Except as noted, all images copyrighted by and should be attributed to E B Hawley.
I had become many eons ago a traveling literary gnome, inquisitive about places I had and had not visited,
walking the same paths of peoples from the past, through places once grand and still grand,
photographing images that now show me the places about which I still dream . . .

Monday, June 7, 2010

Pig Pen on a Wheat Field

         Fred the Farmer put us in a combine. We harvested wheat for about an hour before I had to leave to attend a board meeting (argh) or I would have remained in the cab watching the combiners at their work. We see them for only a few weeks every year. 


The combines are constantly surrounded by a cloud of dust and wheat grass particles, and I was remindful of the comics character Pig Pen.


This is the view from the cab of the uncut wheat ahead of the combine.


Looking directly below, the tines keep the cut wheat on the belt that moves inward after the blades saw off the stems. 


In the cab, the driver can monitor information on each run, such as how many bushels per acre, groundspeed, and moisture on the wheat plant.


The window behind the driver shows the combine filling the compartment.


          When the compartment is full, a light flashes outside the cab to alert the tractor driver to approach. Tractor and combine drive side by side at more or less two miles per hour as the driver of the combine fills the tractor's trailer and directs the combine down the field. (Kind of like chewing and walking of a higher order. Kids, do not attempt this at home.)




Once full, the tractor transfers the wheat to the eighteen-wheeler. Note the tires on the tractor. 



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Let Lovely Turn of Phrase Begin

JMHawley Gave Me a Kiss to Build a Dream On

Listen, will you? I think that . . . literature, poetry, music and love make the world go round . . . while mathematics explains things; I fill my life with them, then go walking in snowy woods.
Let us go then, you and I
like two etherized patients floating
through life, together feeling prufrockian.
DDB Jr. makes my world go 'round; during his absence, Pachelbel fills it up.
One summer I sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, then through the Gulf of Finland to reach Saint Petersburg; I pursued Joseph Brodsky in its alley ways. I dream of making that two summers.
I read “Biking to Electra;” found my way in a Jaguar car, and glanced at the flashing steel grasshoppers at sunset. I’ll follow K.O.P.’s footsteps after he followed N.Scott Momaday’s; find warmth and inspiration on a rainy mountain.
Throw chinese coins for the I Ching.
Save the whales, the spotted owl, the woman in toil.
Cast a fly for trout; my memories of fly fishing under the sunny blue Colorado sky remain; I yearn to build more . . . with more trophy Browns.
Listen for the swan’s calls on the Baltic Sea. Feel KKII's joy, his arms spread wide in Yazilikaya.
Good night, Jimmy Durante, where ever you are.