A GLEANER WENT OUT TO GLEAN . . .

I can hardly stand it. I’m sitting in the midst of acres and acres of post-harvested garbanzo fields, which means there are beans for the gleaning.

 

Did you know that another word for “gleaning” is “scrounging?” I’d rather be a gleaner than a scrounger. I don’t think it’s scrounging to glean in one’s own fields, is it?

Yesterday I picked up a gallon of mostly un-husked garbanzo beans. That’s hardly any compared to what’s left out there. So, I decided to get up early this morning and fill another container. I was awake at 5:00, but it was still dark. I stayed in bed until 5:45 when there was a hint of daylight.

“Do you think I’m being stupid to glean the garbanzos?” I asked Mike.

He laughed. “I don’t know. I do a lot of stupid things myself,” he said. (Hmmmm. Diplomatic answer that translates to “yes.”) We agreed that he was probably the wrong person to ask. We’re both compulsive personalities along the lines of our own interests.

So, after breakfast I took another pail and picked up more beans. The tough part is bending over and kneeling down. Soon I learned to pull a plant out of the ground and quickly remove the beans.

Thinking of the old days when threshing was done on the barn floor (at least, I think it was done on the barn floor), I commented to Mike that there must be a better way.

“Oh, there is,” he replied -- “a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar machine.”

I’m sure our farmer’s operation was efficient, but I swear there are enough garbanzos left behind to feed a small community for the winter. Okay – that’s vague and I don’t really know, but there are lots and it’s not practical to pick them up. I suspect I’d do more for the industry by buying my garbanzo beans in the grocery store.

But – as long as those beans are out there, they will continue to call my name. And I’ll continue to glean a few a day when I can – until the fields are re-planted or it rains or it snows or the deer eat them all or . . . KW

NOW YOU SEE THEM . . .

Now you see them -- now you don't. If we're away for a day when they come to harvest, we will miss the whole thing.

Mike and I came back to the farm Friday night after supper to find the farmers harvesting June's field. The next day they moved into the fields of the "original homestead" by noon -- and were finished and gone by 4:30. We hadn't expected them until October so were glad to be here. As you can see, it was not a day to consider dusting.

Harvest used to be such an exciting time. Gone are the days when harvest involved a crew of men who came to the house at noon for the big meal prepared by the farmer's wife and her helpers. This year's harvest operation involved four men -- possibly five -- all of them driving combine or truck. They didn't come to the house, and I never saw them break for lunch. They probably ate/snacked as they worked.

In the old days, harvest was a time of bustling activity as farmers worked their fields simultaneously. Now all land in this "community" is leased by one farmer who finishes each field quickly and moves on.

Well, you know all this. I just have to remind you that in my lifetime, farming has changed drastically. And every year I think of Grandma Ina who was impressed when a new piece of horse-drawn equipment enabled a field to be harvested in two and a half days that once had taken a crew of men two weeks.

Mike watched boxing last night, so I went to bed at 9:15 to listen to old-time radio programs until I fell asleep. (That didn't take long.) As I laid on the bed, I could watch the lights on the combines as they worked the fields adjoining ours to the northwest. It seemed something out of this world.


This year all of our farm property was in garbanzo beans. Next year: Wheat.

SUCH A FUN GUY!

Busy Bossy Bessie-Boo is growing. She’s bigger and stronger and has made her way into our hearts, despite the fact that she’s quite mischievous. With dancing eyes, she’ll steal shoes, socks, caps, yard ornaments, green tomatoes – anything that takes her fancy. She seems convinced that the world was created just for her.

 

Mike considered putting a geocache in a tree at the bottom of our lane and took the dogs and me along to help him investigate. His plan was to toss a rope weighted with a small chunk of wood over the limb of a pine tree. He would then tie the rope and use it to swing into the tree and place the cache. Bess loved every minute of the trial and error procedure. We could hardly keep her out of the way. 

 

"This is great! Can I help?" she seemed to say.

 

"What are you going to do now, Mike?" Bess wanted to know.

 

Older but wiser Nellie planted herself at my side and leaned. “I don’t like it," she said. “No way is this a good idea.”  I agreed with her. 

 

"Whoa! Look at you swing on that rope! Can I be next?" Bess asked. 

