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Sunday Night
MaryHelen Swanson, editor

For once, we had a beautiful weekend for our many community events. There were groundbreaking ceremonies, cancer relays, beach parties, ball tournaments and plenty of backyard barbecues going on in our neighborhoods.
A trip to the east of North Branch took me back to the threshing days. It took a lot of sweat and energy to separate those precious grains from their stems. As you stood on the hay rack tossing bundle after bundle of grain onto the elevator, your eyes burned with flying chaff and your back ached. Still, life was simpler - you didnít have to worry if the computer was going down, the electric substation was hit by lightning or your cell phone was out of range.
A funny thing about my trip to the Almelund Threshing Show this year, I noticed how many more walking sticks and personal motorized vehicles were being used. And how some couples kind of held each other up as they moved around the exhibits.
And I noticed that the distance between the entry gate and the threshing demonstration got farther, the 80+ degree heat got hotter, the trips to sit on a bench more frequent, and that old-fashioned vanilla malt more refreshing.
I do believe I heard a lot more, ìI remember this,î or ìI used to have one of those,î as I walked among the vintage tractors and antique cars. There seemed to be a lot more hands-in-the-pocket leaning against the old machines in silent remembrance of a Dad or an uncle who used to work the fields on the old Allis or McCormick or whatever.
And then there was that delightful old gentleman, sporting his trusty John Deere suspenders, who had more than mere tales to tell about his days of threshing. He had a whole history book in his head just waiting for someone to open and read.
The Clover Blossom schoolhouse became a gathering place for those who grew up in rural communities. They wandered in and stood among the wooden desks, peering past the dusty chalk boards to days of ink wells and pig tails, of Annie, Annie Over and lunches in pails.
The displays of old sleds was interesting, too. It got me to thinking about manís perseverance; that he would go to such great lengths to invent strange and clever ways to sail down a snow-covered hill in the cold of winter- in the name of fun.
The musty smells of aged wood in the old buildings made me remember days when you opened a window for fresh air, rather than turning on the air conditioner. And a display of old typewriters reminded me of snarled ink ribbons, sticky keys and that delightful ding of the bell as you reached the end of the paper.
You just donít have those experiences with a computer.
As I passed many an exhibitor trying desperately to start a hand-cranked engine or get a tractor repaired, I heard someone atop the horse-drawn wagon yelling to them, ìat least you donít have to repair them,î referring to a fine team of horses.
And then I nearly stepped in another reminder of the past, that which is produced each time a horse eats his oats and hay.
And at that moment I felt like shouting back in defense of more modern devices, ìat least you donít have to clean up after them.î
In all, it was a good day, but now Iím back sitting in front of a 21st-century device that strains my eyes until they burn and makes my back ache.

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