The old hay loader |
The rusty old truck we used for haying was far from the
truck it was in its finest days. I can still smell the old gasoline engine and
its pungent, oily-smelling exhaust system. It was a shabby-looking pile of
metal with a seat made of springs you might actually feel if it wasn’t for the
old carpets covering it. It lacked a door on the driver’s side, and the window
was removed on the passenger side to allow for the free flow of air. The windshield
on the old truck vented outward as well which helped the fumes filtering up
from the floor boards to escape.
Hay being fed up a loader |
As the driver, my job was to steer the dilapidated truck
slowly down a row of hay, straddling it with the front wheels. Dad caught the loose
hay rolling its way up the hay loader and distributed it evenly onto the
flatbed until we had a full load. Once the hay was stacked to a certain depth on
the bed, it also buried the driver’s view out a low rectangular back window. The
only way to see the person on the load was to step out on the old running board
and look around and up.
A sharp whistle was my signal to stop immediately. It either
meant the hay was thick and coming up too fast or the truck bed was full. Or
every so often a black snake would take a hike up and have to be pitched off. The
worse possible scenario was when we hayed the side hills on our farm. If the hay
was extremely dry and slippery, it shifted and slid off, taking Dad with it. That
meant a delay, since the hay would have to be thrown back up onto the truck bed.
Hay forks |
When at last, we reached the barn, a giant hay fork from a
track, extending from roof peak to roof peak,
was lowered and the hay was pulled upward, onto the track, and onward to the end
of the mow where a trip rope would drop the huge heap. These giant forkfuls would
then have to be again distributed evenly about the loft, outward to the
corners.
Haying in summer meant hot days, muggy nights, and sore
muscles. But the smell of newly mown hay or dried sweet clover in the loft negated
all the sweat and hard work. And when the hay reached the rafters, you could
look out the little window at the peak and see the fields spread out before you
and the swallows gliding at eye level—and you thought you were queen of the mow.