James Bertsche of Goshen, Indiana, sent the following account of threshing day as he remembers it on the Bertsche farm in Bluffton. The farm stands on the southeast corner of State Route 103 and County Line Road. His recollection is based on what he remembers as a 4-year-old, watching.

Here's his account:
Threshing day at the Bertsche farm was a biggie. I would stand under a walnut tree along the gravel road past the farm watching down the road to the south for the rig to come into view . .wide, high steel wheels crunching the gravel, black smoke flying.

They'd pull onto the yard and a precise positioning process began. The separator was parked in the barnyard, a place for the straw stack chosen, the tractor positioned nose toward the separator, the water tank topped off, a long leather belt strung, with one twist, to the pulley on the separator and, eventually, the operator would put everything into noisy motion.

The first wagon load of sheaves would pull into place and a couple of guys on top would start feeding the bundles, butts first, onto the revolving belt which fed them into the noisy machine. Out one spout would come the grain into a box wagone; and out of a long chute would come the flying straw.

Noon time was the big event for a 4 year old, i.e. dinner time. A plank table was set up outside under a tree with buckets of water, towels and soap.

The crew would file by, toss their straw hats on the ground, get rid of some of the dust and grime. Some would give their hair a tentative swipe and into the dining room they'd go to take places around a long table laden with the food of the day. After grace was offered, they had at it. At the Bertsches it usually included ham or chicken surrounded with mashed potatoes and gravy, some other vegetable plus pickles or red beets, coffee and a slab of pie.

Not every stop on the threshing ring was equally rated when it came to the noon time meal. I remember hearing my Dad and Grandpa comment that at the neighbors the cook's navy beans rattled and rolled around on their platers like marbles.

After everyone was full, all would go outside, look for a patch of grass in the shade, plunk down, hats over faces, and catch a snooze before tackling the afternoon.

The Bertsche neighbor was a man named Vermillion. He had a history as an oil rigger from the time when Bluffton had a brief moment of fame as an oil field. He had Cree Indian blood in him. High cheek ones, bronze cast to his skin and jet black stsraight hair. He farmed his acres with a pair of mules. Hitching them for work was always a clash of wills. The word in our neighborhood was that when the wind was right, you hear him cuss his mules a quarter of a mile away!