---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ ISBN# issue/book “Too Many Humans & Not Enuf Souls” cc&d, v307 (the March 2021 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book What Lies on the Other Side the cc&d Jan.-April 2021 magazine issues collection book		get the 424 page Jan.-April 2021 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Regarding Utopia the 2021 poetry, flash fiction, prose, & art collection anthology		get the 396 page poetry, flash fiction, prose, & artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

My My, Hay Hay

Karen Gregory

    The sweat was pouring off of my forehead. I was so hot and sticky; I thought I’d never ever be cool again.
    The chaff stuck to my skin, in my hair, up my nose. I had on leather gloves that made my hands perspire, but at least I wasn’t getting scratched. My arms, encased in long sleeves to protect my skin, ached. But my legs ached more. And there was a hole developing on the top of my jeans, just above my right knee; it was beginning to get raw underneath. I was going to have to break in a new pair really soon. That was the first place to wear out. Plus I’d need a new pair of work gloves.
    It was haying season.
    I’d always helped with the hay harvesting, but this year there was a bumper crop of alfalfa in Northeast Iowa. Wagonload after wagonload arrived in the barnyard, and I was the only one assigned to unload. Every single square bale had to be picked up by the twine, bounced off my knee, and funneled onto the conveyor belt of the escalator. Each then trundled its way up to the hayloft in the big barn, where it dropped. Two of my brothers were up there in the sweltering loft, picking up each hay bale and securely stacking them, one by one.
    At least I wasn’t alone in my misery.
    My dad and mom were out in the field, along with my little sister and youngest brother, who was barely old enough to help. Dad drove the tractor and baler, with the wagon hooked up behind it all. Mom and sister stacked bales on the wagon as they were flipped up from the baler, with twine already around them. They stacked those wagons really high, too. My youngest brother helped dad watch for twine breaks as the bales came out, and for brush or branches in the field that could break the baler. My older brother Kevin and slightly younger brother Steve helped load the wagons too, and then drove them back to the barnyard, where we’d set up to unload. With that double duty, they were both definitely working harder than I.
    I knew we had to harvest all this hay. It was great income for the farm, and a completely necessary food source for our Angus cattle during the harsh winters in Iowa. But this particular summer was so beautiful, so perfect. I missed the easy summers of the past: swimming in the river, fishing, canoeing, hiking, painting, reading, writing ...
    I sighed and picked up another bale. It was crucial to have them right next to each other, with only an inch or two in between. This was hard and fast work. No time for dawdling or daydreaming, I thought.
    At least at first there was no daydreaming.
    As the summer progressed, and the alfalfa kept coming in spades, I realized I was getting really strong. I could do this! I was fast. I was accurate. My task became so routine, I had time to dream about the future: about what I really wanted to do. I was 16 years old. I did not want to be a farmer. It’s too hard, I thought. Too much effort; too much relies on the weather. I wanted to be creative, maybe an artist or a writer. But the call of the countryside was deep as well, even as I resisted my family’s heritage.
    I took in a breath, and inhaled the sweet smell of the hay bales I was unloading. There is truly no more pure scent in the countryside ... a special mix of alfalfa and clover and rich loam ... the perfume of the pastures and hills. Smelling it reminded me of one day when I was younger and “uptown” — we had gone grocery shopping and mom was dropping off something at a friend’s home. I sat in the running car with the windows rolled down and I listened to the to the radio on low, playing “V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N ... Vay-CAY-shun,” along with the purr of the distant lawn mowers as homeowners tried to get ahead of the lush grass growth that summer, muted somewhat by the distance. The smell of freshly mown grass is a perfume in itself ... growing, green, beautiful. I was enjoying that sensation now with our hay. This isn’t so bad. But then, we’d all have to do this again tomorrow.
    Every morning I’d wake up in my southwestern-facing upstairs bedroom and hear the day stirring before I even opened my eyes. First I’d hear our Angus cattle, making their morning lowing sounds, and bickering a little over the good bites in the pasture on the hillside. And their calves — you could always hear urgent calls to mom ... maaa, maaa. The neighbor’s horses neighed and snorted, their foals running over the country hills, using their baby whinnies and stretching their gangly legs. The wrens in the grove outside my window trilled where they had a created a home with their youngsters, and the baby robins peeped from their nests in the trees while their parents chirped occasionally, pulling up worms from the yard below and flying up to the nests to feed their hatchlings. Under it all, I could hear the rush of the river in the valley below our farm as it crossed over the shallows — the swift, rippling, calming sound of water always in the background. Scents wafted through my window: the distinct smell of the river and the bluffs and the deep woods around us, the cut hay in the field waiting to be harvested, the pungent coffee my parents were brewing in the kitchen below, and the low radio broadcast that my mom listened to every morning: Paul Harvey.
    It was time to start another day.
    After breakfast, we did our usual morning chores and then prepared ourselves for the hard work of the day by getting out our rugged haying clothes. But my dad created a way of making us relax before we worked so hard — with play. Before we began our arduous day, we five kids had a game of baseball with him and mom. All of us were pretty talented at baseball, because dad taught us when we were very small (although I discovered, even with practice, that I was a great hitter, but a very lousy fielder). Those games were a great release and limbered us up for the day of work ahead. Unbeknownst to me at the time, my dad had played baseball with the Scenic League in the late 40’s and early 50’s. I just always knew he was really good at it, especially at the neighborhood baseball games we’d have with the neighbors sometimes. I was so proud of him. I remember using his baseball mitt, and thinking it didn’t look like the ones everyone used at school. I found out later that he felt those summer ball games with his kids were some of the best times of his life.
