The Harvest Sky

Ten years ago, I couldn’t have said what harvest felt like. I assumed harvest was just an activity, a part of farming—just something farmers did—not a feeling or a way of life.

I love the romanticized view of farming as much as the next person (see the sunset photos in this post). But it’s not all sunsets and tractor rides. I wrote this essay this past summer in the lead-up to my eleventh harvest. But really, this story is a compilation of a decade of marriage and motherhood during harvest.

It’s beautiful and hard.

The wheat fields surrounding our house are tall but still green; harvest is close but not quite here yet. “It’s dry,” Rich says. He sighs, collapsing fully dressed onto the made bed. He got home after the kids had already climbed into bed. “We need rain, and the chances in the forecast are slim.” He closes his eyes, and I know images of the fields he just came from still fill his mind. His nightly routine in the weeks leading up to harvest is going out in the evenings to scout the crops, see their growth, and torture himself with the lack of rain. 

I know he’s stressed, but every thought and feeling I’ve held all day bubbles to the surface without having had another adult to talk to for hours. I clear my throat. “You don’t know what it’s like to be so alone. This life is lonely.” Harvest hasn’t even started yet, and I already feel overwhelmed and alone. My stomach turns in knots, knowing what’s ahead in the coming weeks.

He opens his eyes, blinking, unsure how to broach this bomb I casually tossed into our bedroom. But I don’t give him a chance to respond. Instead, I walk out the bedroom door, not having planned to start the conversation and not sure where I want to go with it. The words just came out. 

I head down the hall, away from our room and toward the backdoor. I put on my shoes and walk outside, leaving the weight of my words behind me. My shoulders drop, and I head toward the chicken coop. The automatic coop door is already closed, but after losing a hen recently to an unknown predator, I want to make sure the remaining chickens aren’t locked out. The summer solstice just passed, and even though it’s nearly 10 o’clock, the sky is dark blue, not quite black. It’s quiet, save for a few night birds squawking. 

I count all the hens, then walk back toward the house. Our bedroom light is still glowing—Rich is still awake. I’m not sure I feel like talking more about what I said, knowing nothing can change.

I pause on the patio and turn my back to the house, crossing my arms and sighing. I stare at the sky, my world behind me in the silent house. Despite the miles we live from town and often feeling so alone, in this moment, the vast sky feels welcoming, not lonely. I appreciate the silence—no sounds of traffic or street lights—no child demanding my time or attention. 

It’s just me and the sky.  

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His jeans and silhouette fade into the bright sun as he walks away from the house. The sun is intense; I can hardly see him. Like a tent, I place my hand above my eyes to shield the blazing July sun. He tosses his lunch box and water jug onto the pickup's front seat and turns toward me. He gives a slight wave, climbs into the pickup, then slams the door shut behind him. He pulls out of the driveway, away from us. The golden wheat field waves in the slight breeze. Begging to be cut. 

I move my hand from my face to return the wave, but he’s already gone. I want to beg him to stay. But I won’t. Rhett and Allie run up behind me, each grabbing one of my legs, asking when he’ll be home. I sigh, bringing my hand, caught in mid-wave with the person I want most to see it, gone. I move Nora from one hip to the other and shrug. “We’ll see him tonight when we take dinner to the field.” I turn around toward the house. “But he won’t be home until after you’ve gone to bed.” The kids moan but run back into the house ahead of me.

The pickup tires kick up gravel and rocks on the dusty road, dry from the weeks of heat and no rain—the perfect recipe for harvest. The crunch of gravel under the tires is the only sound I hear—until it’s gone. I look back at the empty road, knowing it will be quiet for hours until he returns tonight when the sun gives way to the stars, poking through the vast black sky above the prairie.

Sometimes, the sky feels like a welcoming blanket, knowing that other people can see the same stars and moon—something connecting us all.

But today, the big sky just feels desolate and lonely.

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My knife thwacks the bright orange carrots, splitting them in half. Nora perches on the counter next to the cutting board. She picks up the cut carrots and sliced potatoes, dropping them into the nearby bowl. 

“I’m a good helper, Mama!” she exclaims, using her other hand to push her bangs out of her eyes. I think of past years when it was Rhett helping me in the kitchen and then Allie, but now they spend hours in the field with their dad. During harvest, the house isn’t nearly as full as it was years ago when three kids hung on my legs when Rich left for the field. Many days during busy seasons, it’s just the two of us. 

