FARM LIFE FROM A FARM WIFE: Ounce of truth with pound of embellishment

Last winter, I signed up for an online creative writing course through the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay, something I’ve always wanted to do. It was intense for me, a newbie on any sort of college campus, even an online one. Learning much about the twists and turns of writing, I raked over my assignments with a fine-toothed comb, perfecting them as much as I could in the manner in which I was taught.

One week, the professor’s assignment was to choose from a number of completely fictional scenarios, given only titles. The task was to embellish an event that did not happen with a form of realism to make it somehow plausible. There was to be an impartial reporter on the scene covering the event. The one I selected resonated with me; it was about a farmer allegedly shooting a 23-pound grasshopper. I chose this theme because, quite frankly, it was the only one I could even remotely relate to. The other topics included science and fantasy fiction, to name a few.

In my story, I dubbed the farmer and her husband, August and Augusta, who were, in actuality, my great-grandpa and great-grandma. My niece, into family ancestry, shared that August was born in 1864 in Manitowne, Wisconsin, and Augusta, in 1863 in Germany. I wonder how they happened to meet. It was destiny with names so similar.

At any rate, my great-grandfather August never ever shot a 23-pound grasshopper, nor did my great-grandmother Augusta ever fry one up over their outdoor cook stove, but they most certainly had to have their share of struggles back then.

So here goes my embellished story.

Farmer Shoots 23-Pound Grasshopper

The headlines screamed, “Great Plain’s Farmer Shoots Gigantic Grasshopper, Feeds Family of Twelve!” Swarming black clouds of grasshoppers crunched their way through farmers’ corn, alfalfa and wheat fields during the parched days of July, 1930. Sweat-drenched, exhausted farmers fought the insects off with every inch of their strength, as they helplessly watched the menacing pests systematically reduce their already drought-stressed Great Plains crops, withered by sweltering heat.

Cars squishing so many of these overgrown, malicious grasshoppers that the hard-packed roads became slick with guts; it was so bad trains couldn’t even get up hills because the hoppers’ bodies greased the tracks! Every single human being was distressed. Scrutinizing the sun-scorched fields, this reporter himself has become discouraged. Acres and acres of nothing but stalks, crackling in the heat, chewed by grasshoppers growing fat and gigantic while everything and everyone else wasted away with hunger.

Interviewing a farmer and his wife, I asked them if they’d ever seen anything like this before. While I was conducting the interview, this farmer and wife retreated into their own private conversation, ignoring me as together, they folded into their misery.

“Not in my lifetime, and I sure the heck hope I never see it again. These dern ‘hoppers are bigger than a barn cat,” mumbled August, as he spat out a wad of brown chew before turning a gritty, weathered face to his wife, Augusta. The inside brim of his tattered hat was wet with downtrodden sweat.

“Keep the faith, August. The good Lord will sure send rain right quick and these buggers will leave! They ain’t be likin’ rain, theys need hot ‘n dry to keep them feedin’.” Augusta awkwardly patted her husband’s shoulder with a gnarled hand, crippled from the effort of scraping a meager living off the parched land. Quickly, her hand fell to her waist, eyes downcast.

“Them buggers is getting bigger by the day! We don’t have long before’n we’s done! I’s gonna git my gun out one of these days and jus’ start shootin’!” With that, August disgustedly stalked off.

This reporter was taken aback. Bigger than a barn cat? He knew nothing was off limits to these potent, gargantuan grasshoppers. Horse-drawn equipment, because they had a wooden tongue pulled by horses, was drenched in horse sweat. As the grasshoppers descended on dusty towns they’d actually gnaw at the wood, just for the sweat they could get off it. Grasshoppers liked salt; heard tell they’d eat the sweat-soaked shirt right off a guy’s back.

Conditions are ripe, noted this reporter. Grasshoppers thrive in dry climates. There’s a fungus that develops in years with a good rainfall. Moisture would destroy the insects. This was a perfect storm; ripe conditions for a bumper crop of bristling, hungry and not to mention, mammoth grasshoppers.

One day, August had had enough. This reporter noted the farmer took his .410 small-bore shotgun and started shooting. Dropping the bounty on his cattle scale, one grasshopper weighed in at 23 pounds! It was reported that Augusta, rivers of sweat dripping off her face, chopped the head off and, sizzling in pig lard, fried up that thing in a pan over their outdoor cook stove. Fed their family of 12 on one savory, crunchy ‘hopper.

The satisfaction of eating instead of getting chewed up was balm for their soul.

(“Blessed is the one who gets wisdom and the one who gets understanding.” Proverbs 3:13)

Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.