Story & Photos by Stacy Bronec
Before I married a farmer, I only thought of the seasons as changes in the weather. Summer meant days on the lake, BBQs, and sunscreen. Winter meant skiing, snow, and Christmas. Now, a decade into a life in agriculture, the seasons have a different meaning to me. The long days of light in the summer often dictate my husband’s work in the field. The shorter winter days are a welcome break —the darkened sky calling everyone into the house earlier.
Between having three babies in the last decade, my main role during harvest (besides wrangling children and keeping the house running) is cooking dinner for the crew. Every evening, I cook a full meal, pack the pots and serving dishes into coolers, load them into the pickup, and drive to the field where they are cutting.
Ten years ago, I went from being alone in the pickup, with a round belly touching the steering wheel while I bounced across a field, to a full pickup cab a few years later: three kids, coolers, and myself. As the years passed, my oldest started spending more time in the field with his dad. Soon, I imagine it will be just me delivering meals to the field, my kids working alongside their dad and the crew.
This past summer, my husband, Rich, texted me and asked if I would be willing to fill in and drive a combine. It had been at least two years since I ran a combine. Did I remember how? I said yes, assuming it would be like riding a bike—a very large bike—and I was excited about a change in scenery for the day and helping with harvest in a different way.
I scrapped my dinner plans and loaded up a small cooler with lunch and snacks, and my three-year-old, Nora. My two older children, Rhett and Allie, were already in the field, where they had spent most of the last month.
When I got to the field, I made my way toward one of the combines driven by an employee. He parked and jumped out so he could drive a semi loaded with grain. My almost nine-year- old, Rhett, climbed down the ladder of his dad’s combine and walked through the stubble toward me. I waited for Rich to get out of the combine, assuming he would give me a refresher course on running a combine, but with dust flying, he took off.
“I’ll show you, Mom,” Rhett said, reading my mind. Rhett, Nora, and I climbed the ladder into the cab. Rhett started pushing buttons, telling me what he was doing along the way. Slowly, it came back to me—watch my speed, engage auto-steer, pay attention to the header. But then came the part I was most anxious about—unloading the wheat “on the go” into the grain cart. I took a deep breath, and did it. Rhett sat beside me, his hair wild and uncut from a summer in the field, giving me gentle cues and reminders, talking about the crop and the combine. I smiled; his love of farming never more evident.
He started third grade a few weeks later. The boy who made me a mom, the first one I brought to the harvest field, taught me how to drive a combine. So often, as the farm mom, it’s easy to feel like I’m not as exciting as my husband. I sometimes wonder if the work I do at home is important. Although everyone loves and appreciates a hot dinner in the field, I know it’s not as flashy as driving a combine—especially to a boy who loves tractors and crops.
That day in the field wasn’t just about me running a combine instead of cooking. On that hot August day, I let my son teach me. I asked him questions and watched his eyes light up when he answered. I stepped into his world. And as he gets older and spends less time with me, I cherish those moments together.
Life in agriculture can be stressful due to its unpredictable nature, reliance on the weather, market fluctuations, long hours, working with family (which is a blessing and a challenge), and loneliness from living in a rural area.
But the days when the five of us are all together, the big blue Montana sky above us, the golden wheat falling in front of us—I’m reminded of the beautiful parts of this life, too.