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DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel, Columnist
Remembering When the Rains Stopped
“We should never complain about the rain. If you grew up in the thirties, you’d know why.” Our father reminded us whenever rain interfered with our plans or made life difficult.
One particular spring, Dad’s resolve was tested to the limit. April showers drenched the black dirt, but held off to allow planting. Thunderstorms rolled across the South Dakota plains, dumping several inches at a time. The corn grew. The second it was dry enough Dad had the cultivator running between the rows. He took pride in his fields and especially loved seeing perfect corn rows, free from flaws like weeds. Each day the corn grew taller to the point where it would soon be too big to cultivate. Dad, more than his sons, tended to push his luck in the low spots.
On a sunny June afternoon, I spotted a figure walking home through the pasture. I rushed
into the house.
“Mom, Dad’s walking home!”
Her shoulders slumped. She shook her head. “He must be stuck again.” She dried her
hands on her apron and hurried to step into her 4-buckle overshoes. She grabbed her long-sleeved shirt and straw hat and met her husband at the gate.
“I need you to pull me out.” The man trudged to the Quonset, soon to return with the 520
John Deere. Mom climbed up on the seat. Her feet rested on the chain they would need for pulling. She stared at the chain and said a silent prayer. Not long ago the news flashed a story of a farmer who was killed when the chain snapped in an attempt to pull a stuck vehicle.
Our mother had worked alongside her farmer-husband for more than 20 years without
complaining, but having to rescue him from the mud three times in one week sorely tested her patience. “Maybe you should learn a lesson one of these times?”
Now Dad did not put up with sass from his children (except maybe from the youngest,
most spoiled). Mom seldom questioned his judgement, nor did she complain about work. So, when Dad heard her rebuff, his hazel eyes twinkled at his loyal farm wife. She was right.
A couple days ago, she had pulled him out with no problem, but last week he had gotten
in so deep and they just couldn’t coordinate the pulling. They had to wait for Delmer and Donald to come home. It was a job Mom detested. She had to look back, listen for instructions, ease in the clutch and slowly push the gas lever forward, almost all at the same time. She wasn’t good at it, she felt. But she would do everything she could to help.
Dad hooked the chain around the front end of the stuck 730 and onto the clevis on the
drawbar of Mom’s tractor. Mom pulled forward slowly to tighten the chain. She waited, knowing the importance of pulling together. It took a couple tries and a reset, to move where her tire did not spin. Finally, Dad’s tractor crept forward out of the mud.
In the 1930s drought devastated South Dakota. Year after year little rain fell. Crops dried
In that decade, South Dakota lost nearly 11,000 farms. That is why Dad never complained about the rain. Mom didn’t either.
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