The Last Harvest

By Janna L. Graber

Published in Literary Fragments, Vol. 8: Summer Trails

The heat was stifling, like a dense cloud that clung to the ground, robbing of energy and strength.  The Colorado sun sat high above in a clear blue sky, bearing down fiercely on the eastern plains of the Centennial state.

Joe Hoffman had spent the morning indoors, trying unsuccessfully to escape the summer heat.  The small bright kitchen, where he sat attempting to read the paper, offered no relief from the dry, stale air.  Hoping to find a cool breeze, Joe opened the front door of the farmhouse that had been the family legacy for three generations.

With slow, deliberate pace, he walked out onto the porch. The sagging wooden planks creaked in protest with each step, but Joe took no notice.  At the porch rail he stopped, and stood silently, overlooking the fields.  He could barely make out the wavering outlines of the machinery working in the west fields; their blurred images the only break in the expanse of land that seemed to go on forever.  Joe strained to make out the soft whir of the combines, a type of lullaby he had come to love. 

Harvest was late this year.  The spring rains had been good, and Joe knew that this crop would be profitable.  Out of habit, he wiped the sweat from his brow with a worn sleeve, and mentally began calculating his costs.  It was no easy job to coax growth from the soil, year after year, depending on nature to determine the resulting crop.  Sometimes the rewards were few.  There were years that were a constant struggle.  Still, working the land by his own hand gave Joe the sense of freedom he craved.  In truth, he had no regrets. 

This was the year of his 75th harvest.  He had spent most of those years in this house, sitting on the same porch.  As was expected of him, he had entered the fields at age six.  Sure, there had been times when he had dreamed of other things, of new professions, and exciting places.  But Joe had felt the ties, pulling him back so he could not leave.  Giving in to them, Joe had carefully gathered knowledge from those who had gone before him, and had learned how to succeed with the dry western soil.  It was a challenge he relished.   

Joe’s gait was slower now, and he could no longer swing his legs to climb into the farm equipment.  Five years ago, he had reluctantly turned over management of the place to his grandson, Dave.  Dave was a good boy, and did a fine job.  Still, it was hard for Joe to admit that he could no longer contribute as he had.  He knew his moment had come and gone.

Whether he liked it or not (and he didn’t), times were changing.  Large corporations were taking over the land now, and family farms were becoming fewer and fewer.  Maybe it was better that Dave was running the business now anyway.  Better, that is, for everyone but me, Joe thought.   

The warm breeze that fluttered through the porch was a welcome relief to the heat.  The old man pulled off his hat, and ran tanned and callused fingers through his graying hair, cooling himself for a brief moment.  Pulling his cap back into place, Joe stretched his arms out behind him, searching for the chair that had sat on the porch, facing north, for the past twenty-two years.  His trembling hands found the arms of the rickety seat, and Joe slowly lowered his aging body into it.

He had always hated weakness, and he felt a wave of disgust ebb through him.  His mind still saw the arms of a strong young man, arms that had moved heavy equipment with ease.  How was it then, that this morning he had spilled his coffee, unable to lift the full cup to his lips without trembling?  He had become what he mocked.  The legs that had carried him through long hard days in the fields now stumbled to reach his bed.  And was it his imagination, or was the bright sunlight growing dimmer with each day?  Apprehension gnawed at Joe’s stomach, burning and turning relentlessly. 

Trying to put his mind at ease, the farmer glanced toward the county road that ran along his property line.  Yes, the sounds of an approaching car roaring up the dirt road were unmistakable.  He lazily watched as a car slowed to turn down the lane that led to the farmhouse. 

Finally, the blue Pontiac pulled into the dirt driveway that sat in front of the house and stopped.  Joe knew the car well, and wondered if Chris had brought the boys.  His nephew, Chris Hartson, lived almost three hours away in Denver.  They didn’t come visit much.  Perhaps Chris and his family were headed to Kansas and were just stopping by.  Yes, that had to be it.  They were just passing through town and were stopping to say hello.  Then Joe held his breath, because another thought had occurred to him.  Perhaps it was actually good-bye.  Had Myrna told them the doctor’s words?

Last week, at the doctor’s office, Joe had known.  He had seen it in their eyes.  Did Myrna really think he wouldn’t notice the look on her face after she spoke with the doctor in his office?  Neither she nor Dr. Goldstein had said anything to Joe.  But he knew exactly what they had talked about.  They couldn’t fool him.  Joe had felt it coming for over a year now.   The doctor had warned him about it long ago, saying there was a possibility of future trouble.  At that time though, Joe was feeling strong and invincible.  The need for a doctor had seemed so unnecessary, and Joe had forgotten it.  Besides, weakness was beneath him.  

The car doors opened, and Joe could see the two little boys in the back, squirming to get out of their car seats.  Big grins covered their faces, and Joe chuckled to himself.  He heard the kitchen door slam behind him, and Myrna came rushing out to greet Chris and his family.   

Even at age 71, his wife, Myrna, still marched ahead to meet life head on.  Even after 48 years of marriage to her, Joe often marveled at her strength, yet sometimes wished she would slow down.  He didn’t like feeling left behind.  Myrna looked at life as something to be conquered and never gave in to circumstance.  Joe had often called her stubborn, but he appreciated her spirit when she was there to fill a need.  When he needed a driver, his wife jumped in to drive a combine.  She always made three good meals a day for her family, believing a big breakfast was the most important way to start the workday.  It was known all over Phillips County that Myrna was one of the best cooks around.  Even when the kids needed clothes, or a helping hand with their schoolwork, Myrna didn’t think, she just did it. 

