Fall plowing

There once was a time when it was as common as dirt, but the prevailing attitude turned against this activity. You don’t see it much anymore, although it’s made a modest comeback in recent years.                          

I’m not talking about kazoo bands. What I mean is the fine art of moldboard plowing.

I can recall when moldboard plowing was seen as a mandatory agricultural practice. The main motivation behind it could be found in the adage that the best defense is a strong offense. And as far as weeds are concerned, there’s nothing more offensive than being sheared off and buried.

The phrase “The Dirty Thirties” explains why moldboard plowing fell out of favor. It was once thought that rain followed the plow. Turn over the sod, release the moisture trapped beneath and – presto – monsoons. It was the climate equivalent of finding free money under the couch cushions.

This theory seemed to hold true as settlers pushed steadily westward. But at some point, you’ll run into the Mojave Desert. Plow all you want in such an area and you won’t produce a single additional drop of rain. While plowing may be an effective tool for busting sod, it was a bust regarding climate modification.

Plowing was still a standard operating procedure when I was a kid. Conventional wisdom held that your corn crop would fail unless the ground had been thoroughly worked. It’s akin to taking a girl out on a couple of dates before you could even dare to hope that you might hold her hand.

Grandpa Hammer, who lived to be 96, told me that during his lifetime, he’d had a plow in the ground every month of the year. This may not have meant he actually plowed during each month. Perhaps he, like us, had a junky plow that broke down and was left in the furrow over the winter.

Plowing was more than just preparing the ground for the next crop; it was also a venue for showing off your farming skills. It was a point of pride to have laser-straight furrows, even though lasers hadn’t yet been invented.

One supposed test for quality plowing was to shoot a rifle down the furrow. If the bullet didn’t touch either side of the furrow, your plowing met the standard for straightness.

I have my doubts about that one. I don’t recall hearing a lot of rifle shots ringing out across the countryside when folks were plowing.

The plow has been largely supplanted by gigantic, Rube Goldberg-like soil-finishing tools. This single piece of equipment does everything: it discs, it cultivates, it harrows. I wouldn’t be surprised if it also whips up a margarita for you at the end of the day.

The field is left as smooth as a garden plot, with bits of crop residue tastefully strewn about the soil surface. The tractor carves a line that’s as straight as a GPS-guided bullet, and the operator has little to do other than to loll in climate-controlled comfort. The driver’s biggest hardship is boredom, which can be alleviated by watching a movie on his or her smartphone.

This stands in stark contrast to the situation I endured as a kid, namely, an open-platform tractor that left me totally exposed to the elements. When it was windy, I was sandblasted by the dirt from the tractor’s rear tire. Worm-hunting gulls hovered mere feet above my head, eliciting no small amount of bird doot anxiety.

In short, it was wonderful. This plowboy got to experience nature and the land up close and in person. My furrows may have looked closer to a corkscrew than a laser, but I figured that next year’s corn would neither notice nor care.

One autumn, our fall plowing took longer than usual. Even though the weather had turned cold and the soil stiff, I was sent out to the South 40 to finish plowing.

The wind roared down from the northwest and the gunmetal sky glowered menacingly. Fat snowflakes soon filled the air.

I kept on plowing and began to bury snow along with the stubble. It reminded me of how the ancient Romans plowed salt into the soil of a conquered nation. This, in turn, made me wonder how many tons per acre of snow I was burying. These are the sorts of things a guy ponders when he doesn’t have a smartphone.

The only furrows I have nowadays are those in my brow. And despite the discomfort and depravations, I would give anything to once again be that gritty and chilly young plowboy — even though he still has a deep and abiding fear regarding gull doots.

Jerry Nelson is a recovering dairy farmer from Volga, South Dakota. He and his wife, Julie, have two sons and live on the farm where Jerry’s great-grandfather homesteaded over 110 years ago. Feel free to email him at [email protected].