By and large, we Americans take for granted the food that shows up on the breakfast table, or the value meal we buy at the local fast-food joint.

But make no mistake: Someone put their heart and soul into producing every ounce of it.

Growing up on a Central Montana farm/ranch, I can vouch for the efforts put forth in the heartland. The most rewarding portion of the year (financially and psychologically) was the grain harvest that usually ran from mid-August to mid-September, depending on the year.

I literally grew up producing food, whether it was feeding cattle, plowing fields or doing all I could to get the harvest in before hail had a chance to do its damage.

While the rest of the year is no picnic (there's always something to do on a farm and/or ranch, no matter the time of year), harvest time is "all hands on deck."

Once I was at an age where I could drive a grain truck with a load down from the fields to our granaries, I pretty much knew where I'd be for the better part of four weeks each year - on the seat, jamming gears.

With my father on the combine, I had the task of driving up beside him when he'd signal his hopper was full, and I'd keep the truck steady with the header of the combine, while he unloaded the hopper into the truck bed, all while he continued to cut. This was called "unloading on the go," and once we mastered it, the only reason either of us stopped was to fill our gas tanks.

There were times when I'd return to the field after unloading and I'd have a few minutes before dad's hopper was full, so I'd pull out the latest copy of The Sporting News. I'd usually re-read every story in there at least twice in the course of a harvest, but hey, that is all I had.

I also had to work on my birthday more often than not, and there were times we'd "cut and store" well into the night, especially if the air stayed dry enough to cut. While Montana is pretty much humidity-free, there were times we had to wait for the grain to dry out before we could successfully cut it and store it without the crop spoiling.

The worst part of harvest for me was never the workload or the long hours - it was the chaff from the crop.

With no air conditioning in the truck, my windows were always open for ventilation, and that allowed all the chaff from the combine to enter every time I pulled up to it. I battled this by wearing long-sleeved work shirts, which kept a good amount of the itchy stuff at bay.

The worst chaff came from fields of oats. Luckily, we usually only had a field or two, so the discomfort was usually short-lived. Barley and wheat were our more common crops, even though some neighbors had fields of safflower (harvested for its oil) or corn.

I wouldn't give up my time as part of the food-providing community for anything. There's nothing more satisfying than pulling into the house after a long day in the fields, knowing you were able to deposit a great deal of the crop.

But no matter how often you did that, it seemed like the rooster would awaken you the next morning for more of the same.

So if you're enjoying your morning oatmeal, or a piece of toast, give a thought to all those who brought in the crop.

And all of us who used to.

You can attempt to reach Jerry Hitchcock at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, or via email at jhitchcock@cdapress.com. Follow him on Twitter at HitchTheWriter.