Eventually we humans saw the wisdom of Nellie's advice and the idea of placing a cache in that tree was abandoned. KW

 

THE DICKSON / SENTER PLACE, 191? -- 2013

I have always wanted Ben’s place. It would be so nice to move into that nice big house Ben built. It’s the prettiest place here [at Gilbert] to my notion. Senters tore down Ben’s first house and it improves the looks. Mrs. Cordell said the house looked like a picture inside. Bertha Dickson Dobson to her sister Mabel -- June 1, 1936

On a September evening in 1936, Ina stood gazing out across the northern fields as she washed the supper dishes. At the horizon she could just make out the chimney of her brother Ben’s house. The sight had given her comfort for years, but now Ben and Ida were no longer there – sold out – moved – living in Orofino where Ben worked various odd jobs. It was strange to think that Ben’s place should now belong to another family.

A pang of loneliness swept over Ina and her thoughts drifted back to those first happy years here at Gilbert. Homesteading was hard work, but living so near her parents and siblings had eased the burden and yes, it had even been fun. Her eldest sister Ida and husband Ed Patchen had the homestead on the other side of June’s. Pa had 80 acres adjacent to Ed’s. To the north was Ben’s place. Her whole family was here.

Those were happy times all right. The men worked together to plant and harvest. The women had helped one another while gardening, berrying, cooking harvest meals, and canning. The extended family had gathered for special meals. Her brothers Ben and Frank had courted Ida and May Chandler, respectively, and had married in a double ceremony that Christmas Day of 1898. Ina reflected that life in those first years had been a little bit of heaven because they were here together.

But -- that heavenly togetherness had accounted for just five of the forty years she had lived here. They had come with big dreams of success – owning their own land and working for themselves. But, Ed had quickly become disillusioned with what he saw as little return for his hard work and decided he’d had enough. In 1901, he sold his homestead for $3,000 and moved his family to Drain, Oregon. Ma and Pa, Frank and May, and other family members left with them, and Ina was devastated that she, Bertha, and Ben would now live in this remote place without their parents and elder sister.

 

But – that was another story. She was thinking about Ben’s house, Ina reminded herself. Ben had created a pretty place all right, nestled in the trees the way it was. The house was white with a red tile roof and had other decorative features of its era, such as windows bordered with colored panes and decorative wood trim on the front porch. The fact that it was picturesque was to Ben’s credit because, sitting inward from the canyons, the property lacked views.

Ina knew that Bertha (and probably some others) thought Ben’s house the prettiest place here, and her pride rankled a bit at that. Ina had planned her house carefully so that it would be serviceable, and when the time came to build, she conveyed her ideas to a bona fide builder, Mr. Philpot, who put them on paper and built a solid house. And while it was commendable that Ben had built his house himself, Ina knew he took shortcuts. The house had no foundation and she suspected that unforgivable flaws were hidden under the wallpaper. And yet they said that the new owner had fixed it up really nice inside. Someday soon she would call on Mrs. Senter and see for herself.

Many had come and gone from the community over the years. Most of the “homes” built here were just cabins, meant to meet the needs of a family over a short period of time. Change was inevitable.

Ina shook herself from this uneasy reverie. The light of the setting sun behind the big pine trees in the grove cast huge shadows over the shorn grain fields and now she had to hurry to finish the dishes as daylight quickly faded. “No use to think of these things,” Ina reminded herself with a sniff as she poured the dishwater on the roses at the back gate.

 

The Ben Dickson Place – built c. 1915

Purchased by Bruce and Celia Senter – c. 1935

Purchased by Neil Miller – c. 1960

House torn down -- 2013

KW

THE RODENT IN THE WOODPILE

Wednesday, (Sept. 4): Mike headed into the Blue Mountains to pick up some geocaches – something he wanted to accomplish before cold weather. I put the dogs into the kennel and closed the gate without locking it. Nellie can open the gate. I know it and she knows it. But she likes a morning nap and I wanted to sew without worrying about Bess, the pup. I would check on them from time to time. 

About 10:30 I heard a commotion behind the house and intermittent barking. I poked my head out to see Nellie pointing the woodpile and Bess prancing all around her – over and under -- in an effort to find her own position. So, I joined the party to see what was going on. I couldn’t see anything but I could hear chirping and chitterings. Probably not a bird, I decided. Probably a rodent. 

I debated about taking the woodpile down but decided that would be useless. The dogs were well entertained. I went back to my sewing. 

The UPS guy came and the dogs took a short break from their hunting to receive treats from him. He and I laughed about their rapt interest in the woodpile. 

At noon Bess marched up to the back door and I knew she was hungry for her lunch. She snarfed it down and hurried back to patrol duty. I also fed Nellie.

The day went on and the dogs wouldn’t leave the woodpile. They were determined in their endeavors and making a mess. Bark was everywhere, but the woodpile was holding firm – and holding the quarry.

