For so many children, summer means freedom–going to the pool, plenty of time to play, vacations. When I was growing up there was some of that, but what summer mostly meant was working in the hayfield–or the garden.
Until I got old enough to be more help than hindrance in the field, my job was to carry Mason jars of ice water out to the workers. Not a hard job, though fresh-cut stubble is mighty hard on bare feet.
When I got a bit bigger, I stacked bales as they were tossed onto a wagon moving slowly through the fields. It’s important to alternate rows for a secure stack. Some days I got to drive the tractor which is almost fun until you come to a steep hill and have to stop and start without jerking bales (or people) off the wagon. There’s usually some yelling involved.
And there was always the need for extra hands to unload the wagon (we used a hay elevator to carry the bales to the barn loft) and to stack the hay inside. I can remember more than one rush to the barn as dark clouds swarmed the sky. Rain is NOT good for hay.
And then the best part–a long shower or a trip to the swimming hole to wash the chaff from places you wouldn’t think it could go. It’s almost worth getting that hot, sweaty, and dirty just so to feel cool water sluice across your skin. Then a well-earned supper perfectly seasoned by the day’s labor. I don’t remember what we ate–Mom was out there working with us–but it was good.
Now don’t let me fool you. I worked, but nearly so hard as my brothers and the other boys and men my dad hired to help. Sometimes it pays to be the girl.
And now, as an adult, when I drive by a field of freshly mown hay, or see a farmer raking in preparation for the baler, I roll down the car window and breathe deeply. The smell reminds me of the satisfaction of a barn full of hay ready for winter. And it almost makes me wish I could spend another day stacking bales beneath the summer sun.