I learned something the other day about you good folks on the other side of the 49^th.  Just give me a little space here and I’ll get around to telling you what it was.

For the past ten years or so, I have helped my friend Brent and his family in the fall harvest.  It’s been an enjoyable tenure; I’ve learned a lot.  I’ve learned how to drive a semi a little better.  Learned how to unload a graincart full of corn in less than five minutes with minimal spillage, most of the time.  Learned how to scoop up that spillage when I did spill, and laugh about it.  Learned how to have some very good times together and ate some really good food along the way. 

We haul to an elevator named Missler.  I realize that name is probably foreign to most of you northern folk.  Although I’d be willing to guess that a slight variation of it has whispered across the lips of any number of young dandies when the beauty they were following for the last several months slipped just beyond their reach.

The elevator is about 9 miles from most of Brent’s fields.  It’s a little one-horse affair that I wouldn’t trade for the bigger affairs any day.  At the most, there might be 5 trucks there at one time.  Most of the time, there are only one or two, as compared to the 15-20 at your regular elevators. 

You get to know the folks on a first name basis there.  Time is in your favor.

Obviously, it was built long before semis existed; the doors to the dumping pit are way too narrow, and the exit from the pit is blocked off by more bins that only a small bobtail truck could navigate past.  So, you must back up a hill, into a narrow opening, without scratching your truck or the elevator. 

Numerous gouges and chunks of missing concrete in the side of the door bear mute witness to unfortunate individuals who thought they were lined up but really weren’t.  It’s often that you’ll see someone backing up the hill, stop, look things over, start lurching in reverse towards the door, only to pull all the way forward to start all over again.  One harvest, Brent and I had a contest to see who had the fewest times to start over backing up, but that is a story for another time.

There was a new dude there, running the pit and dumping the trucks.  He struck me as rather interesting.  Ball cap was always on bill backwards.  Hefty chew either in his bottom lip or cheek. Orange seemed to be his favorite color.  Beer belly, an easy size 6.  Electronic equipment his weakness.  For a while, every day showed a new gadget.  His new earbuds must have had some kind of power.  I’d often get a mirror portrait of him jamming out to what must have been some bad heavy metal. 

I hopped out one day and started visiting with him.  Sounded like his life had been rather interesting, if not tragic.  We talked for a while, comparing likes and dislikes and backgrounds.  I told him I hated heights and wouldn’t do well climbing the bins like he had to.  He told me he loved em’.  Felt so free and good way up there.  Turns out he used to be a truck driver.  Of course, he was a bit braggy about most things, so the truck driving thing was really emphasized.  I guess he thought I needed a few ideas on the finer points of it. 

I asked him where all he had traveled during his trucking days.  He named most of the U.S. and parts of Canada.  Said he liked driving in Canada better anyways.  Talked about hauling to a little town called Brandon, west of Winnipeg. 

“Really,” I said, “I have two sisters who live up there and use that as their shopping town.” 

He must have figured I was still a little wet behind the ears.  He leaned in and told me, as the smell of his chew wafted around me, that one has to be really careful driving truck in Canada. 

“Especially in the winter.  So many horses.” 

“Huh?”

“Yeah, you know, they get lots of snow up there, man.  Gets so deep, man, they have use horses and sleighs to get around.”

“Mmmhmm.” (non-convinced)

He worked there a couple more years.  By the end though, his pants hardly stayed up around his midsection anymore.  I counted him hitching them up 23 times during one time while I unloaded.  And his attitude about life in general seemed to need some hitching up also. 

So, there you have it, my northern friends.  And, since I’m planning on visiting some of you fine folks up there come November, I’d recommend that you keep your horses in good shape. 

I don’t want to be stranded up to my armpits in the snow somewhere on the other side of Brandon.