Coop_ A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting - Michael Perry [96]
In between loads we dug the water jug out from where it was stored in the twine box beside the rolls of sisal that smelled of oil and Brazilian sun and unspooled from the center. We’d set the cooler on the edge of the empty wagon, unspin the plastic top and turn it over to catch the water from the miniature spigot, then pass it around. I remember raising the water to my lips and seeing bits of chaff skating the surface tension of the water. Our neighbor Jerry would always swirl water in the cap after the last drink, then sling the water to the ground before screwing the cap back on. A little ceremony before we went back to work.
As the day wore on and we circled ever tighter toward the middle of the field, mice would dart from windrow to windrow at the sound of the baler. By the time we were down to the last couple of rounds, they would pop out with regularity, and if one of the farm dogs was along we would leap from the wagon and sic the dog on the mouse. If there was no dog sometimes we just launched ourselves feetfirst and squashed the mouse with our boots. Often by the time we were passing back in the opposite direction, a hawk or crows were pulling at the carcass.
It was sometimes my duty to shuttle wagons back and forth across the field. If I got back early and the baler was on the far side of the field, I would turn off the tractor and lie beneath the wagon in the shade, and to this day I best remember haying as sounds from a distance—the up-and-down groan of the tractor engine as it lugged against the plunger, the delicate clink-a-chunk of the needles threading the knotter, the rumble of the power takeoff knuckles flexing on a tight turn. The days were vast and sunny, the school year was decisively over and the new one still unimaginable weeks off, and here we were in the country, putting up hay.
When the last windrow was consumed, we scrambled to the very tip-top of the load and rode home. The hay moved with a ponderous pitch and sway, as you imagined it might be to ride an elephant. It was quiet atop the bales, elevated above the tractor noise, and the ride home was relaxing. You could look out over the country. But the work was not done—the last of the hay still had to be stowed.
Unloading was the easiest job. You simply unpacked the pile and dropped the bales to the elevator, where hooks on the chain caught the bale and slid it up the rails and into the mow. The haymow was hot duty, and especially so if you were stacking in a steel shed. One summer we took a thermometer to the peak of the pole barn and it read 113 degrees. The person on the wagon was at the advantage over the mow crew, who had to carry bales across the uneven face of the stack. You were forever sticking your foot between two bales and going in up to your knee, the hay scratching along your shins. Every now and then the unloader would start dropping bales on the elevator faster and faster in a good-natured attempt to founder the folks in the mow. It was fun to see how long it took before a face popped out the haymow window and shot a dirty look.
When the last bale was stacked, I’d pull off my haying gloves. Dad bought them in stapled packs at Farm & Fleet. They were yellow and made from material something like felt. They were stiff the first time you drew them on but before long they went soft and balloony from all the sweat and the constant pull of the twine. If you wore a hole in a finger, the tip soon became packed with a solid knob of chaff. When you pulled your gloves off after a long day of haying in hot weather—especially if you were working the unventilated mow—your hands were wet and moist, almost dishpanny, and your wrists were matted with bracelets of sodden chaff where the cuffs had clung. It felt good,