A Summer Job in the Great American Desert

In June 1890, it would be wheat harvest time in the western Kansas part of the Great American Desert.

"It's winter wheat," Art explained. "They plant it in October."

"And it grows all through winter?" I asked, incredulously.

He laughed. "No. How could it grow when it's twenty below and with three to four feet of snow on top of it?" he smirked.

I pressed my lips together. "Well, I think I can expect some grace considering it has the rather misleading name of 'winter' in its given title."

Chuckling, he lightly punched my shoulder. "If I were you, I'd put less stock in the names people here on the prairie use for plants. You’ll run into nasty surprises."

I gave my shoulder a side-eye. "I shall take that under advisement," I said. "So, your Kansas wheat is a June sort of business."

"Yeah. And Pa has a brand-new harvester. So some of the town people who own land in the county hire him to cut and bind their wheat. I've been helping him since I was a kid, but I'm ... well, I need out this year," he said as he laced his arms behind his back.

I had a sinking feeling. "Please don't tell me you consider me a viable candidate."

He tilted his smile and raised his eyebrows.

"Art," I whined. "You can't mean it.” I rubbed at my temples. “What good am I? Never done farm work in my life. Still weak from that god-awful Russian flu. Too pale for this Kansas blast furnace of yours. Clumsy. Awkward. For God's sake, I don't even know that winter wheat doesn't grow in winter!"

He chewed his lip. "Yes, you do. I just told you."

I rolled my eyes. "And"—I looked away—"there’s your father’s thoughts on Englishmen."

"But you're not an Englishman," Art insisted. "You're American. You were born here."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Is that how the senior Mr. McDowell sees it?"

He sighed. "Look. I'll keep working on Pa. But you can. You just think you can’t.”

"What's there to think about?" I moaned. "You—and your father—would be fools to bring me on."

"But you have share in the separator," Art reminded me. "If I can't get it going by the time the threshing season starts, your investment in my business won't pay off."

"What?" I wailed. "Why is this suddenly my problem? You're the one who convinced me to let you have an extra year to pay off the debt on your precious train thing."

Art stiffened. "It's a steam-powered traction engine," he insisted. “It’s a Case."

I ignored him. "So now I've got to figure some other way to pay the taxes on all the properties my father left me.”

"Which"—Art gritted his teeth and wound his hand about in a circle—"you can get if you were to get a job. Possibly like ...?"

I straightened. "Oh. I see what this is. It's extortion."

Art blinked. And grinned. "Ah. Extortion. That sounds more like it."

I scowled and balled my fists.

Mr. Albert McDowell did not get quite enough of Art's workings upon him to change how he felt about my personal participation in the horror that was Ireland's 1840s famine. The fact that I was born in 1870 in Chicago was, clearly, a British trick designed to fool St. Peter at the Final Judgment.

But ... hired hands were quite difficult to get hold of this time of year, so ...?

So Mr. Bert bitterly agreed that divine justice against England might take a month's holiday.

However, Art was made to understand that, under no circumstances, was Mr. Bert going to take any time from his busy farming schedule to be a mentor. If Art wanted to be let off his normal duties this year, he would bear the full responsibility of tutoring the English murderer in the shocking of the wheat.

So for the first week, Art would accompany me and walk behind Mr. Bert's harvester, setting the cut wheat stalk bundles up on end so the grain heads would dry out before they would be threshed.

By 9 a.m. on the first day, I had had enough.

"It's so ... hot," I groaned. "I'm seared all through."

Art shook his head. "You've got to be kidding. This isn’t hot. It's June."

I whimpered. “My skin … aches.”

"Doesn't it get hot in London?" Art asked.

"Yes, of course. But not like this. This is dry and gritty. It’s ..." I searched for what I was feeling. "Being cooked under pressure."

He studied me. "You look all right."

I grimaced. "Oh, do I? Silly me then, thinking I'm being boiled for someone's dinner."

"All right, grumpy." He pointed to the edge of the field. "We'll take a break and get you something to drink."

Art had brought along three large jars made of crockery wrapped in burlap and tied with twine. Each had a narrow spout and small circle-like ring handle on the neck. When we reached the spot where he left them, he handed one to me. "You're sweating, right?" he asked.

I took the heavy awkward jar and considered it. "Yes. It’s burning my eyes. You can’t see me dripping with it?."

"Actually, no." He picked up a jar and looped his index finger into the handle. "Sweat evaporates almost immediately when it's this dry. That's why you have to pay attention to it. If you stop sweating, you're in trouble."

"Oh," I said. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," he said. Then with his free hand, he placed his palm under the crock jar, and with a tight twist, rolled the jar so that its neck rested against the back of his hand and wrist. He lifted it easily above his head and took a brief drink. Then he lowered it and put it back on the ground.

I looked down at the jar.

"Go on.” He gestured toward the jar in my arms. “What are you waiting for?" he asked.

"How ... exactly did you ... do that?" I asked.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

I dipped my head. "Art. I did warn you that I would be rubbish at all this."

Shaking his head, he opened his eyes and gave me a sad look. "No, it's all right. Look, it's hard here. I get it. I've lived here my whole life. I don't know anything else. And even I can feel how hard it is. Here." He took the jar from me and held it by its base. "You're right-handed? Okay, take your right index finger and slip it in the hole."

I did.

"No," he said. "With the top of your finger against the jar."

I did. But correctly this time.

"Now, you're going to hold it with back of your hand and control it up and down with your arm. Okay, ready?"

"I suppose so," I said.

"All right. Push your hand and arm up at the same time."

I did.

"Okay, now take a drink."

I tried to move my face underneath the spout.

"No, no," he said. "The jar's not in charge. You are."

After an awkward wobbling of balancing and maneuvering, I got my mouth to the spout and took a drink.

And choked.

The jar slipped from my arm and out of my finger's grasp. Art snatched it from me and set it down. Then he began to clap my back as I spluttered. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"It's sour," I wheezed.

He wagged his head. "Of course. What did you think it would be?"

"Water," I squeaked.

"It is water," he said. "But you can't drink just straight water while you're working in the heat. It'll make you sick to your stomach. This is switchel. It"—he nodded toward the jar—"has apple cider vinegar in it."

I stared at him.

"And ginger root.”

"Ugh," I moaned. "I can't ... I just can't."

His face tightened. "Yes, you can. Come on. Just drink a little more."

I glanced skeptically at the jar.

"It's not bad. Just different," he encouraged. "It has everything in it. It's tart. It's sweet and sour. It's got kick. It's like a ... fancy lemonade. You like lemonade? Everyone likes lemonade."

"That," I hacked, "is not lemonade."

He huffed. "Yes, it is. It's just apples instead of lemons. Come on. Try it again. You'll like it now. You didn't like it at first only because you were expecting something else. Now that you know it's better than what you were expecting, you'll love it."

I blinked.

Is that what sour means?

Something you choke on because you were expecting something else?

And something you gulp down once you know how it is delicious?

"Hey, hey!" Art tapped my arm. "Not too much. You’ll get sick that way too. Just enough so the thirst won't nag at you. And keep sweating."

I let the jar down and wiped my mouth.