Wild oats remind me of my little town when I was a child. They grew everywhere. Many farmers planted oats each spring at the first hint of rain. My dad was no exception. Each spring he studied the weather patterns with anticipation and hope that rain would come. When it finally fell from the sky, and the soil was moistened and giving enough to let the horse drawn plow split open the earth, Dad would harness up our old horse, Buck, and head for the fields.
It was a wonderful time. The smell of fresh sprouted grass and newly turned earth permeated the air. Watching Dad and Buck move slowly back and forth; making curling rows of earth, was a great way to spend a day.
Dad would stop at the end of each row, giving Buck time to cock a hind foot for a short rest. While Buck rested, Dad muscled the heavy plow around in the other direction. Then with a lift of the reins and a tk tk of the tongue, another row of musty brown earth would rise up and roll over like a great giant curl.
Back and forth all day they would go, taking only a brief break for lunch. As the sun coasted down behind the hills to the west, Buck and Dad would return slowly to the barn. At the end of the day, Buck always got an extra large feeding of oats and hay. He was unharnessed and gently rubbed down before Dad came up for dinner.
My dad was an engineer, self taught, and tied to a desk all week. He hated it, but it put food on the table. What his real love was, was farming. Some of his happiest days were spent plowing fields and planting hay- oats to be exact.
Those oats, cast with purpose by farmers from commercial seed, took hold and laid their claim on our quiet valley. Even today, in what is now a densly suburban/industrial area, you will find their descendents thrusting sprouts eagerly through the ground in bright green swaths in early spring. In a few short weeks, full plump heads of grain are gracefully waving in the breeze- alongside every road, untended field, and patch of unpaved earth. The sight of them always brings me joy.
I loved this post!
ReplyDeleteMy dad was a farmer, too, but when I was about seven he had to get a job to supplement the family's income. He couldn't wait to get home in the springtime and hop on the tractor, though. (My siblings and I ran along behind the plow, and I can still remember the feel of the cool, moist dirt between my toes. :)