The Kohlmans

One of my favorite times growing up was wheat harvest. My dad would leave the house early (even though he wasn't usually in the fields until mid-morning because of moisture) and come home late. Every night, my mom or Grandma Donna would take supper to the field - main dish, fruit, veggies, dessert, lemonade. Almost every night, we four kids would go out, too. We'd eat our picnic supper, then play in the grain truck, ride along with Grandpa to the elevator, and ride in the combine. Our cousins came out one evening every year to join us. Some of them still go. Things have changed over the years. The combine is newer and the grain truck is bigger. Grandma isn't here anymore to take supper out. Grandpa doesn't get around quite well enough to drive truck now (though he still gets around quite well for his 87 years). Uncle Chuck comes from Minnesota every year to help, and Daniel drives, too. Harvest still happens. I loved sharing this experience with Brad when we wer...

"Chase" or "Yet not" Warm autumn sun  pierces my windshield as I drive. Soybeans dry in the field, a neat row of round bales marking their boundary. Milo shoots skyward ramrod straight and step ladder tall though some strange stalks rise above all the rest. Crooked hedgewood fence posts, splintering, strung together with barbed wire, fly by my windows. Cars like mine tear down the dirt roads, dust clouds billowing behind. All things familiar. Yet not. Beautiful church building rises up from the flat land; the house across the dry dirt road is absent, prairie grown in its place. There is the ditch where the wildflowers spilled over one another freely, tangled together in a rainbow of blooms; now shaved smooth by a lawn mower. The walnuts still fall from the tree at the bend in the road but the house just beyond stands stoically empty (and no dogs chase my car). Warm autumn sun pierces my windshield  as I drive by all things familia...