Wheat harvest is the best kind of harvest. Sorry, Corn. My bias knows no bounds on this subject.
There’s a magical moment when you step outside every year. It’s warm, sunny, maybe a little breezy, and you can smell it. Having given up the last of their moisture to the sky, the surrounding fields turn from green to gold. You know the smell in the kitchen as you mix bread dough? You turn on the oven, sift the flour, and begin to mix the ingredients. Just before you add the yeast that is what wheat harvest smells like. For a month every year you are wrapped in the warmth of dry wheat, light breeze, and pillowy clouds. It is all promise and possibility.
Dad has a patch of irrigated ground in the pasture that he is cutting with an old John Deere 95H. Compared to modern combines the 95H is a postage stamp with a 22’ header. The windows have been removed, a fresh sheet of plywood dons the cab to provide shade, and chaff from the header blows up into your face as you captain the combine into the wheat. It’s hot. You’re covered in chaff and loamy dust and you’ll always discover a mystery spot of grease on your jeans. It is truly and genuinely fun. The best time of year.