Charles A. Nolan was an Alberta Wheat Pool agent from August 18, 1930 to September 16, 1967.  We are very grateful to his widow, Evelyn, who donated the following poem to the Grain Academy Museum in his memory.

They have sung about the farmer in many a joyous lay,
They have written of the laborer, who doles out time for pay,
The seaman gets his share of praise on many a willing lyre,
And in singing of the blacksmith their praises never tire:
But, in song, or history, just tell me if you can,
Who ever said a word about the elevator man?

He stands within his driveway as the grain comes rolling in,
Where he weighs the loads and shoots them to the hungry, waiting bin;
Within the dust he labors through the long and weary day,
And he tries to keep his temper as even as he may.
He listens to the farmers rave about the grade and dock,
And o'er the price he pays them, they always knock.

With the warped and twisted lumber that is furnished by the road,
He coopers up the wreckage that the train crews set to load,
With a proper sense of gratitude, he thanks his lucky stars,
That the Company would consent to let him have some cars;
He stuffs the holes with paper, unconsciously he will pray
That his grain will reach the market with the shortest of delay.

He rises with the early bird that gets the tardy worm,
And his day is full of action, "busy" is too weak a term;
When a dozen tireless threshers are a pounding out the grain,
And the harvest rolling into town, a steady, endless train,
With a line of loaded wagons waits before his open door,
He must keep the grain a rolling to top from the floor.

His shoes are full of barley and his hair is full of oats,
And the dust has settled on his lungs in heavy woolly coats.
When the last load is unloaded, when the town turns out the light,
He can do his book work up and seek his home to spend the night;
But the steady hum of motors will follow him it seems,
And break his rest by creeping into his weary dreams.

He thinks about vacations that he longs and plans to take,
When he'll take his folks and pitch his camp beside a quiet lake;
Where he'll stretch his hammock carefully beneath the shady trees,
And rest his weary body in the pleasant cooling breeze,
Then he'll meet the wife and kiddies in a quiet social way,
And think of something else besides, the price of grain today.

Altho for years he's planned it, he cannot seem to find
A chance to get away and leave his labor's steady grind;
But when, at last, he shuffles off this clumsy mortal coil,
And his dust encrusted body is planted in the soil,
Let us hope that good Saint Peter will meet him at the gate,
Where the bright and shining angels for the tired souls wait,
And with a glad and joyous hand shake, and the hearty greeting, "Well!
Just come right in, and stay with us, you've had enough of Hell."