When they’d finished discussing their harvest plans for the day, everyone on the Hanson farm had got up and set their coffee mugs in the second-hand dishwasher Jeff’s wife, Elaine, had bought for Father’s Day. Then they all set out for the field.
“For the love of God, don’t break anything,” Jeff Hanson had called after them.
This year, even minor breakdowns could cause expensive delays if the parts they needed weren’t in stock. Equipment dealers were still pointing to global supply chain issues to explain unprecedented parts and machinery shortages. The Hansons couldn’t afford to be shut down for long during the short harvest season, especially this year when the crops had ripened relatively late.
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Jeff’s father Dale had just shared a terrifying story he’d heard on coffee row. “The Jacobsons’ header has been out of commission for a week and a half,” Dale told them. “They can’t get any parts from anywhere, and it’d be easier to find the lost fountain of youth than a used header right now.”
Jeff figured his father had found the fountain of youth. Since he’d recovered from his knee replacement, Dale was acting 20 years younger. After at least three years of trying to hide a limp, Dale was speed-walking around the yard and practically jumping up into tractor and combine cabs. It was like having a new man on the harvest team. A new man with an assistant. Dale was almost never out in the field without his German shepherd, Flora, riding along in the passenger seat of the truck with her head stuck out the window. Tongue lolling out one side of her mouth, her ears blowing in the wind — the dog had never looked happier.
As long as they could keep the equipment running, Jeff thought, everything would be great. The canola had ripened up evenly. The lentils were running well. Jeff hated to jinx himself, but he thought his overall yields would run a little above the farm average. The crops were better than last year, even with all of the hot summer weather and the grasshopper invasion they’d been fighting all season.
The Hansons even had exactly the right amount of harvest help. With Elaine plus Jeff’s mom each running one of the two combines, Jeff, his father and their farm employee could keep the grain hauled and give Elaine and Donna plenty of breaks. They’d hired the neighbour’s teenage daughter to come over after school and on weekends to cook meals and look after their young daughter, Jenny. Having his son Connor to run the grain cart after school and on weekends was an extra bonus.
“We don’t learn anything important at school for the first couple of weeks anyway,” Connor had whined, trying to convince his parents to let him stay home and work.
“Nice try,” Jeff said. “But I don’t think teachers tolerate that kind of thing anymore.”
Connor’s scowl hadn’t lasted long, as if he had known from the start that he wouldn’t win but felt obligated to give it a try anyway.
Elaine’s twin nephews had also wanted to come to the farm for harvest after having so much fun working during seeding, but their mother wasn’t having it either. “Those two get in enough trouble without skipping school.” The twins had convinced their mother to drive them to the Hanson farm for the Labour Day weekend, but, of course, long-weekend rain had kept them out of the field.
“It’s not fair,” they’d complained.
“You can try again next year,” Jeff had said.
With harvest going so well, the only thing causing Jeff any concern today was the phone call he had to make.
Before coffee that morning, Jeff’s wife had asked him to get in touch with Greg, his friend from university. Greg and his wife farmed in southwest Saskatchewan, where they were living through their third drought year in a row.
“His wife says he’s pretty down,” Elaine said. “They finished harvest early, but there wasn’t much out there.”
Jeff had seen the Twitter photos of drought-stricken crops. Hot weather had burnt up wheat fields that didn’t have enough moisture to fill. The photos of the canola crops looked even worse.
“Give him a call,” Elaine had said. “Let him know you’re thinking about him.”
“What can I even say?” Jeff used both arms to gesture wildly at everything around him. “I can’t call him up and tell him how well our harvest is going. He doesn’t want to hear about how high our lentils yielded in that low spot on the south quarter.”
“No,” Elaine agreed. “Maybe you can you talk about something other than farming?”
Jeff raised his eyebrows. “We haven’t done that since we were at school.”
Elaine laughed. “Call him. If we were in that situation, you’d want to hear from a good friend.”
Jeff knew she was right, but he still didn’t want to do it.
But there he was, sitting out in the field waiting for the combines to fill. There was nothing broken to fix. Nobody else to talk to. He might as well phone Greg.
Jeff had the truck turned off, one elbow out the window. The breeze blowing through the cab was just the right temperature. A perfect day. Greg probably hadn’t had any great days this season.
Jeff clicked through the screens on his phone until he found Greg’s number. Before he hit “call,” he took a deep breath.
And suddenly his throat was blocked.
A grasshopper. He’d breathed in a grasshopper.
“Hey Jeff,” Greg answered.
Jeff could feel the bug kicking at his throat. He tried to swallow. It wouldn’t go down.
“You okay?” Greg asked.
It’ll have to go up, Jeff thought. He tried to cough, but the grasshopper didn’t budge.
“Did you butt-dial me?” Greg asked.
Jeff squawked, trying to get the bug out of his windpipe.
“Sounds like something’s wrong,” Greg said. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”
Then finally, Jeff forced the grasshopper up and out with a loud wet cough. It landed on the dusty truck dash, along with a gob of phlegm.
Greg was frantic. “I’m hanging up. I’ll dial 911.”
Jeff almost barked. “Wait!”
“What?” Greg said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m … okay,” Jeff rasped. His throat was burning.
Jeff found his lunch cooler on the truck floor. There was a thermos inside. He opened the lid and swallowed down throatfuls of the cold water.
“Are you drinking?” Greg sounded worried. “Harvest can be rough. But it’s barely 10 o’clock in the morning …”
“No.” Jeff was hoarse. “I swallowed … a grasshopper.”
Greg paused. Then he started to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” Jeff said. He might’ve choked. On a stupid grasshopper.
But Greg kept laughing, until his laugh turned into a high-pitched giggle, that unique giggle Jeff hadn’t heard from Greg in years.
Jeff started laughing too. They both laughed until they were out of breath.
“Whoa,” Jeff said, when he could finally talk again. “Sorry about that.”
“We’ve got a lot of hoppers out here too,” Greg said. “But they haven’t tried to kill me. Maybe it’s not so bad here after all.”
“Glad I could help,” Jeff said.
