Spring Work Begins...Not Really

            How long does it take you to get ready for work? An hour in front of the mirror? A week to prep for that big meeting? How often does your stomach get tied in knots in anticipation for a big day on the job? Once a year? Once a month if you’re really lucky?

            For wheat farmers on the Palouse it takes about six months. In November they sow the winter wheat into the fields, and then put everything to bed. They leave the fields hoping and praying for a thick blanket of snow, not only to cover the small tender sprouts of wheat that may have popped through just after planting, but also so that they can snowmobile.

            In general, this is their vacation time. It’s the time when they sleep in, they play, they actually see their families, and remember what it is like to sit down to a good hot meal with their wives and children. This lollygagging atmosphere in the home of a farm family lasts in most cases until after Christmas, sometimes New Years Day.

            But then something changes. No, it’s not in the meals that are cooked, or the time the farmer still tries to ride out with this family. It’s in his eyes. It’s the way he stands in the window with his coffee and stares out at the snow. Now, instead of racing out in the snow like a kid out of school for a snow day, he grumbles something indiscernible. You smile and note the date on the calendar, and the conditions outside. It’s snowy for sure, but there is also a ray of sunshine that has broken through the clouds and illuminated the crystalline snow.

            “What’d you say?”

            He turns around and looks at you as if he just realized that you were in the kitchen with him, like you have been for the last two months at breakfast time.

            “Huh?” he says.

            “What’d you say? You said something.”

            “I did?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Oh.”

            He takes another drink of his coffee and then sets the cup on the counter. He stares at the shimmering snow again. The movement on the ground is taunting him. He feels a movement in his blood something akin to the dancing crystals on the ground. He turns back to you. The look itself is a question, but you know better than to answer it. You take a drink of your own coffee hiding the knowing smile on your face.

            “I’m going out to the shop?” he says.

            This should be a statement, but those six words are full of a thousand questions that you hope he will not articulate. Can I go out there? Will you be mad at me if I go back to work already? Is it too soon?

            “I saw the lights on in the neighbors shop yesterday,” he says.

            “Did you?”

            “Yep.”

            There is a pause. You wait intentionally, not breathing for fear that he will see that as a sign that you disapprove of his suddenly adrenaline rush.

            “Yeah,” he says. “Heard at coffee the other morning that they are almost down getting their tractors ready.”

            “That so?”

            Pause again and a longing look back out the window again. This time it is most likely for dramatic effect for your benefit.

            “I haven’t even started on mine,” he notes.

            “There’s still lots of time,” you say.

            You say it because he needs some conflict in his thought process at this point. It’s the time of year. The farmer’s brain has been on pause for too many months now. He has been father, husband, devoted handy man. His mind has been a peace for too long and he is antsy for a challenge.

            “I don’t know,” he smiles sweetly back at you. “Remember the engine problem we had on the red one last year?”

            “No,” you say.

            “Well, I do,” he says. “I’ve been thinking for a few days now that I need to get on that.”

            “Well, why don’t you?”

            The starting line tape has been cut. Permission has been granted. You can practically see his jugular vein pounding with excitement.

            “You think?”

            “Sure,” you say. “What can it hurt? The kids are in school. I have some work to do anyway. Go. Get out there. Turn your music on. Clean things up. You’ll feel better.

            “I feel fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”

            “Oh, I know,” you say. “Didn’t mean you weren’t.”  

            “You sure it’s okay?” he asks again.

            This time, he has turned from the window completely and already taken a step toward the door.

            “I mean, if you want to do something together.”

            “No,” you say. “I’m fine. Tell you what? You go, and I will make us some lunch. If you’re done by then we can have lunch together. If not -”

            Before you finish your sentence he has his hat on his, one arm in his coat and he is already out the door. You sit back, take another drink of your coffee and loudly, like you have been waiting for three months to say it you say: “Thank God!”

            That is how winter goes on a wheat farm. We are now deep into spring. It is a wet spring. It is a cold spring that does not allow for exercise, playing outside, camping, or working the soil. The tractors are ready. The sprayer is ready. The trucks are ready. Even the combines are ready for harvest.

            We always hope to be in the field before Easter. Easter was on Sunday April 24 this year. It is one day shy of being the very latest day that Easter has ever landed after the solstice. The next time Easter will be this late will be on April 25, 2038.

            Yesterday, the Monday after Easter I flagged the tractor out to the first field. Our hired man was in it for one hour, dodging the mud holes, before he was rained out. If I ever thought my husband was antsy before, I was wrong. Just having him walk in the door brings a cold wind and a tension that could break those windows he stared calmly out months ago. Therefore, I think this is a good year for a diary, and each day I will try and keep you informed.