The oats nodded rhythmically in the breeze as my father greased up machinery for the harvest. Dad, along with my uncles and brothers, would swathe the grain into rows, then combine the oats until dark. These were the dog days of summer on our Minnesota farm.
Back at home, Mom and I, then 15, were in charge of morning milking. When we were finished, we’d cook a huge hot meal, ready for whenever the men came in from the field. A typical supper included a canner full of corn on the cob with boiled potatoes, and dishes of red beets, green beans, spinach, cucumber salad, pork chops (smothered in heavy gravy) and homemade blueberry pie for dessert.
As was common back then, the men ate first and then lollygagged, cleaning…
