Trorshin'
Meanwhile Charley, who was still running the little carpenter’s business single-handed, occasionally got jobs where two pairs of hands were needed, especially undertaking. When this happened my boss would let me have a day off to help out. My father-in-law also got stuck sometimes for help on the farm, especially at harvest time. One day he was all set for a day's threshing when one of the men had to call off because of illness. He asked me if I could help out, so I got time off to do so.
It was my first experience of this sort of thing, but to tell the truth I was rather taken with the idea. As with most country folk, threshing or 'trorshin' as it was more familiarly known, always had a sort of fascination. The whine of the revolving drum rising and falling on the still country air never failed to stir me. It was a clear bright day, and I was placed on top of the corn-stack with one of the regulars. The engine started to puff, the wheels began to turn, and the whine of the drum quickened.
Everything went wonderfully well for an hour or two. We on the stack were higher than the drum and it was simple and easy to toss the sheaves of corn down onto the platform. With one man on the drum cutting the bonds and another feeding them into the drum, we progressed manfully. I felt I was coping rather well, but as the novelty wore off one or two 'flies in the ointment' began to appear. I was beginning to sweat, and numerous barley hairs had found their way into my shirt, and were reposing round my waist where they tickled and prickled remorselessly. I started wriggling uncomfortably as the discomfort got progressively worse. Then the wind took it into its mind to change direction. The sulphurous clouds of black smoke which had been blowing the other way now eddied and swirled round us, blacking our faces and choking our lungs.
I now began to think the romance of threshing had been somewhat over-rated, but far worse was to come. We were now below the level of the platform, and added to my other troubles was the effort of heaving up the sheaves instead of just dropping them. My arms and shoulders were now aching abominably, and where before I had kept time with my mate I now found out, to my chagrin, that he was throwing up two to my one, with about half the effort. He was circling round lifting each sheaf cleanly and easily from the bed of matted corn. On the other hand I always seemed to be trying to lift a sheaf while standing on the other end, or trying to move one which had two or three more on top of it.
When we had a short break for dinner I told my mate about my difficulties. "Ah bor" he said, "t'aint as easy as it looks, is it? Yu see young'un, I built this stack as it should be built, an' if yu follows the layers round it's easy. But if yu goes all over the plearse, yu gits in a hell of a muddle."
If the morning was bad, the afternoon was a nightmare. The lower we got the harder the work. My skin was raw with numberless stabs, my throat was dry and choked with smoke and dirt, and I felt like a human kipper. My back and arms were aching and throbbing as I tugged at the stubborn sheaves, all of which seemed to have doubled in weight since the morning. I looked longingly at the ground, so near and yet so far. My old mate was going as easily as ever, giving me an occasional grin as I staggered around feeling more dead than alive.
The exultation I felt when the last sheaf was hoisted up was wonderful. I threw the pitchfork down with heartfelt relief and the bottle of beer which gurgled down my pickled throat was like nectar. My mate walked over to where I was laid out on the straw and grinned when I said "Well, thank God that's over". He pulled on his jacket, lit his pipe and said "I don't suppose yu wants ter come an' help me with the milkin', du yu?" and walked away without waiting for my answer, which was just as well!
My word, how those men worked! If they got double the wages they wouldn't have been overpaid, yet they never seemed to grumble.
It was my first experience of this sort of thing, but to tell the truth I was rather taken with the idea. As with most country folk, threshing or 'trorshin' as it was more familiarly known, always had a sort of fascination. The whine of the revolving drum rising and falling on the still country air never failed to stir me. It was a clear bright day, and I was placed on top of the corn-stack with one of the regulars. The engine started to puff, the wheels began to turn, and the whine of the drum quickened.
Everything went wonderfully well for an hour or two. We on the stack were higher than the drum and it was simple and easy to toss the sheaves of corn down onto the platform. With one man on the drum cutting the bonds and another feeding them into the drum, we progressed manfully. I felt I was coping rather well, but as the novelty wore off one or two 'flies in the ointment' began to appear. I was beginning to sweat, and numerous barley hairs had found their way into my shirt, and were reposing round my waist where they tickled and prickled remorselessly. I started wriggling uncomfortably as the discomfort got progressively worse. Then the wind took it into its mind to change direction. The sulphurous clouds of black smoke which had been blowing the other way now eddied and swirled round us, blacking our faces and choking our lungs.
I now began to think the romance of threshing had been somewhat over-rated, but far worse was to come. We were now below the level of the platform, and added to my other troubles was the effort of heaving up the sheaves instead of just dropping them. My arms and shoulders were now aching abominably, and where before I had kept time with my mate I now found out, to my chagrin, that he was throwing up two to my one, with about half the effort. He was circling round lifting each sheaf cleanly and easily from the bed of matted corn. On the other hand I always seemed to be trying to lift a sheaf while standing on the other end, or trying to move one which had two or three more on top of it.
When we had a short break for dinner I told my mate about my difficulties. "Ah bor" he said, "t'aint as easy as it looks, is it? Yu see young'un, I built this stack as it should be built, an' if yu follows the layers round it's easy. But if yu goes all over the plearse, yu gits in a hell of a muddle."
If the morning was bad, the afternoon was a nightmare. The lower we got the harder the work. My skin was raw with numberless stabs, my throat was dry and choked with smoke and dirt, and I felt like a human kipper. My back and arms were aching and throbbing as I tugged at the stubborn sheaves, all of which seemed to have doubled in weight since the morning. I looked longingly at the ground, so near and yet so far. My old mate was going as easily as ever, giving me an occasional grin as I staggered around feeling more dead than alive.
The exultation I felt when the last sheaf was hoisted up was wonderful. I threw the pitchfork down with heartfelt relief and the bottle of beer which gurgled down my pickled throat was like nectar. My mate walked over to where I was laid out on the straw and grinned when I said "Well, thank God that's over". He pulled on his jacket, lit his pipe and said "I don't suppose yu wants ter come an' help me with the milkin', du yu?" and walked away without waiting for my answer, which was just as well!
My word, how those men worked! If they got double the wages they wouldn't have been overpaid, yet they never seemed to grumble.
posted by curlybonce | 2:24 pm
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