile long rows. We combined it one way, at 1.5 miles an hour. You have time to contemplate the world situation while you are driving back empty, and even more time to think when you are traveling at 1.5 miles an hour. I spent my time reliving all the mistakes I'd made in my life, starting with the decision to become a farmer.
But all disasters pale when compared to my favorite combine tale. Grandpa always ran the new machine. He went home at 6 p.m., and then my brothers and I got our chance. Kevin ran the first few nights. Brooks took his turn. Finally, a week into harvest, I got my chance. I climbed in and checked out all the controls. Tuned the radio. Lined up with the rows, and I was off.
It was quiet, the air conditioner worked perfectly, the machine was running as smoothly as only a new piece of equipment can. I reached the other end of the field, checked the gauges and monitors, and headed back. About halfway through the field, the combine hiccupped once, and stopped. Ceased. Kaput.
Permanently.
The gnomes at John Deere had neglected to secure the air cleaner intake at the factory, and we'd been sucking in bean dust for a week. No sign of problems until the engine breathed its last.
I love harvest, and I really don't know why, as I look back on harvests past. Maybe it's because the first few weeks of harvest tend to be the best weather we receive all year. Maybe it's because of the feeling of accomplishment after a good day. Maybe it's instinctive, the sense of satisfaction one receives from laying in the next year's supply of food.
It's better though, in the week or two leading up to harvest, if I don't dwell too much on harvests past.