The oldest spawn called last night. In the course of the conversation she let it drop that she was getting 200 bales of hay today. How was she doing that, I asked, with just herself,two lazy pre-teen children, and a disabled husband. "We can do it," she said.
Right. In a pigs ass. So I volunteered. The farmer wanted us to come at noon. We got there at noon. He hadn't even started baling. He didn't start baling until 1:30 and then it was start and stop several times as bale weight, size and tension was adjusted. Then, finally, we were on our way.
Acea drove the truck and trailer, I tossed the bales onto the trailer for Christina and nearly useless children.
It was only when I barked that pre-teens started to use some muscle too.
We have the first 125 bales off the field now. We were loading right behind the baler. He will be ahead of us now. The first 125 bales are on the way to the farm where Christina and a neighbor will unload them while Acea loads up on pain medication.
We will get another 75 bales after dinner. Farmer wants them gone today and we are using his trailer so we will have to do it. Farmer and helper say they will help load the last 75. Good. I will drive and Chris and the hay farmers can load. Acea can stay home with his pain meds and try to recover.
It is a good thing the heat moderated a bit today. As it is this damned near killed me. I am not a young pup any more. I haven't hayed since when I was 16. Back then it was the only way to make any money in small town Maine.
Come summer I would hay for dairy farmer Brewer Andrews for 50 cents an hour. Hot, dirty, backbreaking labor suited for dumb teen aged boys. Mrs. Andrews would meet us as we brought each load in from the fields with snacks and cold drinks. When the day was done Brewer would drive us to the lake in an old farm truck. We would jump in clothes and all and work the chaff out. Then he'd drive us home.
Chris bought me a cold drink and a pepperoni stick. A snack. I didn't even get 50 cents an hour.
(Posted July 9, 2014)