A Season of Hay

Haying season in August always brings back memories of the farm and a family that I grew up loving as if they were my own ... And not just because I was in love with their eldest son from the time I put on my first training bra until I graduated my way into a C Cup. They were the kind of people who drew you in until you felt very much like one of their own. The kind of people who lent a helping hand when it was needed and let you call their house a home away from home.

I grew up a country girl, playing hide and seek in hay mounts, swinging from ropes that hung down from the ceiling and learned quickly where to step, when to step and where not to step and what to listen and look for as I was stepping. Raised tails were not to be taken lightly.

I played with barn yard kittens, fell in love with every calf, and helped with whatever I could, whenever I could, just for the simple joy of spending as much time there as possible. I loved taking rides in the tractor, chasing errant cows down when they refused to come in from pasture, and climbing into the hay wagon as we bumped and jolted our way down a rutty country road in search of a hay strewn field.

The eldest son - who at my tender age of twelve was the love of my life, though he was five years my junior - would already be out in the field waiting for his younger brother and I to bring the empty wagon to trade out with the full. And though he wasn't the most patient of boys, what with the way he would boss around his little brother and roll his eyes at my doe eyed antics, I was sure that he loved me too ... Why else would he have offered me a piece of Wrigley's Spearmint gum if not to say he cared?

After the sharing of such a meaningful piece of gum, Little Case (whom on last inspection was well over six feet tall) and I would ride back to the farm, him driving happily away with a sweet smile on his face and me usually playing co-pilot from my perch on the fender, staring wistfully after his brother. Ah parting, it was such sweet sorrow ...

But back at the farm, we were all business, young Casey backing the wagon up just a few feet away from the conveyor belt. And when the belt started groaning, the chains sounded like a stick on a snare drum beating increasingly faster as gravity was put to the test. Grabbing a bale at a time, Casey and I worked out a silent pattern of taking opposite turns of tossing. Sometimes he'd be high on the load tossing the bales down while I pitched them onto the belt, and when my arms ached from the exertion, I'd switch out and push the bales down to land at his feet for him to toss.

For those of you who have never lived on a farm, or grew up near one, there is a quick lesson you learn about throwing bales ... One being that bales that don't land quite right on the conveyor belt have an extremely bad habit of coming back down when you least expect them to, and mostly on top of your own head if you're not paying attention. So every throw was like taking a money shot, get it wrong and the price to pay could be anywhere from losing three bales over the side, taking a full body shot of bale or getting one wedged up high in the door that opened up into the mount, at which point the whole process would have to stop to shut everything down and someone - though usually never me - would have to scale the conveyor to unplug the impediment.

And haying was always a hot process. Smart girls and boys knew better than to wear shorts, and short sleeved tops when doing their time in the wagons. And for those doubting Thomases who thought they knew better and came dressed for a day at the beach, they soon found out that hay was neither soft nor kind to tender skin left exposed. Instead they found out the meaning of hay rash, and heat rash, and previously smooth skin left pink and irritated with little dots all over.

But I loved it. Loved every little minute of it. Loved the thrill of being outside, being with my friends, and the two dollars I got a wagon for helping. To me, it was a slice of heaven.

Sadly, as the way things often go for small family based farms in America, there just wasn't enough time, money and people to keep the operation out of the red. The family farm that I grew up loving has long been left abandoned, it's out buildings falling down and the house unnaturally empty with its front door swinging wide open whenever an errant breeze happens to chance its way, while a single rope hanging from the haymount still, beckons the memory to recall what once was inside ...