The best?

I had a great Tuesday this past week. Our work gets off on election day and I must admit that it was the best election day that I have ever had. In fact, its greatness coupled with the memories that I shared in last week's blog triggered the memory for the second best election day of my life.  I was in 2nd grade; attending Ingalls elementary. The polling place in Ingalls and Green township was held in our 2nd grade classrooms. As a consequence, the 2nd grade class got the day off on election day.

Well the fall of 1969 coincided with my 2nd grade year. Second grade was a great year for me. Mrs. Manifold taught us about homonyms that year. She had a large piece (peace) of butcher paper that she would write, (right, rite) the homonyms, discovered by we students, on and keep track of them during the course (coarse) of the year. She would spur us on to greatness with (I am sure in hindsight) bogus comparisons with other smarter classes that she had taught. We were proud of ourselves when we came up with the biggies; two, to and too, (The two boys were too smug until they had to go to the principal's office.) there, their, they're, (They're over there looking for their books.) Then at the 104th entry I pointed out on a dare that but and butt were homonyms. Mrs. Manifold's non-plused response do my definitions that "yes, butt is also the end of a cigarette." emboldened me that dam and damn should go on the list. (Is it any wonder I consider myself a word smith?) And  to her credit it went up there (they're, their). Number 111. I lost interest after all of the risque words were used up.

The spring of my second grade year also saw my father make the required Sharritt male (mail) sacrifice to the limb gods. Three fingers on his left hand in a farming accident were his generation's contribution. I have been fortunate to not make my contribution yet. I remember being picked up by my grand mother who said that he hurt his hand at the elevator. I remember saying that it was impossible for him to hurt his hand at the elevator. However, she insisted that it was the elevator where he hurt his hand. I was right of course. He couldn't hurt his hand at the elevator but the forage chopper was another story.

Finally, my second grade year gave me what was until last Tuesday my favorite election day memory. It had been an incredibly wet fall. We had not gotten all of the soybean cut and put into the bin and it was November. Which meant that it would be January before we finished picking corn. Picking corn in January is no fun. It was election eve. The beans weren't combined yet. It was just drying enough from the last rain to get back into the field and the weatherman was promising heavy rains (reigns) for the next three days. We had a farming acquaintance that had finished combining soybeans already and was willing to earn extra money doing combining for (four) other farmers. Dad acquired his services and the race to get finished before the rain was on.

Mom took dinner to the field that night. I went with her and I convinced dad to let me stay with him since I did not have school the next day. I don't remember much until around 9:00 when we had to change fields. The farm that we moved to had, like all farms in the 60's, fences around all of the fields. The gates into the field were 10 footers plenty big enough to accommodate our modest farm equipment. But, 10 feet (feat) was too small for the 12 foot header on the machine doing the work that evening. We tried everything. We tried putting one (won) end through on an angle and then turning the wheels sharply to wiggle the head through. No (know) go. We tried blocking one side of the combine up thereby tilting the head so that it go through on the diagonal. That would not work either. So dad decided to cut the fence, pull it back and let the combine through.

I remember his anguish at doing that. First, he believed that you could never restore a cut fence. It was never as tight after the splice. The splice added weakness to the fence. Second, every time he drove by (bye) that fence he would see that splice and its sight (site) would remind him that he had introduced that weakness to it. Third, no matter how late he worked that night, the job wouldn't be done until he came back on a later date to finish the job by fixing the hole (whole) in the fence. I (eye) remember him actually voicing these items one by one as I held the flash light and he worked feverishly with a pair (pear) of pliers cutting and pulling that fence apart.

Later, after getting the combine into the field, all of our wagons were getting full and we were not going to beat the rain because we had no place to put the beans. Fortunately the farmer who was combining the beans was willing to allow the use of his wagons to finish the harvest. So we hooked dad's 1954 cherry engine red (read) to the front of one of our wagons and take off for his farm. This farm was amazing. The patriarch had made all of his money in heavy construction. Though long dead, his family refuse to sell all of this huge construction equipment. The farm was a bulldozer, excavator, and crane graveyard. They were everywhere and huge to a seven year old.  And then dad took me into a barn that housed a complete saw mill that had not (knot) been operational for 15 years, but was the most amazing thing that I had ever seen (scene). There was a huge amount of equipment and was all powered by a single engine through (threw, thru) a series of pulleys, belts and shafts. I can close my eyes (ayes) even today and see (sea) a giant buzzsaw hanging from the ceiling that was so perfectly balanced that it would transit its arc (ark) with the slightest nudge of a finger.

The empty wagons made (maid) their way back to the field in time for the race against the rain to continue. And about midnight the low clouds had made their way over South Madison county. The reflected Indianapolis lights off of  those hanging clouds portended how heavy they were burdened with the rain that was on its way. That is when dad started to doubt that the race would be won. But we keep on. We shuffle 3 full grain wagons back to various barns, wondering if there will be enough wagons and enough time.

I remember subcuming to fatigue around 2:00 a.m. The study thrum of the old truck. The luminous dials on the dash. The light from Indy reflecting off of those lowering clouds were getting the best of me. Finally around 2:00 a.m., dad had fixed the heater in the truck. This heater rarely worked. I swear it was a post market add-on to this truck. Can you imagine if our cars had heaters as an option? This heater had to be fixed every fall because it's exposed position in the cab made it vulnerable to the kicking feet of restless boys. We were getting cold around 1:30. Dad found some wire, crawled up under the dash and went to work. 15 minutes later we had heat and I was laying down on the fake leather seats, whose holes were covered old scratchy burlap bags, with eyes too heavy to continence the race any longer. 

Those eyes fluttering open at 5:30 that morning; wipers beating on the window. Ears hearing "go back to sleep. We got done. "And I was carried into bed.

And until last Tuesday that was my best election day memory. Now it is second.

Take care.

Roger