This time of year as we approach the Dog Days of summer I am reminded of the sounds and smells of a Missouri hay field. Working hay meant spending the days working with Uncle Ernest and my dad all the while looking forward to a farmer's lunch prepared by Aunt Ester on a wood cookstove straight out of the 1920's.
My aunt and uncle were both born in the mid 1910's, married at the height of the Great Depression and managed to buy 120 of Ozark hill ground they then spent their lives building into a farm. They didn't get electricity until the 1950's, even then living more like the 1800's than most folks these days can imagine.....
The first job in the hay fields was done with an IH Cub tractor, cutting the hay with a sickle bar mower. I loved that tractor with the offset seat, it was "kid" sized, but sickle bars claimed many a young finger through the years (not mine). We used a John Deere model B (Johnny Pop) to rake the hay into rows and later to pull the baler.
John Deere tractors from that era made a wonderful popping noise, caused by their 2-cylinder engine design..... Pop-pop-Pop-pop-Pop. My dad drove our John Deere 40, also a Johnny Pop, but it was a little newer made in the mid 1950's. The sounds of summer was a musical mesh of Pop-pop-Pop-Pop (Plunge) Pop-pop-Pop Plunge as the tractor and hay baler worked together..... Farming can be dangerous, a cousin wearing a metal hook where a hand and forearm once resided was a constant reminder to keep your hands clear of moving parts....
The summer heat meant sweat soaked shirts before bankers had even began their work days, and the pollen/hay dust caked every body part. Pain shot through your body worse than any doctor's office shot.... little black bastards (Sweat Bees). Most farm kids heard daddy curse for the first time in the hay fields, swearing those little bastards hurt like hell..... Of course that was only if the hogs hadn't gotten into the garden first.....fixing fence torn to bits by a 250 feeder pigs has driven many a good Baptist to curse....and Catholics, oh hell you know they had some explaining to do to the good father come Sunday. City folks have probably never even encountered a Sweat Bee.... I have wondered if city folks have ever seen a sweat bee (I've never seen one in town). Most sweat bees are about 1/4 inch long, black...or black/green and they spend their lives pollinating and drinking sweat. Oh, and biting the hell out of farm kids.....little bastards! Uh, Father Jones can we talk.....
I am convinced Jenga was invented by farm kids, knowing how to stack hay is an agriculture PhD learning requirement. You're not a farmer until you have learned how stack a Ford F-100 with 5 rows of hay above the cab, loaded so heavy the tailpipe rubs the ground on the way home. I remember once our tailpipe caused some excitement, sitting still just a little too long caught the field on fire..... that may be the day I learned the F-word.
Pedal control is important as both front wheels come off the ground when you ease up out of the creek crossing fields, and God help you if you lose a single bale in the water. Never mind you are just 8 years old, hell you been driving in the fields for almost 4 years now.....mistakes should be behind you by now.
Safety was not a high priority..... I was taught to point the truck straight, put the transmission in "Granny Low" and jump out as the truck moved....... the idea was the truck would take care of itself, I could throw bales of hale onto the truck as it slowly moved forward......with this warning, "....you must stop the truck before it drops off into the creek or hits a fence line....." Can you imagine if I had been an 8 year old in 2026.... My city neighbors are probably looking up DFS numbers to report dad 50 years after the fact!
Lunch was signaled by a ringing bell off in the distance. Aunt Ester would be buttering the rolls' tops just as we sat down at the table. Her rolls were magical...... (have you ever had a roll thrown to you at Lambert's Cafe,.....imagine one of those, but better!!!)
Some time in the 1980's Uncle Ernst bought a new fangled gas cook stove. It was a sad moment in time....the rolls were never the same. Technology can make life easier....but seldom taste better than the ole ways......
Dad, Uncle Ernst and Aunt Ester have all been gone for decades, but as I tell this story I swear I can smell those rolls, and feel blisters turning to calluses.... Oh, what I would give to push in the clutch, slide the ole truck into granny low one more time and throw hay bales.....
......if you haven't had sweet tea from a jelly-jar glass you haven't lived life.