    In the middle of all this, we needed to maintain our huge garden — almost a half-acre. We had to weed and hoe the entire section, plus hill the potatoes (to make sure they stayed under the soil as the roots — the actual potatoes — grew), harvest the tomatoes, onions, green beans, and sweet corn. We’d already harvested the lettuce, peas, strawberries, and other early crops. We were organic before we knew it was in style. I loved the smell of the freshly turned earth as I was weeding or hoeing or harvesting. While the rest of us were tending to all the other things on the farm, dad was out cutting the next crop of hay, letting it dry a few days, and raking it into rows for baling.
    It was really a science: he had to predict the weather, precisely. If he cut the hay too soon and it rained, the entire crop could rot. If he got a few days of sunny weather, the hay would dry properly and he’d rake it up in furrows. That’s when the rest of us had to spring into action, because any rain on hay in furrows is even more deadly. We knew of farmers who had baled damp hay, only to have it spontaneously combust into flames in their hayloft and burn up their whole crop...sometimes their whole barn. So, we baled and unloaded and stacked fast and furiously.
    Every night after a day of haying, we discarded our sweaty clothing and took a cool shower to get all the chaff washed away. My brothers and sister and I fought for first dibs on the refreshing rinse. Towards the end of the harvest, I realized that dad and mom, who had been out in the field all day baling the hay and stacking it on the wagons too, always waited until all of us kids had the chance to clean up. Only then did they wash up and change their clothing. Mom would be busy getting supper together, and dad would sit in his sweaty clothes and watch TV on one of our two channels, watching the news while we cleaned up.
    And remarkably, we got to take our summer vacation that year. We went west, as usual — Mom’s, and especially, Dad’s — favorite destination. They always found time for a trip somewhere every summer. They wanted all of us kids to know how big and beautiful our country was, and the possibilities that were available to all of us, wherever we might live. It was an amazing trip to Scott’s Bluff, the Black Hills, the Grand Canyon, and Taos. We were all renewed and energized by the trip.
    We came back. We worked hard. And eventually, the summer came to a close. The hay harvest was over. In the end, after three crops of hay were brought in (usually there were only two), we were astounded to discover we had over 14,000 bales in the barn — it was stacked up to the very eaves of the roof. In fact, one day we harvested 1,000 bales. There was a counter on the baler, and every bale of hay I later lifted was weighed and counted. It was hard to believe we older kids had all touched every one of those bales, each 50-65 pounds. And boy, did we all have the muscles to prove it. But now we had to harvest the garden—pumpkins, potatoes, several kinds of squash and late crops that lingered into the fall. And dad was already prepping to harvest the oats and corn. A farmer’s work truly never ends.
    When I went back that fall to high school, I was bronzed, strong, and as toned as I think I will ever be. Some classmates didn’t even recognize me. The sun and the hard work had done their job — for all of us. Of course, I enjoyed the extra attention. I was 15, what girl wouldn’t? I got a lot of offers for dates that year, much to my dad’s chagrin. He was very protective of both his daughters.
    But the results of the summer of haying and harvesting were not over at home, either.
    It was now December; Christmas had arrived. It was snowy outside, and the sweaty, dirty, sunny, oh-so-scented summer was now a distant memory. After we’d opened our gifts beneath the Christmas tree (a cedar, hand-cut from our woods — it smelled so wonderful), my dad announced he had something special for each of us five children. What was this? We’d never gotten anything but toys and clothes and (lucky for us) bikes from our parents. We were curious, and slowly opened the envelopes he passed out to each of us.
    In each, there was a short letter from both dad and mom. It said how much they appreciated how hard we had worked all summer, and how much fun and leisure time they knew we had all given up for the good of the farm. My eyes widened. In my envelope, there were ten $100 bills. One thousand dollars. Cash. I’d never seen that amount of money in my life. I couldn’t believe it. I started to tear up a little, and saw my brothers’ eyes opening wide just like mine. Even my littlest brother earned $300. We were all in awe.
    We’d earned it. We’d actually had earned it. It was a Christmas gift that none of us knew quite how to accept: it was so foreign to all of us to be paid for what we thought was expected of us on the farm. We hugged our parents so hard we could hardly let go. It was a Christmas none of us has ever forgotten.
    I think about that summer often. How it taught me that everyone has to work hard. How it’s sometimes not pretty. How everyone is a link in the chain that makes the job go faster, makes it better, and brings it to completion. How everyone cooperates, and how some people sacrifice for others. And within it all, there are small beauties, and there’s time for fun within the labor of life.
    In the end, we were all winners: good crops, good health, lessons learned ... and great games of baseball. I was proud to be part of it.
    But more than anything, I realized that summer of hard work had given me the time to reflect inward, to discover what it was that I really wanted to pursue in my life’s work. So, I listened. I followed that long-ago dream.
    That summer, and those lessons, will never leave me.
    I will always, always, love and be transported by the scent of freshly mown grass and hay. And after all, a little sweat does build character.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...