Yesterday I noticed that my posting this year has been rather pathetic but for good reason. Between the four beauties in the bin of this combine and the combine itself I just can't seem to sit down long enough to get a coherent sentence out.
After I realized how little I've written this year (136 posts last year, 33 so far this year) I decided to try to do better. Then I looked around the office (to save Vinnie's pride and protect his privacy I didn't take a photo) and realized something must be done to restore order. My first task was to clear out the Official Used Car Guides from 2005 so they could join their cousins dating back to the early 90's in the granery.
As soon as I got started on my little office project I got the "farming call" in which I was instructed to fill up four gas cans and meet him at the school where there were beans to be combined and to make sure to take my phone in case he broke down on the way. ALL of our farm equipment is older than me and some probably older than my grandma so running out of fuel is usually the least of our problems.
I grabbed the cash, the dog and headed up town in the Ford farm truck, not to be confused with the Chevy farm *uck (Gibby couldn't say t's when he was younger and it earned itself a nickname). By the time I met Vinnie at the field he was already broke down and I was further instructed to sit it the cab and push levers around while he shoved his arm in little doors and tried to unclogged the belts. Fortunately the combine did not eat my husband and all his appendages were still attached. This grand success brought about an offer to "Go for a round?" Anyone that is a farmer's wife knows that if you turn your husband down for a ride in the combine to see the glory of their labor pouring into the bin is like turning down their plea for s*x. The dog was waiting in the truck eyeing the free newspaper Vinnie found on the side of the road and was insistent I keep because it was free (we already had this issue and I'm sure it was a school board member that tossed it because of the incriminating article on the front page), but I knew better so I said sure with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
I'm sure new combines run nice and smooth but this baby is from 1967 and it vibrates like a bed in a motel I once slept on where you could put quarters in the little bedside machine. My job tonight was to to keep my eye on the belt that caused the back-up in the first place because "If that thing stops moving it'll clog like a nun's (you fill in the blank because I just can't print what he said)." It didn't clog, we didn't get stuck in the mud, we didn't hit the telephone poles scattered in the field, and we didn't mess up the school yard (even though I told Vinnie our school board is VERY supportive of farmers and he had nary a worry if he did any damage).
We made our round and I was free to return to my dog and the now chewed up free newspaper.
Now the office is slightly cleaner with much less dust and things (really, "things" is the only way to describe the vast amount of stuff found under his paperwork) and I can get back to blogging until he moves onto the next field.