I am writing this on my phone while seeding our last field. It’s June 9 and this is the latest I’ve ever seeded a crop.
I’m seeding barley on a 90-acre parcel in the Red River Valley. I have exactly four minutes and five seconds of writing time between turns at each end of the field.
(turn)
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I look back once in a while to make sure the seeder is, in fact, still doing the one thing it’s supposed to be doing.
Will I have enough seed in the seed tender to finish this field? How much will be left over and what will I do with it? If I finish late, will I bring the seeder/tractor rig home and come back tomorrow for the tender, or vice versa? How will I get done all the things this highly irregular seeding season has pushed down the list?
(turn, that one was close — almost hit the boundary berm)
A friend of mine just stopped by, so we chatted on the field (about farming-related things) for a while.
I’m watching menacing clouds roll towards me from the west. The air has changed in the last hour or so. It feels like foul weather may be afoot.
(turn and fill seeder)
I’m thinking about my niece’s dance recital that I’m unable to attend in order to finish seeding. I don’t like missing such events and I struggle to believe putting a crop in is more important than family and friends. But this seeding season, more than any other in my memory, has been one I desperately want/need to complete. It’s been irregular in ways I haven’t had time to fully unpack.
(turn)
Jamie, my wife, has just finished a meeting with her master’s degree advisor and is offering to pick up food at a local drive-in.
(looking up menu)
“Spicy chipotle chicken burger, fries and a vanilla milkshake, please.”
My phone battery is at 26 per cent and service is spotty on this field. I’ve dropped numerous calls on it today.
I’ll aim to finish this column before plugging in my cell and resuming my audiobook The Library Book by Susan Orlean, which recounts the 1986 fire at the central library in Los Angeles. It’s quite interesting.
(turn)
The clouds are gone. The menacing ones, anyway. The fury they unleashed amounted to no more than a few drops on the windshield.
At this point in the evening — nearing dance recital time — I am getting regular updates from my parents, who are currently waiting in line at the theatre. I’ve received a picture of my niece’s dress from my mom and my dad is finding it challenging to be away from the farm while I am seeding. I know this because I am receiving regular texts from him.
“How’s it working?”
“It’s working very well.”
(turn)
“Do you think you’ll finish tonight?”
“I do.”
Dad responds with two thumbs-up emojis and two wide-smile emojis.
(turn)
The outside temperature is starting to drop. The air conditioning in the cab is starting to feel chilly.
(plugged run — drove through a muddy area)
More clouds have rolled in. More drizzle was produced and has since ended.
“Rain coming your way,” reads a message from my dad.
“I see it. It doesn’t appear threatening.”
(turn and fill)
This may be the last time I fill the seeder this year. The end is in sight. The field is wider at the west end than it is at the east, so it’s hard to tell how much I have left.
A few turns and 30 minutes of audiobook later, I decide to top off the seeder while it’s still light outside. I don’t want to fuss with partial fills at night, if possible. Let’s see if my foresight is accurate.
Roughly two more full rounds and then, maybe, three additional short ones. Again, it’s hard to say.
It’s 8:18 p.m. #plant22 could be done by 9.
(two turns later)
I’m on the shorter runs now and I’m starting to get worried that I didn’t add enough seed during the last partial fill.
It’s soon that fateful time when one has to get out at the end of each run to check seed levels.
(turn and check)
At 8:58 p.m. on June 9, I finish seeding for 2022. I drive home, Jamie and I “cheer” and then it’s off to bed.
