The Combine That Was Still Running

I went out to the edge of the pits and looked. There he was. Front row, east end, with his wife beside him and his sunglasses on, sitting very straight. He was not looking at anybody.

I did not wave. I went back to the combine.

At ten till two, I put on my helmet. My hair was up in a ponytail and I pulled it out the back of the helmet as best I could. Bo checked my harness three times. Trace tied the cab door open with a strap so I could get air, because there was no windshield and the heat in that cab would be something else once the engine got going.

Then I took Dad’s seed cap out of my back pocket.

I had thought about it all morning. I did not want to wear it under the helmet. It would not fit and it was not mine to wear. So I reached over and set it on the little seat beside the driver’s seat, the instructor’s seat, where Dad used to sit when he was teaching me.

I tucked the bill under the edge of the cushion so it would not blow off. Bo saw me do it. He did not say anything. He just reached up and put his hand on my boot for a second.

Then Mahlon got up off his bucket and came over to the bottom of the ladder.

“Your dad always said a short prayer before the first round of harvest,” he said. “You remember it?”

“I remember it,” I said.

So I said it. Right there, in the cab, with Mahlon at the bottom of the ladder and Dad’s old crew standing around with their caps off. It is not long. Dad asked for safe hands and a safe crew and the good sense to quit when it was time to quit. And he said thank you for the ground.

“Amen,” said nine old men at once.

Then Mahlon said, “Protect the back end. Don’t let them get your drive wheels. And turn sooner than you think.”

At two o’clock, they lined us up in the arena.

The arena was packed dirt. The fair board had watered it down that morning so it would not throw dust in the grandstand, and the sun had already dried it to a tan crust. Eight combines sat in a ring around the edge, nose out, engines running.

The noise was so loud I could feel it in my chest. Diesel smoke hung in the hot air. Up in the grandstand, the crowd was on its feet, and I could see the colors of shirts all the way to the top row.

The man with the green flag walked to the middle of the arena. He held it up over his head.

I put my hands on the wheel. I looked down at the seat beside me. Dad’s cap was right where I had left it.

The flag came down.

I do not remember the first minute very well. I remember backing out hard, the way Mahlon said, and a red combine coming at me from the left, and the jolt when it hit the back end where Bo had put the extra plate.

I remember that the whole machine shook, and the cage held, and the harness held, and I was still moving.

I remember the sound of the crowd, a roar that rose and fell. I remember dirt flying past the side windows. I remember seeing a yellow combine stall out against the concrete barrier and the driver throw his hands up.