"Hale Bay"

 

Walking along the edge of the front forty, I avoided the prickly pokes of the freshly cut field.  Not so my preschool age children.  Not so their daddy or my brother, the new owner of the family farm.   “Will you let me up on that Hale Bay?” the youngest one asked her father.

I chuckled at her rendition of common farm vernacular as I watched her daddy’s sturdy hand hoist our youngest atop the large round bale.  She smiled with satisfaction to be up as high as her older siblings; stretching her arms toward the sky she hollered, “Look at me on top this Hale Bay!”  City dwellers that they were, they fit very well into the country scene.  Our oldest was dressed in her plaid button up shirt, comfortable jeans and ponytails; our son looked strong and sturdy, and had the tan of boys who had been baling all week.    All three seemed so very comfortable to be smelling the freshly cut bales alongside their cousins, and walking through the prickly field of alfalfa. 

“How did they make these?” came an inquisitive young voice.  I walked on alongside the road as my brother began his explanation.  “Back when I was your age, our bales weren’t round.”  . . .

My sister-in-law & I continued our stroll down the country gravel lane.  As we watched our growing children atop the bales, she began to outline their plans to renovate the house I once called home.  As I looked back toward the house, my heart stopped beating momentarily at the idea of changing the homestead.   Wasn’t doing so disrespectful?  Didn’t they understand how many memories from years gone by were held there?

***   Baling Time ****

Baling time was a time like no other.  The job was fast and furious and timing was everything.  The timothy or alfalfa had to be cut and left to dry as much as several days.  If lucky enough to avoid the rain, Dad hired the neighbor to bring his baler in; 10 cents a bale for every 2’ x 3’ block.  It always amazed me to see the loose stalks go in the front side and come out the back end a sturdy bale.  “How did that machine get those twines around it so tight?” my young mind wondered.

As soon as bales began to line the field, Dad jumped on the 1960 Deere and hooked our sturdy wagon behind, calling for the boys and some of the older girls out to the field. 

“Can I drive the tractor this time?” I would ask year after year; usually with the same reply.  “You’re too young.  Help your Ma get the meal ready.”  Though I enjoyed the idea of a picnic under the big ‘ole maple tree, and saw cooking as a very ‘feminine’ thing to do, I felt as though I was missing the adventure.  It seemed to me that the boys were having all the fun, while my younger sister & I were stuck back at the house filling an aluminum pitcher with Kool-aid or iced tea.  While I was peeling potatoes, shucking corn, hulling strawberries, or setting the table my older brother got to drive the tractor and get a great tan! 

To the older siblings, being out in the field wasn’t the bed of roses that my young mind imagined.  Lifting  50-pound bale after bale in the heat of the day for hours and hours was downright hard work.  While one worker lifted the bales onto the wagon another stacked them tight at the front.  As the heat of the day tanned the boy’s shirtless skin, the high stacks required the strongest to throw those bales on top of the stack.  The younger balers walked alongside listening to the slow ‘put-put’ sound of the tractor engine until the wagon was full.  Then the engines would speed, and in came the tracker pulling the wagon full of workers atop the tall stacks. 

This was the scene I saw from the picnic table view, once again, seemingly missing all the fun!   The wagon was pulled right up to the tall elevator just outside the barn door.  The bales were hoisted off the wagon, and steadied on the moving belt, making  their way to the top of the loft.  With every wagon load that came in the mound got higher and higher in the barn.  Each man knew exactly how to stack those bales, and when to move to the north corner of the barn and when to begin to stack the next layer.  I didn’t know the difference between straw and hay; I only knew that one was light enough for me to lift, and the other was not.  I also knew that I was still too young to do much of the heartier work.  As the day wore on, the workers in the loft could touch the highest beams in the barn and look out the windows from its highest peak. 

