Baling memory story

We worked hard on the farm, when I was a kid. You know the farm cannot produce without the farmer. And the farmer cannot do it all, and that is why the farmer has kids! Ha! This is more true than not.
A lot of summers have flown by since I was a kid and some things have changed since then. One thing in this big old world that is largely the same is the old family farm. I can envision the years that have gone by like shadowy ghosts when I walk the familiar fields and hilltops of home.
One of the most important jobs on a farm in the summer is making hay. That year we made hay while the sun shined. The sun was so hot that year you could feel it for hours after it went down in the evening. The sun was relentless in June. It was relentless in July. It was simply unyielding heat summer through fall, and we made hay all through it, including the dog days and fair week.
We ALL made hay. Those years we used an old Allis baler that made square bales. The sounds that came out of that machine would make alternative rock bands jealous. Every once in awhile it would shear a pin and really make noise. It pooped out heavy packed square building blocks in bunches all over the field and around the bend and beyond what I could see through the sweat that dripped across my eyes.
We started the operation after breakfast. Mom would fill the big jug with green juice-a combination of various citrus juices that came from a frozen mix and was supposed to be good for us somehow. We didn’t argue. There wasn’t anything else so we filled at least two of them. We tried to get the water as cold as we could. She made peanut butter or just butter sandwiches enough to fill an empty bread sack and we were ready.
Dad drove the Allis 185. Andy and I stood on either side and Mom drove the one ton ’67 ford over with the two “kids” with her. Of course Andy and I were kids but we were the “big kids” and we knew the difference. The little kids could quit when they got tired. Big kids can’t. We knew by now we were destined to a day, a summer, a life of constant work. We also knew better than to whine or complain about it. It only took us 5 minutes to drive down one hill and up the other to where we were baling. Then the work began.
Our job was to stay on the back of the pickup as Dad made bales. Mom would follow and pick them up with a heave and throw them into the tonner with the high rack on the back. When she did we would have to pack them one by one in tight rows. We had a bale buncher so they were already in piles all over the field and would be pitched up to us in overwhelming multiplicity. So we were scrambling for awhile then would get just enough time to catch our breath while mom drove toward the next bunch.
Our conversations were probably something like this-
“Oh man, theres a lot of bales on that bunch.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m awful tired Andy.”
“Not as tired as me, I’m doin’ all the work here.”
“You are not! Jus’ cuz your bigger don’t make it so!”
“I am too.”
And by then we would lurch to a stop next to the bunch of monster bales and pack them in straight even rows. My hands were too small to wear the jerseys comfortably so eventually my fingers would bleed. Oddly even though they would bleed they never hurt. They also seemed to always be ok by the next day.
Finally it was time to stop for lunch. That meant we could get out of the hot truck box. We would jump down over the endgate and run after mom for the drinks and lunch. Dad would bring the tractor around close by that round, or else he would stop it way off and walk over. If you are convinced that we kids worked hard, it was nothing compared to Dad. He was the iron of the family and no one could work harder than he. We knew this intuitively and respected him for the black grease on his hands and the furrow in his brow.
Dad was not a hard man then and he is not a difficult man now. Rough and gruff on the outside, and contemplative, but in front of us kids, he was all humor and soft smiles. We craved a break not only to get a drink of juice and a lousy sandwich but also because it meant 30 minutes with Dad. We sat around in the shade of the big truck and listen to some Ole and Lena jokes Dad was telling in between stories from his childhood. Mom was kept busy trailing after the little kids who never knew she would have liked to sit.
I grabbed the juice jug. It was lukewarm. If you tilted it fast you might get the cooler stuff from the middle but even that wasn’t cold anymore. I slugged it down anyway. I thought for the hundreth time how awful green juice tastes. I tried hard to eat the peanut butter sandwich but it was all mushy and had hay stuck to it. I gave it to my little brother. He would eat anything. I picked the berries off the nearby bushes and that was much better.
We settled in for a short rest while mom and dad solved some baler problem. We sat in the shadow of the big tires of the truck. I would have fallen asleep if I didn’t ache so much in the shoulders.
I didn’t realize then that aches in childhood go away when you sleep at night. I never thought about it at all. Now I know, childhood is a magical, wonderful time when aches and pains don’t last and hard times are hidden from the kids by loving parents who shoulder it with grace.
We would start dragging after lunch. It was so hard to go back to work after a rest. We work half as well and twice as slow. Usually there was another two hours in us, then another break, and mom would have to take us home for a real rest. And a bath. We would be allowed to spend the rest of the day ourselves. This may involve lounging around the living room, which was cooler than outside, creating a monumental mess by flooding the sandbox and then “farming” it, burrowing in to the middle of the lilac bush to play cowboys and indians, and ambush each other, and various other games. Toward evening we would be enlisted to assist with chores and the day would be over, destined to repeat itself with the next sunrise.
If Dad could spare the time we might play a little softball just before sunset.
Isn’t it amazing what we overlook as the time passes? Now that I am grown and have seen other places and other ways to live, memories like this seem so precious. I don’t have any resentment about being made to work. Quite on the contrary, it seems like a cherished gift.
I live on the home farm now with my kids. When I get the chance to walk across the fields out there the realness of the land hasn’t changed. It is firm and stable. I get the sense the land hasn’t noticed my absence. I’m just grateful that my own senses are alive again and I can see, smell, hear and feel the natural world all around me, and can be aware of what it is worth to work the land.