Harvest Moon
肯尼斯·L.皮尔庞特 / Kenneth L. Pierpont
My grandfather had a small farm where he raised beef and some grain for feed. He also worked diligently as a factory laborer and country pastor. He was a good neighbor and well respected for honoring his word.
When harvest-time came， he’d piece together his old one-row corn picker and oil it up for the season. He pulled it behind a little Ford tractor with a wagon hooked on the back. It was a noisy contraption unlike the modem machines you see these days devouring the golden armies of grain in wide gulps. His whole operation was like that. Basic. In fact， his life was like that， too. He worked hard， helped others and you could count on him to keep his promises. That’s what made it so hard one autumn when difficult circumstances closed in on him.
He had promised to harvest a few ribbons of corn that wound around the hills on a friend’s farm， but after harvesting his own corn， Grandpa’s little corn picker coughed， sputtered and quit. It would be out of commission until a particular part could be ordered， but that would take far too long to help this year. Then the odds of being able to help out his neighbor got even worse； the factory where grandpa worked began to require overtime. In order to keep his job there he had to leave the farm before dawn and didn’t get home until well after sunset.
One autumn night， while harvest time was running out， he and his wife sat at the kitchen table sipping bitter black coffee trying to figure a way out of their dilemma.
“There’s nothing you can do，” said my grandma， “You’ll just have to tell him that you can’t help with the corn this year.”
“Well that just doesn’t sit well with me，” said my grandpa， “My friend is depending on me. I can’t exactly let my neighbor’s harvest rot in the field， can I？”
“If you don’t have the equipment， you just can’t do it，” she said.