DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

The Dog Days of Summer in Pennsylvania are those hot, humid days at the end of July and on into August when the temperatures reach the high eighties into the nineties. Growing up on our farm in Pennsylvania, the Dog Days meant hurrying to get the last fields of first cutting hay, dried, baled and into the barn.

Haying season in the Northeast typically begins in early June and continues through the summer and early fall, with multiple cuttings possible depending on the weather. Despite the blazing sun, the tiredness of the work, and the prickly hayseeds and stalks adding to the discomfort, summer and haying season always brought warm memories to store and hold dear.

Before we bought a baler, my father first used an old horse-drawn hayloader attached to the back of his 1932 flat bed truck that was once a milk truck. The driver of this set-up slowly maneuvered the truck up the rows of hay, making sure the tires straddled the raked windrows. The hayloader with its many tines grabbed the hay and moved it upward where my father, using a pitchfork, spread it evenly on the load.  It was then unloaded, lifted off the truck by a pulley and large fork on a track inside the barn.                                                     

From first grade onward, I was the driver. My brother had been born in January, so my mother was busy tending to him. I loved the outdoors, smell of fresh dried hay—and I loved machinery and its rumbling sounds, despite the smell of gas and oil.

Because the driver can’t see the load once the window opening behind him is covered with hay, I learned to listen to my father’s shrill whistle which meant to immediately stop. I would have to half-standup, jump one foot on brake and the other on the clutch. Usually, his whistle was for various reasons like he needed more time to spread the hay about, or a black racer snake came up onto the load and had to be pitched off, or the loader wasn’t operating correctly.

There were many, many things I learned living on a farm. Too many to tell here. But the first one is that farming is dangerous. You learn to follow directions early in life and do as you’re told. Breaking a rule can result in injury or death.

Many people ask whether it was tiresome and hard. Yes, at times. Especially during the Dog Days. After all, who’s fond of working in 90+ degree heat with hayseeds sliding down your back and sweat running into your eyes?

But it was also fun. And at the end of the day, there was always the satisfaction of a chore well done. . . even if you were just a kid. 

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JUNE AND OLD HAY LOADERS

There was something magical for me when I was growing up on a farm in Pennsylvania, and the month of June rolled around. School was no longer in session. Only for rare winters, when we had an un-unusual amount of snow, did a school year extend into June.

For farmers, the first long stretch of rain-free days heralded the beginning of haying season. A sickle bar side mower was hitched to our Farmall C tractor, and my father headed to the hayfields. I used to like to watch him slice down the rows of tall grass in perfect side-by-side rows. The sweet smell of clover, timothy, and other grasses drying in the blazing sun permeated the air.  

 

On rare occasions, you might hear the squawk of a killdear as it flew up from among the still-standing stalks. Dad was always careful to stop, find the nest, and mow around it, leaving some tall grass to protect and camouflage it. 

 

 If by chance, the weather turned fickle and the hay became wet, we knew on the first clear day, we’d have to man our pitchforks. With the fork in hand and often with some help from your shoe, you could lift and flip the hay over on itself to dry. Round and round the field you’d go.

 
While everyone disliked this job, I found it relaxing because I liked to daydream—or if Dad and I worked side-by-side—to talk. And it was always a heart-stopping surprise when a sleek black racer slid out from under the hay row, just inches from the toe of your shoe.

Before we purchased a square hay baler, we used a hay loader hitched behind a 1932 Chevy flatbed truck with a crank start, once used for milk delivery. I was only seven or eight years old when I first started driving it, straddling the rows of loose hay while the loader gobbled it up. I remember half-standing up and holding on to the steering wheel to push the peddles on the clutch and brake when Dad, scattering the hay on the truck’s bed, signaled for me to stop. I was always in awe of his ability to whistle a loud shrill sound with just two fingers in his mouth.                          

Then, it was off to the barn where a large hay fork on a track lifted bunches up from the truck, onto an overhead track, and into the loft where it was scattered about. I also often mowed away loose hay when I was a little older, spreading it to level the loft.

When people ask me if I missed the farm when I moved away, I have to admit I didn’t miss the hard work, hot days, and hayseeds. But there was something special about growing up in the country.

Dwight D. Eisenhower’s words come to mind, and I like to paraphrase one of his quotes:
                     “Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil, 

                      and you’re a thousand miles from the corn (or hay) field.”