Haying: A "Write Check" Operation

A big New Holland swather sits at the top of the lane.  That's where Lori, the hay-cutting extraordinaire left it last night after knocking down two small plots of hay here at the Lovestead.

Her boss, Harvey Lippert,  said they'll be back here in the morning to grease up the machine for the next five days of mowing in fields all around the area.  Harvey and his crew have been working at this year's hay production for at least a couple of weeks. 

We're toward the end of the schedule on his list of clients, but NOT the end, Harvey assured me last night. 

In my mind, however, I have reached the end----the end of having to experience one more moment of sweat,  mixed millions of tiny bits of gritty, sharp-edged hay and grimy dust running down my face, arms and front---and, yes, deep into my bra. 

Actually, I made that decision a year or so ago, remaining quite content to watch or find some other project while Bill and Willie set up the elevator,  pulled down bales from Harvey's stack and re-stacked them into the north bay of the big shed where we store a lot of other stuff, including wood and the tractor. 

This year, after the night when Bill and Willie attempted to move 30 old bales from the shed to the barn, only to be attacked by bees in every venue, I decided we, as a family, have all seen the last of bucking bales in the heat of the summer. 

So, I'm returning to my old ways, which have taken a break since we moved to a different farm.  Back at the old Great Northern Road farm, we bucked bales for several years before I decided that the haying season for us would consist of opening a gate, writing a check and closing the gate. 

I liked that change.  

When we moved here, though, a new enthusiasm toward living the "full life" of being farmers seized my sense of reason.  

We had a real farm in farming country with a host of real farm-type projects to do.  I loved it. 

For some reason, after seven years, I don't like ALL the "real farm-type stuff" anymore.  

Actually, I never ever liked any aspect of bucking bales in blistering heat.  It came with the territory, though, and it seemed like one of those gritty, back-breaking  rites necessary to call oneself  a full-fledged farmer. 

So, I returned to my old ways for a few years, only to start questioning the wisdom of it all.  It dawned on me that raging bee-filled night that we used to simply have our hay delivered.  

I hadn't thought about that for some time, but while helping Willie treat his bee sting on the side of the head and later emptying can after can of bee repellant on all the nasty nests that had come alive with venom that night, my memory took me back to a time in the good ol' days.  

In those days, either Harvey or the Mennonites from up in Bonners Ferry would deliver our 6-8 tons of hay,  and I would simply watch. 

Yeah, writing that check and closing that gate as they pulled out of the barnyard once again seemed like the real deal.

So, yesterday when I saw Harvey, I asked if he had some workers who could put the hay all the way into its storage place.  

"Yeah, it will be $15 extra per ton," he said.  

Deal!

Bill said something a couple of weeks about about people in their 60s still dealing with the misery of putting hay in the barn.  His words resonated.

Now, mind you,  neither of us is willing to face being old.  We try to avoid it in every way possible, 'cept for now occupying the "old" circle at extended family gatherings like last Friday's. 

When he made that statement about age and hay, I grabbed on to it, figuring that sometimes "being old" has its advantages.  This was one.

We're too old to be doing that dirty work.  So, we'll let someone young and strong and in need of money do it for us. 

And, ya wanna know the best part?

On our new farm, all I have to do is write a check cuz there's no gate to close when the hay hands drive away.  

I like it!