Joe smiled at the thought of his wife.  She was a moth drawn eternally to the flame.  She would always go strong, until one day, when she would just burn out. 

Dust from the dry earth stirred as Chris’ boys jumped out of the car, and ran up the well-worn steps.  Chris and his wife followed them, hugging Myrna, and greeting Joe warmly.  Was that pity he saw in their eyes?  Joe stared back defiantly, forcing the weight from his voice.

“So how you big boys doin'?” he asked, motioning the boys to come sit next to his chair. 

“We stopped in the field and saw Dave on the combine," the oldest one exclaimed. "He let us drive it!”  

“He let you sit in his lap and steer,” the boys' mother corrected. 

“Can you drive a combine, Uncle Joe?  I liked the radio best!” the younger boy said in one breath. 

“Oh yes,” Joe replied with a grin, “I can drive it.”  He tried not to listen to the memories, stirring in the back of his mind.  That first tractor he had driven at age nine had been quite a far cry from the air-conditioned cabs his machinery had today. 

Lately the past had a way of seeming more recent.  Wasn’t it just a few years ago that he had seen his first Model T?  His children had been so small when he held them at the hospital.  How had they grown up so quickly?  With all the images and experiences that filled his mind at night, he knew he had lived a long life, and seen quite a lot.  Why then, did it all feel so short? 

The boys were sitting in the swing next to him, sipping the ice tea that Myrna had brought out.  What was it they were chattering about?  It was hard to keep the fog away that sometimes threatened to drift into his mind, stirring up his thoughts.

His eyes focused on the boys, looking up in adoration at their father, just as Joe’s son had once looked up to him.  What would those boys see in their lifetime?  Joe couldn’t help wondering what he would miss. 

“Come on boys,” their mother called, “we mustn’t tire Uncle Joe.  Why don’t you go play on the swings?”

Yes, Joe thought, appraising the concerned look on everyone’s faces.  Myrna had told them about the visit to the doctor. 

“Oh, Joe’s just fine.  Aren’t you, honey?” Myrna asked lovingly, wrapping her arms briefly around him.  A shadow passed over her face, but flitted away as she resolutely stood up to get everyone drink refills.  Joe would miss her.  Even after all these years, he still loved everything about her, her humor, strength, and love. 

“How is harvest this year, Uncle Joe?” Chris asked.  Joe quickly gave him the full report on the year’s weather, and the crop’s success.  It was an important review given every year.  Why should this one be any different? 

The conversation drifted back and forth, from farming and crops to family.  Below the surface, the raw ache was there, but no one dared to dig deeper.  Eventually, the conversation waned, and silence stilled the room. 

“Let me help you in the kitchen, Myrna,” said Chris’ wife, trying desperately to escape the heavy weight that had overtaken them.

The women disappeared, and Chris walked to the window to check on the two boys playing outside.  Joe remained in his chair.  The fog was beginning to seep into his mind, but he fought it one last time.  Slowly, he pulled himself up, and stumbled to the window.  Outside, whispery clouds were starting to stir.  

The afternoon heat was finally beginning to subside, and a cooling breeze signaled the beginning of another summer evening.  Chris and his wife stood up to leave, calling the boys to come.  The afternoon had been good, they said, but they had to make it to Colby by nightfall.  Joe stood up to say good-bye, and shuffled with the young family to their car, wondering how on earth to bid farewell.

Chris angrily brushed his fist at his eyes, and he wondered the very same thing.  Chris’ young wife stiffly embraced Joe, and whispered a firm “See you later.”  The silence was heavy, as their thoughts churned inside.  After all, how do you say goodbye to a dying man?  

Myrna settled it for them, jumping into the car to hug the boys, and thanking Chris again for the visit.  Giving Chris and his wife a quick squeeze, she then stepped back to let Joe say good-bye. 

“You boys have fun?” he asked the little ones in the back seat, who were starting to look a bit sleepy.

“Oh yes, Uncle Joe!  When we come back, can we play on the swings again?” the tallest asked.

“Of course you may!”  Joe responded.  He had to force his thoughts to turn away.

Then Joe looked quickly at Chris.  “You’re a good young man, Chris.  Got a nice family.”  Joe stood awkwardly but firm, and offered Chris a heartfelt handshake.  The telltale lines on the old man’s face barely creased to show the small amount of feeling he could reveal.   

Myrna broke in, “We’ll look forward to seeing you again soon.  You boys hurry back now!”  She leaned into the car window, and blew the youngest one a kiss. 

“We’ll try to make it back for Christmas, when everyone is here,” Chris said. 

“Yippee!” cried the boys, “we’ll be back at Christmas!  We’ll see you then Uncle Joe, and you can let us drive the tractor again! Right, Uncle Joe?”  

Joe could only smile in return.

The car backed out of the driveway, and Joe ambled slowly back to his chair.  He sat down to stare again at the fields of his 75th year.  He knew he had been given many long and happy years.  Yet they were not enough.   He wanted more. 

The boys would be back at Christmas, but the machinery would be stored away in the quonset until they were needed again.  Joe knew the cold wouldn’t stop the boys from playing outside on the open land, just as he had when he was a boy.

Joe took one last look at the fields now stripped of their bounty, and again wiped the sweat from his forehead.  Restlessly, he moved in his chair.  He was getting too old for the heat.  Perhaps, he thought, it was time to be moving on.  

 As he stood up to go in, he thought of the coming Christmas, when all the family would once again gather at the farm.  He wondered if it would be a very cold winter, and if deep snow would cover the gravestones in the cemetery at the end of town.  He hoped it wouldn’t be too cold for Myrna when she came to visit him there.