For as long as we have been married I have driven a hay truck every July while my husband and his friends have bucked hay onto the trailer. Several summers ago we started using more round bales and the gathering of square bales became a several day job as opposed to a several week event. This year, we made a move to round bales only. Instead of extreme manual labor this only involves trips up and down the road from Jean and Ronnie’s place where we purchase the hay.
This year also, we won’t be mowing our own place as we have decided to rest the pastures for a year and do some reseeding. When we made this decision the grass was bare in spots and over-run looking. Since that time it has rained on a very regular basis and we have Bermuda, bluestem and prairie mix hay standing hip deep to me…all 5’1” of me that is. Though this may not sound impressive you must understand that it is so thick I must pick my feet up as high as I can in order to move through it; but, more about this later.
I thought I might miss driving the hay truck; I get a tan, am in charge of the radio and usually lose 10-15 pounds in the heat, and I didn’t miss it until I started reminiscing. The other thing I always liked about driving was when my children were very small they were trapped in the truck with me. They had jobs appropriate to age; one was in charge of the water and ice, the other in charge of keeping the towels cold and wet for the crew to use for wiping their faces and keeping cool. To pass the time we sang and told stories and laughed and learned to yodel along with Jean Prescott and Devon Dawson and to do a Tarzan yell. Very seldom did they complain about being stuck in the truck because they were part of the crew and having responsibilities and being one of the hands was important; even more so at pay time. In return for hard work they got paid a penny for every bale gathered and put in the barn and bonus.
One year when my husband was working in the Gulf and my neighbor’s husbands where overseas, we formed our ‘Odd-Crew’ of two mid-forty women, one 30 year old woman, two twelve year old boys, a ten year old girl, a three year old and an eight month old. That year my daughter learned to drive a hay truck, just like I did at ten. My son and his friend learned to pack the layers on the trailer and in the barns and we ladies bucked hay. The three year old was in charge of water and the eight month old babbled along with the radio while chewing a wet towel and together we put up 2700 bales in 105 degree heat. I knew the prospect of ever doing this again was also something I would not miss.
However, the last couple of weeks felt strange to me. Each time I pass a meadow where they are laying down hay I look to sky in all directions for clouds, check the temperature on the thermometer in the truck and estimate how long it will be until the hay is dry enough to bale. Something cries out to me at 4 a.m. and says, “Get up! There is hay to make!” I lay there wide awake unable to go back to sleep as an old dedication to duty to the pasture calls my name.
I finally figured out that it is not the hard work I am missing…it is the working together as a family to make sure our animals would have enough to make it through the winter on full rations. Animals never want here; it is part of what makes us good stewards to see that no animal or human goes hungry on our place. We now have time on our hands that we have never had at this time of year and we feel odd because of it.
We turned the mares out in the west pasture. Usually it has been kept without animals for the last several months to give the grass the opportunity to rest and grow for hay season. Husband opens the gate and the horses charge out and dash towards the hill; but they don’t run for long. Heads drop and they eat, making their way slowly up the incline to the big pond. Husband notices blackberries higher up and after procuring feed buckets, water and hats, we venture to the top of the hill where we pick, one for the bucket, one for the mouth. From above the big pond we watch our herd of mares graze and we wonder at the depth of the grass as all we see are tips of ears sticking out above the thick green stems. The bay mare Bunny wanders over to touch my three year old grandson on the head as she always does, making sure he is alright among the blackberry spreaders. He feeds her berries from his bucket and laughs.
I am suddenly over taken with a great sadness. It occurs to me that in buying round bales I am denying him a part of his heritage. He is three and should be in charge of the water. When he is ten who will teach him to drive the hay truck in the pasture? How will he ever learn to yodel or do a Tarzan yell? And how will he ever come to understand that responsibility is something you learn and earn, as you work your way up through the ranks of the crew?
Because we have time, we pick bucket after bucket of berries and when we are done we make deliveries of berries to the older men who used to come here to pick them with my late Father. We drive over to Mother’s and jump in the pool to rid ourselves of chiggers and grass-itch. Hoss (grandson) learns to jump from the side of the pool into the arms of PawPaw (Husband) and we applaud. Because we have time we will stop and eat ice-cream on the way home.
Tomorrow we will start moving the round bales home. I will drive one truck and trailer and Husband will drive the other. We will make about 15 trips back and forth 7 miles each way. Hoss will ride with me and be in charge of the water and I will play Jean Prescott and Devon Dawson CDs and we will yodel along with them. When he is ten, I will teach him to drive in the pasture, across the low-water creek crossing, through another pasture and up the hill to pick black-berries, one for the bucket, one for the mouth, one for our older friends. We will watch the horses eat deep grass and because there is time, from the top of our world we will sit on the tail-gate of the truck and Tarzan yell!
Contact Debra Coppinger Hill at ridingdrag.info@gmail.com
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RIDING DRAG with DEBRA COPPINGER HILL is featured each week at ALWAYS COWBOY where Debra is a Resident Western Poet. Join her and her Cowboy Friends for Cowboy Poetry, News & Events. http://alwayscowboy.net/debra_coppinger_hill_poetry.html
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