Crop Circles

Most times, while driving our two-door 1972 Ford Meteor, I’d have the radio cranked up, singing along at the top of my lungs to songs like the Bay City Roller’s “Saturday Night” or The Sweet’s “Fox on the Run." However, this was not one of those times.

 I was late. 

And I was lost.

Uneasily, I glanced at the late September sky, where the once hazy shades of pink and lavender had long melted into the horizon, making way for the dark blanket of night that now cloaked the countryside.

I gnawed on my lip and grasped the steering wheel as I bounced over the uneven field, driving between swaths, careful not to disturb the uncombined grain. The car’s yellow headlights searched for something familiar—a ravine, a clump of trees, an approach, anything that would help me identify where I was in the field. 

The air was thick with chaff dust spewed from neighbours’ combines as they clambered through the endless rows of swaths in fields southwest of Wakaw, Sask. The musty, stale smell permeated my vehicle, seeping through the air vents and inhaled into my nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.

My heart was pounding. Was I even in the correct field? At this point, I had no clue. Was it possible I was in the wrong field? Oh, sure, anything was possible.

At the tender age of 19, I had been married for two months, had secured a full-time position at the town's bank, managed a household, and was adjusting to life as a married woman, if you could call a girl of 19 a married woman. I had accomplished all those things, but I couldn't find my way through the field to where my husband and his father and brother waited for supper.

The savoury aroma of beef stew wafted through the car as the lid on the pot shifted slightly from bouncing through the field, allowing the heavenly smell to escape, reminding me I was hungry. Earlier, I had raced home from work and hastily tossed the cut-up beef, carrots, potatoes, and onions into the cooker.  While the meal cooked on the stove, I packed plates, utensils, cups, and buns in a box to take out to the field to serve the hungry men. 

"Beef Stew" by su-lin is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

The field in which they were combining was a full thirty minutes away from where we lived, and I was new to the area and unfamiliar with the landscape. I turned off the highway from which endless quarters of farmland stretched, one quarter of land looking just like the other with no discernible characteristics or features to identify them. It was hard to know which was our land in the daylight but, now in the darkness, it was nearly impossible.

Nervously, I glanced at the clock in the dashboard and realized I had meandered through the field for almost an hour.  I peered through the windshield and tried my best to find a landmark or anything that might help me identify where I was. I was careful not to hit any of the rocks that jutted from the ground like icebergs and were nearly impossible to see in the field until it was too late. Hitting one of those large rocks could severely damage a tire or the undercarriage of the car. I was not too keen on having to explain that to my new husband.

As I groped along, I realized I couldn’t see a combine or a grain truck nearby. That only helped confirm my belief I might be in the wrong field but, how do I get back to the road?  

Another thought nagged at me. Finally, I summoned the courage to check the fuel gauge. Just as I thought-- I was nearly out of gas. An increasing sense of apprehension began to creep into my being as I cursed myself for being so reckless and not filling the car before I headed out. I hadn’t wanted to be late delivering supper to the men and, the fact of the matter was, I was proud of how delicious the stew had turned out and was anxious for my husband’s approval. Now, the tasty meal would be cold. That was, if I found them and they had a chance to eat it.

Something orange flickered eerily in the distance. I couldn't make out what it was. That only served to rattle me further. I strained to see what was causing the strange glimmering light off in the distance, but could not make out what it was.

My husband had recently commiserated about the number of break-ins and thefts he and his neighbours had experienced on their land this year.   I immediately worried this light was probably guiding the crooks as they looked for further items to steal. They probably wouldn’t think too kindly of a young woman interrupting their foray. Thoughts of burglars and vandalism crowded my mind as I turned the car in the opposite direction and thumped over the rough field, trying to put as much distance between myself and the intruders as quickly as possible.

"Harvest" by Chris & Lara Pawluk. Licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

But, how will I get out of this darned field? Why couldn’t I find the driveway that would take me back to the main road? I groped through the field, looking for an approach and finding none.

Glancing in my rearview mirror, I noticed a vehicle was coming up behind me. I pressed my foot to the gas pedal, no longer concerned about disturbing the swaths in the field. I had to escape. There was no telling what the pilferers might do if they caught me. My heart pounded against my chest, trying to get out, and my mouth was dry. My clammy hands clutched the steering wheel as I leaned forward in my car seat, trying to see what was in the darkness in front of me as I made a run for it.