Occasionally Bess would come in the house, flop down on the floor for five minutes, then go back out. Nellie, older but wiser, knows the value of sticking with the hunt.

Mike came back at 4:00 during one of Bess’ nap breaks. “Where are the dogs?” he asked. “Why didn’t anyone come to greet me?” Bess rolled over sleepily. “Oh hi Mike,” she said.

So, I explained the dilemma. Before supper Mike had swept up the bark. And I guess the dogs tired of their quest, at least for that day. The next day they were at it again until Mike kenneled them. It rained and they sought refuge in the dogloo.

And during that time I was cleaning the kitchen and doing the dishes. As I glanced out the window I was surprised to see “Chipper” Chipmunk (or Chippette?) sitting calmly on the woodpile, apparently aware that the dogs were otherwise occupied. She sat a long time grooming herself and giving special attention to her tail. Mike quietly opened the sliding door and took a picture.

After lunch we left for the farm. Perhaps Chippette will move along to some other haunt while we’re away. I rather hope so. KW

Life Elevated – Days 7 & 8

We were waiting at 6:30 for the continental breakfast served by the Riverside Inn.  We had picked up a couple of Moab caches for Grand County the previous afternoon before checking in the motel so that left just four counties to complete the 29.  We headed north on 191 to Interstate 70 over to Green River before exiting again north on 191.  For a while we were in more open country prairie type country.  We got caches in Emory and Carbon Counties before turning east in Duchesne County.  Now we were passing through some beautiful canyon riding which was downright exhilarating.   We got our caches in Duchesne County and headed into Uintah County and Vernal for the final.  I got a kick out of the name of the first Uintah County called “Not my dumb asphalt”.

We gassed up in Vernal, had a picnic lunch at a shady area next to the convenience story, celebrated our finish and parted ways.  Yancey headed east toward Denver and I headed north toward the Flaming Gorge.  I had a great ride up through the Flaming Gorge and into Wyoming.  I got a couple more caches in Daggett County, Utah, even though I had some on a previous trip and I picked up a three in Wyoming as well.  Even when you don’t need the caches it’s good to stop and move around because it helps keep you from getting tired on the bike.

I had considered staying the night in Evanston, WY, which is about half way to Clint’s but Yancey had reported bad winds there when he came out and I was afraid I might get some of that the next morning if I stayed.  Since it wasn’t too bad when I was there in mid-afternoon I just gassed up and headed west which put me back in Utah.  I took Interstate 80 down to Interstate 84 and back the way I had come from there.  After getting on I84 the sun was right in my eyes.  It got so bad in places I had to ride with one hand using the other the shield my eyes.  It was getting late in the day and the sun was low.  I stopped in Snowville for gas which is about the only place to stop in that stretch.

After I hit the western stretch of I84 going toward Gooding the sun had set and that wasn’t a problem.  However, this stretch turned out to be the most miserable of my whole journey.  The air would be nice and warm and then suddenly the temperature would drop like what seemed to be 30 degrees.  It was like riding into a deep freeze.  Then after a while it would warm up and the process would be repeated.  I believe this was because of sprinklers that were going in places.  Then I hit a cloud of bugs that got so bad I had to pull off the Interstate and into a service station to clean my visor.  And I wasn’t the only one.  Cars were pulling in as well with the same problem.  By this time it had gotten so dark that I simply could not see with my dark visor so I had to put on my glasses and ride with the visor up.  Fortunately by now the bugs were gone or I couldn’t have made it.  Eventually I made it to Clint’s around 8:30 or 9:00 having traveled 666 miles and having logged a dozen caches plus one DNF.  Now that was a full day.

The next morning Clint had a good breakfast made and I mode a more leisurely start toward home.  Luckily the Interstate part of the trip was without a headwind and went reasonably well except for some construction slow downs.  I used this slow down to count on-coming semis and learned that white ones out number all others by about 10 to 1. 

This time I took Highway 95 north instead of Highway 55 through McCall.  I knew there were forest fires and thought 95 would be the better route.  It was hot and I stopped for gas and a Subway lunch at Payette.  I only stopped for a couple of caches along the way for breaks.  I stopped in Grangeville for gas and refreshment and visited with another motorcyclist and his wife who were returning home to Canada from a long road trip.  I arrived at the town house in Clarkston around 4:00 having traveled 399 miles for the day and my GPS odometer for the trip registered 3,048 miles. 

It was a fantastic trip and one I’ll never forget.  I still have Montana to finish and if Yancey doesn’t do that with me we’ll probably do some Colorado next or maybe Arizona.  The End (finally)  M/W