I pause with the knife and lean over, kissing her chubby cheek. “You are a very good helper!” I say. I look out the window behind me, knowing a pickup won’t pull into the driveway soon. I turn back toward the cutting board, tossing the remaining vegetables into the bowl. 

I can’t help but think how I took it for granted—as kids do—that my dad came home at the same time nearly every night. I’m jealous of the predictability my mom had, knowing her husband would walk through the door at roughly the same time each evening, barring something unusual or an occasional beer after work with friends. I’m often envious of my friends whose husbands come home each night at the same time. My type-A personality is often at odds with farming life and its unpredictable nature. 

Many nights, I don’t know if the meal I’m cooking will be served hot, the potatoes crisp and sizzling straight from the oven. Or if he’ll have to reheat his plate when he gets home, the potatoes softened by the microwave. 

Handing a wooden spoon to Nora, she sloppily tosses the vegetables with olive oil while I grind salt and pepper over the top. I take the spoon from her and give the bowl a few more stirs before pouring the mixture onto the waiting pan. I slide the pan into the hot oven. 

“Should we go for a quick walk while we wait for dinner to cook?” I ask. 

“Yes! Catch me!” Nora says, launching herself off of the counter. Her body crashes into mine, and I set her down. She runs to the door, grabbing her pink shoes. 

Once outside, I notice the sun is gone. The sky is eerie; a bland mixture of browns and grays hovers above us. The forest fires hundreds of miles away smother the sky, the sun no longer visible behind the ash-filled clouds. The lack of sun is deceiving, though—it’s still hot, and the air feels dense.

It feels like harvest.

The fields we walk past are no longer green, the golden heads dancing in the breeze. The combines are shiny and clean, not yet dust-covered—parked and ready to go to the fields. Ten years ago, I couldn’t have said what harvest felt like. I assumed harvest was just an activity, a part of farming—just something farmers did—not a feeling or a way of life. 

Some days, harvest feels exciting, and knots fill my stomach with all the work that lies ahead. The rising temperature matches the quickened pace of the workload—the culmination of months of work, all coming down to a few weeks. 

Harvest feels like a relief, seeing the fields cut and the grain brought to the bins, where the grain rests, finally safe from the sky—wind, hail, rain, and sometimes, the lack of rain. On other days, harvest feels lonely and exhausting, the days unpredictable. 

Nora runs ahead of me, her dress flitting around her knees, her hair flying behind her. The heat soon overtakes me, the gray skies deceiving, the temperature rising. “Let’s go back in and check on dinner, okay?” I call Nora, waving her back to me. 

The next day, all three kids are home with me, and I load them into the Suburban to head toward the field, only a couple miles from our house. The kids’ voices rise excitedly when they see the swathers roll over the fields into our sight, cutting swaths through the waves of a never-ending golden field. 

We park at the end of the field and wait. Rich rolls his swather to a stop, dust flying. He climbs down the steps, and I’m brought back to ten years ago when just the two of us shared a tractor cab. I had a spot next to him in the buddy seat, my voice not in competition with three others. We spent hours, sometimes in silence, bumping through the ripe fields. Only our love and dreams filled the cab, not tiny voices, gangly limbs, and fulfilled dreams.

The kids run ahead and climb the ladder steps ahead of me, the cab full before I even get up the ladder. Once we’re all inside the cab and the reel starts turning, Rhett and Allie start commenting on the crop and the stray weeds growing among the wheat. Rich and I smile at each other, and he laughs, shaking his head, “Farm kids.” 

The life I chose when there were just two of us in the cab is vastly different than the life we have now. In the same way, I couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to be a mother before becoming one; I had no way of knowing what it would be like to be a mom on a farm during the busy seasons. I think back to past harvests and the struggles I felt—now that we are on the brink of harvest again—and I know I’ll likely feel many of the same things this year, too.

Often, I grapple to find the balance between expressing my feelings and not wanting to complain about this life—a life I chose.

I glance around the cab, taking in each of their faces, and I can’t help but ask myself, “Would I choose this life again if I knew then what I know now?” 

I look out the window of the swather, the golden grain falling in front of us, the crisp stalks cut clean. The hazy sky lies all around us, the sun still hidden behind the smoke.

Even though I can’t see the sun and the stars aren’t out yet, I know they’re still there.

Photos by Western Ventures Photography

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