When the sun was high and the air heavy, between their runs to the field, the sweaty team of balers would come rest under the shade of our old maple and grab some Kool-aid or iced tea, and share a few laughs.  I admired their strong arms, and wondered how much sweat the could bleed before calling it a day.  My favorite time was when the crew finally made their way to the picnic table.  Then it was my turn to ‘work.’  For as long as they sat, I played waitress; bringing them ice for their ice tea and making sure they had all the fixings for their grilled steak or burger.  A huge spread was laid out for their huge appetite.  Watching them scarf down all of Ma’s great cooking made me realize that all the corn shucking and potato- peeling was worth it.  We all did our part, big and small.  As they all sat back on the wagon to bring in one more load of hay, my younger sister and & I cleared the table and helped Ma with the dishes.  Then we put on our swimsuits and raced to the back yard pool deck.  As we watched the sun beginning its decent in the evening sky, our siblings’ voices approached the pool at record speeds.  They ran and dove into the pool as if being chased by a swarm of bees.  Screaming about how much the prickly pokes from the field stung as their legs hit the chlorinated water.  Once they cooled off, they compared their war wounds of baling and laughed at the events of the day.  We enjoyed the sunset, the cool waters (of the pool my dad traded with our uncle for a side of beef,) and lingered in the simple moments spent together. 

***   Hale Bay ~ continued * * *

   . . . I turned back to my sister-in-law as she spoke about the changes she and my brother would make to the homestead. Carefully listening on.

“We want to put a porch all the way around the front and side.” She said.  “And wall in the front door. We will put a slider door coming off the dining room, so we have a nice view of the barn, the old maple and the bird feeder in the front yard.”  “We might even put a trampoline where the old pool was,” She said. 

I had to admit the ideas they had all sounded fantastic.  My brother had talked of such a porch since he took over mowing the grass in his late high school years.  It was as if he knew then that his heart would remain forever on the farm.  He & his wife would keep the farm in the family, and allow the Centennial Farm sign to be a family mainstay for at least another generation.  Their renovations wouldn’t end an era, but instead, bring new life to it. 

“That sounds great, Sis!” I heard myself reply.

As I watched my children up on that “Hale Bay” with their daddy and their Uncle standing nearby, I knew there was no place in the world like the family farm.  

Storms' Raging . . .

            Her eyes opened slowly as she noticed the bright room all around her.  Startled by its light she abruptly sat up in her bed and peered all around trying to make sense of the scene.  School days began in the cold, dark morning; far earlier than she would like; not with daylight peering in her window!  Looking out for the usual nest of pine trees and the open field beyond, she saw nothing but white.  As the daze cleared from her mind she realized that in the dark silence of the night an angry winter storm had settled over the farm again.  As she got out of bed the chill of the morning was painfully cold.  “Why can’t Dad just turn up the heat!” she thought as she peered out the window.  From that window she could look to the north and see the condition of the road.  Many mornings she looked out just in time to see her dad driving away toward work.  This morning as she peered north she saw nothing but white.  Instead of snowflakes playfully falling toward the ground, they seemed to be moving horizontally across the sky; this wind-whipped storm was mean and aggressive making her usual morning gaze out at the back 80 acres impossible to see.  From under the bedcovers she put on another layer of clothing, so as to make her trek down the steps.

Like most children she loved to have a day off of school, surely the storm had granted her that.  Walking down the steps she began to consider what outdoor fun this snow day might hold.  Perhaps her older brothers would take them on the tractor and pull the toboggan, or maybe they would clear the flooded pasture of its snow again so they all could ice skate.  As she opened the door at the bottom of the steps she heard concerned voices speaking in low tones.  The whispers were not that of jovial scheming about the great out-of-doors; instead she heard a certain concern in their voices.  She walked into the kitchen to find her mother peering out the north dining room window and her sister busying herself in the kitchen.  Usually it was the kids watching out that window for the bus to come, and mother in the kitchen. 

“What are you doing, Mom?” asked the confused young lady.

“I’m watching to see if Dad’s ride is coming.” She answered nervously.  “They were supposed to meet him at the end of the driveway, but I can’t see past the bushes.”  She said with a worried voice.  With the realization that that silent but angry white flurry had swallowed up her father, the young lady began to feel the rush of panic settling in her chest.  “How would they make it all the way to the shop?” she thought.  “Surely they will end up in a ditch.” she mused.  “or what if he couldn’t even find his way through and was lost out in the storm forever?” 

