I spent a great part of my younger life in the hayfield. Of course, I did other things too, but as I think back, a great deal of our farm work had to do with the hay. I guess we saw our well-being in those days as measured as much by the hay crop as by how much money was in the bank.
When we said we are having a good year, we were talking about the hay, like as not. If we were coming into winter season with a good supply of hay in the barn, there was a sense of security, of being prepared for the “o◊” season.
For the past several days, I have been watching the hayfields. I see them at all stages of being “in the hay.” Some are just ready to mow. Others are mowed and drying. Some have the hay raked into windrows, waiting for the baler. Still others have the big round bales scattered across the field, or a field is empty where the bales have been hauled in.
The scene looks so much better than last year. I think a livestock farmer or rancher ages two years for every bad hay year. What a difference the rain makes!
I kind of cut my teeth in the hayfield. I guess that is stretching it a bit, but I did get an early start in the hay field. I used to ride to the hay field with Dad even before I could do anything to help, and I think early on I was thinking, I bet I could do that if Dad would let me try. In the early to mid-1940s, we were farming a 100-acre farm with two horses. Our wagon was a wooden wagon with big woodspoke wheels and iron rims. I think my Mom’s dad had given it to my folks as a wedding present. I don’t think it was a Springfield wagon, but it was much like a Springfield wagon; only it was getting a little old and loose in the fittings. I remember that in the dry summertime, Dad would park it in the creek so the wheels could soakup water and tighten the rims. We never lost a rim, but I remember a few times when one got worrisome.
I learned to talk “horse” in the hayfield. Of course, Dad’s workhorse commands were simple. “Git up” or “Giddap” meant go.
“Whoa” meant stop. “Ho” or “easy there” meant slow down. “Haw” meant turn left, and “Gee” meant turn right. Dad tended to rely more on pulling the right rein for right turns and the left rein for left turns, so old Pat and Mike sort of forgot about Haw and Gee after a while. Of course, voice inflection was important in talking to the horses. If you said “Giddap” and old Pat took it lackadaisically, you said it again, with an authoritative edge to your voice. If that didn’t get him going, you would tell him “Git on there, Pat” with a growl in your voice, and swat him with the tip of a rein. Old Pat often wanted Mike to do the work and he would just go along for the walk. Old Pat and Mike didn’t run or trot, they plodded.
But there was a pull-theplow plod; and a pull-thewagon plod (a little brisker); and a pull-the-mower plod, which was stepping right along. Dad didn’t ever let me on the mower with him, too dangerous I guess, but I was riding the hay wagon from 5 years old and on. When I was 7, I was driving the horses and wagon from hay pile to hay pile while Dad worked on the ground loading the hay.
Driving the horses was the fun part of graduating from being just a kid. Soon, my graduation from kiddom also included “tromping” the hay. Then I was outfi tted with a pitch fork and I was shaping and packing the load. That was a prettyimportant part of hauling hay in those days, because after all the work of getting the hay onto the wagon you didn’t want it to roll o◊when the wagon lurched on the way to the barn. But shaping and packing the hay load got into real work, hay leaves down your neck, stickers in your socks, sweat bees in your face and salty sweat in your eyes.
Those were the good ole days! And they are good to remember. I really enjoy remembering them. Actually they were more fun than one would think. Of course, at the moment my body was weary and my eyes were stinging with salty sweat I wasn’t meditating on the fun I was having.
I have noticed that many things in life are more pleasant to think back on than they were in the moment, and the satisfactions came later, not instantly.
There are some enjoyable things in hayfi elds, at least if you can get your thinking and mood in gear to enjoy them. I really enjoy the scent of newmown hay. The scent of curing hay has an e◊ect on you, for the good. But as a boy, I often noticed in the hayfield times when I was being trusted with more responsibility, and that I was being treated as though I could be trusted to check things out and make sense of what I saw. I recall the day when my Dad sent me out to the hayfi eld, by myself, to check the drying hay to see if it was “ready.” I came back and told him it was ready, and he took my word for it. To me that was a pretty big step in observation and judgment.
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Editor’s note: Jerry Nichols, a native of Pea Ridge, is an award-winning columnist, a retired Methodist minister with a passion for history. He is vice president of the Pea Ridge Historical Society. He can be contacted by e-mail at [email protected], or call 621-1621.
Community, Pages 5 on 06/19/2013