Like A Thresherman

When Grandma saw someone enjoying a meal with gusto she often said, "He eats like a thresherman." She meant that he could pack away amazing amounts of food and then ask if there was any pie for dessert.

There's not much call for threshing around here, especially not this time of year, but we wanted the lawn thatched for the Spring so we call Young Son the Second (by two minutes) and asked him to bring his friends and their equipment.

Just as threshing crews descended with steam engines and horses, these three swooped in with a mower, a blower and a thatcher and did the job in less than an hour. If we'd tried raking it would have taken the best part of an afternoon and no fewer than three blisters.

While they worked and made their noise we lit the grill and loaded the oven with potatoes. They had, somehow, managed to make ours the last stop of the day and, "Why, yes," they did have time for supper. The three of them tucked into brats and fries and salad and in half a jiffy were looking satisfied if not full.

It dawned on me then that those threshing crews, the men who had so impressed me as a young boy were probably no older than these three at my table. In their mid twenties, one expecting a third child, they were boys who had been at my table for more than two decades and now were boys no longer. Between us we are blessed with four boys and a son-in-law. They and their friends have made our table a place of love and laughter. The stories shared over a meal here would put shame to a lumber camp or a fish shanty.

Just before I fell asleep the beautiful Mrs Circumstance kissed my cheek and sighed. "It's fun to feed boys, isn't it?"

"Yes. Yes it is."