Forty Plates on the Tailgate

Ten to Six

We keep a two way radio on the kitchen counter during harvest. It is how I know when to start the coffee and which field to drive to.

It had been crackling all afternoon with the usual talk about trucks and moisture and who needed the grain cart.

At ten minutes to six, Dan’s voice came over it, quieter than the rest.

“Jules. You there?”

I picked it up. “I’m here.”

“Caterer’s van slid off the field road at the culvert,” he said.

I closed my eyes. I am not proud of the first thing I felt, which was a small, mean flicker of being right.

I let it go by. Then I felt something better, which was the old harvest feeling of a job that needed doing.

“How bad?” I asked.

“Front end’s in the ditch, and the back’s swung around against the bank. They can’t get the back doors open. The food’s all inside.” Behind his voice I could hear the steady roar of the combine, still running on the last round.

“Is anybody hurt?”

“No. Two young gals from the catering place. They’re fine, just scared. Kristin’s down there with them.” He paused. “Eric’s going for the tractor and a chain. But it’s going to be a while before they get it out, and longer before anybody’s eating out of it.”

Then he was quiet for a second, the way he gets when he is choosing his words.

“How many you got?” he asked.

I looked at the coolers by the door. “Forty,” I said.

He laughed then, the tired, warm laugh he only has in October, when he has been up since four and the end is finally in sight.

“Bring it,” he said.

The Fence Line

I did not take the field road. Nobody who knows that ground would.

I went around by the gravel to the north side of the Hagen quarter, where there is an old field entrance along the fence line, and the ground sits a good two feet higher than the low spot.

My pickup is a four wheel drive, and I put it in four low and crept along the edge of the stubble with the coolers sliding in the bed.

The sun was going down behind the bins, and the whole sky had gone orange and pink, the way it does in October when there is dust in the air.

Both combines were sitting on the end rows with their lights on. Dan had just finished the last round, and his header was still up from the turn.

The grain cart was parked beside them, full, its lights shining on the stubble. Down at the far end of the road I could see the white van tipped nose first into the ditch.

I backed up to the end rows, set the brake, and dropped my tailgate.