“Hey, watch out, there’s a rock the size of a loaf of bread about to go through the header!” I yell to my new hubby in the cab of our combine as we harvest in 1981.
“Don’t worry, I saw it, and there will be more,” he confides to me. As a Red River valley farm girl transported by marriage to the Waskada clay loam of southwestern Manitoba, I have developed the habit of picking stones or rocks on my field walks as I deliver meals, fuel or help out with the harvest.