Hitchhike

Excuse me, may I take your picture? Two men turn and look at me. The somewhat dusty one says sure. I press the shutter on my camera a couple times. Turn this way. Turn that way. He does (such a kind man). Then he interrupts. "I've got to meet the combine. Wanna come along?" Like, duh, no-brainer, heck yeah. I climb up what feels like a six-story building and find two-square inches for my butt in the cab of Miss Tractor (300 horsepower).  We make our way across a harvested part of this soybean field. We hook-up (so-to-speak) with Mr. Combine, who proceeds to dump something like five trillion soybeans into Miss Tractor's grain trailer. My dad was a farm boy from Iowa, I tell Miss Tractor's handler (farmer, owner & operator). He left after World War Two and never looked back (except for a family trip or two). No surprise, he says. "Your dad probably started doing farm chores when he was only five years old. The family likely used a horse-pulled tractor or maybe one with 20 horsepower." I ask him to stop. I climb down and take pictures from the field before the sun drops below the horizon. You'll get dusty, he tells me. I ask him to hop down, too. He does (such an accommodating guy) and stands next to tires near his height. Look this way and that way. He does (such a nice guy). He walks to an uncut stalk, pulls off a pod and reveals raw soybeans. Frame. Click. Frame. Click. Frame. Click. Then I nearly place my camera on harvested stalks poking through black dirt.. "That's called stubble." (Really? Cool!) We climb up again (you're getting good at that, he says) before Mr. Combine makes another pass. Handlers for Miss Tractor and Mr. Combine radio back-and-forth, discussing pounds needed before the work day ends (it's past sundown now). We take Miss Tractor's load to a waiting truck and transfer 40,000 pounds of soybeans in 90 seconds. I feel productive. I pronounce myself ready for my farm dinner (meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy). Take a shower when you get home, he says. "Soybean dust itches."