Tribute to the Donnelly Threshing Bee

I am certainly not an amazing musician by any stretch of the imagination, nor a skilled lyricist, however, the Donnelly Threshing Bee prompted me to attempt broaden my abilities. It's taken me this long to take the time to sit down, write, compose, and post. It's not a perfect recording and there are some "whoops" moments, so forgive me for those. It is hard to listen to yourself sing, it always seems to sound not right, but it is what it is.


Somehow, posting an audio file seemed to be impossible at the moment without doing a very fancy work around. So I'm beating the system by posting the song as a video (with the visual effects only being a blank black screen). Laughter is an acceptable reaction to my ridiculous attempt at song writing. Don't worry--I won't quit my day job!

But here's where the inspiration for this ditty came from: 

Donnelly was my mom’s home town, similarly tiny like my home town, and is not too far from my parent’s farm. The Donnelly Threshing Bee is always the big town celebration of the year. I remember intently disliking the Threshing Bee when I was little. I did not find the old machines, tractors, or ways of life very interesting. I remember only liking to play bingo with my grandparents, and I remember the year my brother Matt bought ‘fart spray’ at one of the flea market stalls. 

Now, I have a whole new appreciation for the bee – watching old time threshing of grain, pitching straw into the baler, and winnowing of wheat is fascinating. Older farmers donned their pinstriped blue and white bib overalls and their crooked hats. They proudly showed off their old time skills, which have by and large, been replaced by fully automated machines. I felt like I was witnessing a piece of history and was unsettled about the current course farms are on. It was a beautifully windy and sunny day.

After a great meal at the Konsvinger Kitchen, my parents and I were about to head home when a gentleman tapped my window. I rolled my window down, and he said, “Do you have a moment, miss?”  I didn’t know him and my parents did not either. But, I responded that I did have time and he told me this story: "When I was in seventh grade, just a few years ago (his face gave away he was 75 or so), I played baseball with a team of 8th graders from north of Alberta. One evening, we were up against a team of really big 8th grade farm boys from the southern part of the county. They were the team to beat that year. We both played tight games; I was third baseman, and I did well. But they had a little 5th grade girl with fiery red hair on third base and she was good. She got me out twice, in fact. My team lost that game because of her. I never forgot that game and I never forgot that girl. When I met her a few years later, we started to date and she became my wife. We’ve been married for 52 years now and your red hair brought all of those memories flooding back, and I wanted you to know."