Walking close to the window she helplessly wiped off the frost trying to peer down the long driveway toward its end.  The snow continued its brisk sideways motion, so much so that not even the barn was visible.  Just as the fear was creeping up into her throat she saw a dim silhouette of a man struggling his way toward the house.  Was it the sheriff with bad news about her father?  Was it a neighbor who was stuck in our ditch?  As the silhouette came closer she recognized his gait.  Her emotions couldn’t keep up with the events of the morning as anticipation turned to fear, and now  fear turned to joy. Her father’s stride was strong as he got closer to the house.   Soon she heard the call for “Mah” from the bottom of the landing steps. Conversation in whispered tones followed, ending with the familiar three-peck kiss her parents exchanged as he headed out the door. 

“Where is dad going?” asked the inquisitive young voice. 

“He is going out to the barn to check on the animals!” Mother replied.  “and to make sure the water isn’t frozen solid.” She continued as though nothing was wrong.   

While the storm raging inside her heart settled, the one out-of- doors did not.  Her determined father tended to the animals and then spent the next hour or more trying to clear the long driveway of its snow.  The John Deere failed him in the bitter cold so he took to the shovel.  He called on the boys to come help him with the shoveling.  As the day went on, the wind’s deep howl intensified.

“Even with all of us helping we made very little progress on clearing a path.  The drifts were as tall as we were and the ones we shoveled soon began to drift right back in our path!” he explained to his wife once back inside the house. 

“There is no-way I am making it to work today.” He concluded.  The wind-whipped cheeks of the boys welcomed the break from the fierce effects of the storm.  Her father got on the phone to check on his driving partner.  . .  “You got stuck where?  . . . . Didn’t make it to 80^th street before you got stuck in the drifts?”  he repeated.  “I knew you’d never make it down our driveway” and “ I’ll be darned.  This is one of the worst storms I’ve ever seen. . . . No, I ain’t trying again to make it out in this storm today!” he retorted with the smallest of smiles he hung up the phone. 

While the men trudged through the morning storm, her Ma and her sisters work feverishly in the kitchen.  Flour and milk, butter and salt. . . . warming the milk with butter, and watching to make sure the yeast would ‘take.’  Stirring and kneading, rising and kneading some more.  While her older sister worked next to their Ma, the young lady did what she always did; sat by and watched.  “Someday when I got older, I too would make bread” She thought.  “But why not start today?” She thought. 

“What can I do to help?” she asked hoping to get to make some bread this time.  She listened to the response and said “Dishes again! I already know how to do that!” 

“And as soon as you learn how to do that right, maybe we will let you help make bread!” her sister replied. 

            She chose not to argue her point.  She recalled many times of working in the kitchen with her sisters, thinking the dishes were done, only to be called back and shown yet another thing she didn’t quite get right.  She accepted her role as an apprentice dishwasher for now and waited for the boys to finish their job outside.  As she washed the dishes she looked out the kitchen window she saw her brothers struggling with the wind and the snow and the shovels.  It was a battle they didn’t seem to be winning.  The white-out conditions didn’t startle her as they did earlier because they were out there together.  Soon the dishes were done, the bread was in the oven and the boys were taking their winter boots off in the landing below.  The ice skating and tobogganing would have to wait for another day.  This angry winter storm had not made its way inside.  Inside was the warmth of family and the simplicity of all being together; Dad, and Ma and all ‘us kids.’  Sitting down at the table she enjoyed sharing the moments and the fresh baked bread with Ma’s homemade strawberry jam. 

Winter Wonders

The door creaked as I opened it in toward the dimly lit barn.  The chill of the night softened as I stepped over its threshold, listening & looking at the familiar sights around me.  Night time excursions to the barn were normally reserved for my older siblings.  Ma said it was time I too learn how to do the evening chores.  With the dim lights hanging from the highest beams I could see the straw and hay stacked nearly to the ceiling on both sides of the barn. I could hear the grunts from the steers in the back of the barn.  Though they likely didn’t enjoy being cooped up and crowded inside, it did keep them from the bitter cold elements of a Midwest winter.  Just then, the cats came running from the milking room, hoping to be fed with scraps and remnants of the family supper. Finding no food they ran back through the narrow door.  Through that door I could hear the sound of milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket which my father was using to milk "Bossy."  Walking through the door, around the half wall I sat on a stool near dad. The cats followed into the room and huddled around.  It was then that I began to do what little ones do best.

