When the icy sheets of winter withdraw from the seedbed; when the first
warm breaths of spring caress the soft cushions of earth; when the
gentle twitters of birds rouse the soil from soporific slumber; then
it’s time to ROCK!
Rock ‘n’ roll. Rock around the clock. Rock-o-matic.
Rock-o-matic would be a cool name for a jukebox or a ’50s style
nightclub. But farmers among us know its connection to rock is more
prosaic.
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That narrow window of the season surrounding seeding can be the ideal
time to drag out the Rock-o-Matic for a few turns around the multi-acre
dance floor, dipsy-doodling to pick up rocks and stones that make farm
machinery do the twist.
Our Rock-o-Matic was red, sun-faded to pink, with white lettering
chipped from multiple contacts with – what else? Rocks. It looked
fairly innocuous for an instrument of torture, but torture it was,
because rock picking is one of those jobs that are never finished.
Pick rocks one year, more turn up the next. Figure a field is finished,
and spot six fair-sized boulders as you’re pulling the Rock-o-Matic
home.
Rock picking, like the limbo-rock, depends greatly upon angle and
technique. The most thorough job is achieved by driving woodenly up and
down the field, obeying your inner metronome, picking rocks along the
way.
But where’s the music in that? If you really want to rock, you head for
the nearest stone, sweep it into the Rock-o-Matic and set your sights
on another. The field soon becomes a veritable rock symphony of
criss-cross patterns.
The less musical among us may suggest (and in fact, have suggested) the
folly of too many tracks, compacted soil and wasted time and diesel
fuel. But I say if you’re really going to rock, you must sometimes heed
the beat of a different drummer.
The angle of attack is also important. Like icebergs, rocks can be
deceptive, and the Rock-o-Matic can hit some high and screechy notes if
set upon a rock too large.
But as I explained later, how was I to know that rock was not the
soon-to-be rolling stone of my imaginings? Could I have predicted that
particular rock was the tip of a bedrock shelf, thrust to the surface
in some prehistoric upheaval of magma, there to lie in wait for the
chance to rip the tines off the Rock-o-Matic?
Rock on, you rock-pickers out there.