The pot filled with stew as well as the dishes and cutlery clanged around in the box that nearly slid off the car's front seat as I raced to get away. Now, I was in a field where the crop was still standing. I plowed directly into the wheat field heedless of the damage I was doing to the ripe brittle stocks. My only thought was to get away and hide.

Before I had a chance to kick that plan into action, I felt the car plunge over a small elevation in the land and come to rest on something. I was stuck. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping I had lost my pursuer. I wasn't that fortunate.  The other vehicle had stopped at the edge of the standing wheat directly behind me. I could see the interior light come on as that person opened the door to climb out.

I was trapped. It was fight or flight. I could get out and, in the thick grain, try to outrun him, or I could stay and fight. I'm not much of a runner, so I decided to stay and fight. I grabbed the handle of the pot of stew, ready to use it as a weapon if need be. I frantically looked around but couldn't find the culprit in the dark. Where had he gone? What was he doing? I peered through the side windows, and then the back window, into the curtain of darkness. Where was he?

Suddenly, a face appeared in the window directly beside me. I screamed until I couldn't anymore.  The car door was opening. The only comfort I had was the fact that I had a pot full of stew.

And I knew how to use it.

Just as I raised the pot to swing in the direction of the open door, I heard a familiar voice.

“Put the pot down before you spill it,” my husband said matter-of-factly.

I slowly lowered the pot back to the box. In one quick movement, I was out of the car and sobbing into my husband's chest. He held me for a moment and then asked why I was driving away from him when he came to search for me. I babbled something about robbers but, even to my ears, it sounded utterly ridiculous. It turns out the scary orange light I saw was a fire my husband had started in the hopes it would help guide me to where they were after they saw me driving around in circles in the field. 

My husband tied a rope to the back bumper and gently coaxed the car out of the shallow ravine into which I had driven. He got my car turned around and asked me to follow him across the field to where his father and brother were, not so patiently, waiting for their meal.

With my head down, I quickly dished up the stew and handed the plates to them. Nothing was said, although I was positive I had seen a smirk on my brother-in-law's grimy face as he mopped up the gravy on his plate with his bun.

A tailgate meal at harvest time. Author’s brother-in-law Dale Frey, sister Cindy Frey, father-in-law Norbert Frey and sitting on the ground by the truck, husband Don Frey.

When he finished, he handed me the empty plate and, with an expectant look on his face, asked, "What's for dessert?"

My shoulders slumped as I remembered the apple crisp I had placed in the oven to warm while the stew cooked.   It was still in the oven at home. I tried explaining what happened. The men were already standing up to leave and resume harvesting.

At that moment, I felt inadequate, totally a failure. And to top it all off, I still didn't know how to get out of that darned field. I swallowed my pride and asked my husband. In response, he pointed in the direction I should drive.

“Please, can you take me back to the road?  I don't want to get lost again," I pleaded with my husband. I didn't want to tell him I was also low on gas.

He climbed into his truck, the one that had pursued me earlier, and led me to the approach that took me back to the main road. Before he left to go back to combining, he climbed out of his truck and came back to my car. With tears of frustration brimming over, I rolled down the window to see what he wanted.

A goofy grin lit up his face as he leaned inside to kiss me. The taste of dirt and sweat lingered on my mouth long after he turned and left to go back to the combine. But my heart was no longer pounding to break free of my chest, instead it beat with a nice steady rhythm. 

I turned on to the main road, happy to be on my way home to where the apple crisp waited. The car slowly puttered to a stop. 

I was out of gas.

My heart sank as I lowered my head to the steering wheel and cried.

Marilyn Frey.

MARILYN FREY, recently retired from the financial industry, now has time to explore her passion for writing.  Marilyn grew up on a small mixed farm southwest of Middle Lake, Saskatchewan, and then married and moved to Cudworth.  They raised three children.  Marilyn feels her life and the lives of the people around her are rich with moments of immense sadness, challenges to overcome, funny situations, and some of the happiest times ever.  All of these circumstances illustrate the complexities of life and are the basis of great stories, ones to be told and shared.  Marilyn and her husband reside in Saskatoon, close to their family.

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