“Why do they call it the Winter Wonderland anyway?” asked the quiet voice of this second youngest daughter.   Rambling on with other musings never stopping long enough to hear daddy’s reply.  As I chattered I watched the cats gathering around my father while the rhythmic pattern of his perfected milking skills quickly filled the bucket.  Though the winter air gave a certain chill to the stall, there was something warm about the moment.  As with many farmers, there was much more do than there was to say, so he continued to milk the cow while listening to his young daughter chatter away. 

“We sure get a lot of milk from Old Bossy, don’t we daddy?” and “Those cats sure like you when your milking!”  “If it keeps snowing like this we might not have school tomorrow, huh daddy?”  “When is my sister coming home again?”  “Why didn’t you ever sing with us, daddy?”  “Are we going to take down the Christmas tree soon, daddy?”. . . just then the cats scampered toward the door but then suddenly stopped.  I watched in amusement as the cats licked the freshly squirted milk off their fur.  Dad turned those ‘milkers’ toward the cats again with a smile on his face and shot a line of milk across the room.  This time the cats did not scurry away.  They took the milk-attack courageously, licking up the milk wounds and coming back for more.  This was a rare playful act I witnessed my father engage in.  When the pail was nearly full and the cow utterly empty (pun intended),  Dad got up off the old milk’n stool.  Intentionally looking for a way to be useful, I set to have the door ready for him to carry that white liquid gold to the house.  Because there was much more to do and the night air was cold he summoned his young lady back to the house with the bucket. 

“Oh no!  I am supposed to help you with the chores, Daddy!  Ma says I am supposed to help you in the barn.”  I replied.

The heart of a young child cannot possibly understand what goes through the mind of a father at a moment like this.  To take an inexperienced ‘helper’ through the routines of the nightly chores on such a  frigid winter night, when he had already worked a full day. . . well it wasn’t the way he planned on spending his evening.  I knew only the rigors of the after supper routine with my sister in the kitchen; clearing the table, putting the food away and waiting for the boys to get in from their chores so we could take care of the milk and eggs.  I did not understand all that a day required of a mother and father of eight.  I knew nothing of their financial pressures as he waited to hear if he would ever be called back to work or the changes the older ones being off to college brought.  I only knew that my mother had called on me to help in the barn.  While he carried the weight of all these grown-up burdens in his silence; he led his daughter through the routine of scooping the corn feed and pulling apart another bale and distributing it to each of the cattle through the small windows off the main part of the barn.  He showed me how to collect the eggs in such a way as not to not startle the chickens.  I tried to act and feel grown up as I squeamishly copied my daddy’s lead.  With eggs and milk in tow, he then sent me on my way to finish the indoor chores.

The snow was falling heavily as I walked back from the barn.  I lifted my feet attempting to clear the knee-high snow.  As I neared the house I  regretted not listening to my mother who had always told ‘us kids’ to wrap our feet in old plastic bread bags so our socks and pants wouldn't get wet.  I could feel the cold as it slowly melted and the wetness penetrating my jeans which were tucked inside my boots.  Just inside the breezeway I put the milk pail on the top of the steps and shouted “milk” just as I had heard her brothers do.  I took my wet boots off, and directed my musing about the winter-wonderland and other such things toward my sisters.  As they finished the dishes and pasteurized the milk I listened as my older sisters explained about the winter wonderland being a state motto and about the fact that dad was too busy to sing in our singing group.  The playful side of life faded momentarily as my sisters and I finished the chores together.  But soon, I was again out the door with my siblings enjoying the evening snow.  As any young girl would do, I peered upward toward the night sky, watching the flakes fall toward and around me.  They looked like little white planets racing by.  I collected a large ball of snow and threw it at my brother; understanding in a very real way that life on the farm in the deep of the winter truly was a winter wonderland.