The Wheat Whisperer Who Whispered Too Loudly

Ah, the summer of '70. Or maybe it was '71. Time blurs like cheap beer at a prairie bonfire. I was 19, king of a tiny, paper-clogged desk at National Grain in Winnipeg. My domain? The 267 grain elevators scattered across Western Canada like lonely sentinels. My royal duty? Sending out weekly surveys thicker than a farmer’s porridge, begging the elevator operators – those salt-of-the-earth, plaid-wearing sages – to tell me how the crops were doing.

Every week, the replies trickled in. Mostly variations on "Rain's good," "Sun's better," or the philosophical "Could be worse." My boss, Stan, a man whose mustache contained more wisdom than my entire high school diploma, would then peer over my shoulder as I compiled the **National Grain Weekly Crop Pulse (Prairie Edition)**. He’d grunt, add a cryptic "Hmm," change "looking promising" to "showing moderate potential," slap an "APPROVED" stamp on it, and off it went. This sacred scroll then zipped across the globe, apparently guiding the financial fates of nations, or at least deciding the price of Uncle Bob’s breakfast toast.

It was a well-oiled machine. Until Stan vanished.

Vacation. Bahamas. Sand. Whatever. The *Crop Pulse* had to go out. No biggie, right? I’d watched Stan do it for weeks. How hard could compiling "Rain's good" and "Sun's better" be?

I opened the mail sack. The usual suspects were there: Reg from Moose Jaw reporting "Barley's perky," Doris in Dauphin noting "Oats are standing tall, bless their hearts." But then... a theme emerged. Like a dark, six-legged melody.

"Noticed some tiny fellas having a right feast in the #1 bin. Little brown buggers." - Chet, near Estevan.
"Got visitors in the wheat. Weevils, maybe? Nibblin' away." - Marge, outside Brandon.
"Bug party in the south silo. Gatecrashers ain't welcome." - Hank, up by Peace River.
"Seen these beetles before? They’re multiplying faster than gossip at a church social." - Agnes, down Lethbridge way.

Huh. Interesting. And consistent! This wasn't just Chet spilling coffee on his survey. This was data*. This was the *real **Pulse**! Stan always emphasized accuracy. So, with the zeal of a cub reporter who just discovered fire, I compiled:

*Section 7: Pest Observations*
Widespread reports of insect activity observed across multiple regions (Estevan, Brandon, Peace River, Lethbridge, et al.). Species tentatively identified as weevils or similar grain beetles. Significant populations noted, with operators reporting active feeding within stored grain. Potential for substantial infestation developing.

I typed "DEVELOPING" in bold, for emphasis. Stan liked emphasis. I slapped on the *APPROVED* stamp myself (using a slightly wobbly hand), feeling like a titan of industry. Off the *Pulse* flew, winging its way to commodity traders in Chicago, bakers in Berlin, and probably some very nervous squirrels with grain futures....

Months later, at the company Christmas party, a top executive cornered me: "So YOU'RE the kid who crashed the market in one day?" 😳
Join me (now 75!) as I share this wild, true tale of unintended consequences, youthful responsibility, and the day my routine report sent shockwaves through the stock exchange. It’s a hilarious reminder that sometimes, the biggest impacts come from the smallest, most innocent clicks!

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