Amidst the pandemic.
Amidst tear gas protests and baton beatings.
Amidst political poison.
The stressors are overwhelming. Jimmy is relapsed, Christian is divorced, Moe Man’s hip must hurt because he is limping badly, Amy sold her house and is now moving. We are all aging.
But amidst all that, hay still grows, the cows still need to eat this winter, and Corey came with his John Deere to cut and bale. Our crew showed up smiling in long pants and masks to get the hay in the barn.
Ah, but the hay was still lying in windrows. Not a bale in sight. Uncle Dave started fuming and threatened to leave, angry about wasting his time. Andrew, Jorgie and Sonny milled around aimlessly until we decided to eat first while we waited for bales to appear, and Joe started the brats while Elaine and I hauled out potato salad, chips, baked beans and watermelon.
As we ate and visited, Dave calmed down, commenting, “Oh, so now this is just a party?”
And the giggling started. Dave, upon hearing that Andrew worked for Citibank, started grilling him about bank stocks (not Andrew’s department). Joe started a chant about “person, woman, man, camera, TV.” In that order. Andrew asked what job we wanted him to do and announced he would work where the heroes are. The cats walked around looking for attention, not in the least intimidated by the confusion.
Corey got the tractor running and started baling in the big field. Whew, big relief from the crew who FINALLY got to work!!! We started getting our gear on. Corey was on his first swath when we saw Joe scurrying around to prepare a dinner for Corey. A plate. Junior Antonette. Hot dogs in a bun, baked beans, watermelon, a bottle of water, well then, he needs a spoon for the beans, and are there more cookies? We saw Joe head out into the field, carrying the plate like the Holy Grail, looking more like his mom in profile than any time ever. There were not even enough bales for us to pick up yet when we saw Corey Stop and talk to Joe. Then we saw Corey turn off his tractor and get down. Uh oh. Next thing we hear, Joe was offering him a beer and bringing him over to sit in the picnic area. This was all very nice, and courteous, but we had an entire crew standing idle. We were watching from the barn, ready to hop into trucks and roll out. The heavy-lifting crew we recruited—Andrew, Dave, Sonny, Jorgie, Peter, Elaine, me, and Amy— were all ready and able to work, but there are no bales because Corey was sitting expansively at the table with Joe and Moe Man, all chuckling and munching.
Finally the Endless Dinner ended and Corey left to start up again. We got our gloves on and started to head out to the field while Moe Man took the truck and trailer down to the far gate. We met him in the field and started stacking the trailer full. There were veritable foot races to dibs the next bale, the crew was so eager and frisky. The sun was low, it was a mild evening, and we were all joyful. The air was sweet with the smell of hay, and the opportunistic hawks and turkey vultures were sweeping above us, looking for unlucky rabbits and mice.
As the trailer fills, about four people headed up to the barn to join Joe upstairs in Allergy Alley, stacking bales as high as the rafters. Working above your head puts a constant drift of seeds and dust down into your nose and mouth. The rest of the crew was loading the conveyor belt down below, watching to make sure someone was ready at the top to receive the bale, seating the bale securely on the belt. Bad seating on the belt leads to falling bales and breaking bales, or grinding bales that buck along the belt and go nowhere until they get bucked off. If there is no receiver at the top, the bale can grind at the top on the chain, or get propelled off onto the floor and break. The equipment is old and loud and dangerous with a definite logging vibe. It is a heavy, red, steel ladder-like frame about 25 feet long with a chain with metal teeth that grabs the bales to haul them against gravity, like going up in a rollercoaster, straining and leaning side to side. The teeth would grab a person, the chain would grind a person, and the unit is only uneasily secured with twine at the top and a wobbly bale platform at the bottom. The receivers at the top have to bend out into the yawning open doorway to grab each bale and haul it into the aisle for stacking. There are industrial accidents waiting at every stage, and those of us who have done it for years are careful and meticulous about the details for safety reasons.
Except for Dave. Dave started out mad and was a stinker all night. He poo-pooed all the safety methods. He scoffed at the clearance checks. He threw bales on the belt cavalierly and did not check for a receiver at the top. He laughed at the patterns for stacking, all based on measurements and geometry for maximum efficiency in the truck and the barn. He did what he wanted and kept saying, “Well, this is probably the last load since it will be getting dark soon.” He wanted to “get home for a nightcap” with his wife. I told him several times to leave whenever it worked for him and not to stick around if he needed to go. Once, while Moe Man had his truck and trailer heading clockwise around the outside swath, Dave fired up his truck and started coming Counter-clockwise around the swath, meaning we would have two half-full vehicles to unload. Why?
I love haying. It only lasts a few hours— 400 bales or so—so it’s not exhausting. We are out in the sun, among friends and family. Little kids get to help drive trucks and hoist bales. They swagger around with gloves on and feel American and strong. Soon they would be chewing hay and spitting. We have a big BBQ meal outside, and beans taste amazing because everyone is sweaty and tired and happy. It is a little slice of the old America, the America of my grandparents, when neighbors helped each other and God determined the weather and the crop. The America where you stop baling because Corey hasn’t eaten all day and he deserves a break and a meal. God bless us each and everyone.
