Stick a Fork In It

Put a hay fork in it because the brushhogging is done. 60 acres, 2 miles of trails, 45 hours, 45 gallons of gasoline, 2 flat tires, one new tire and tube, done. I estimate that I traveled a total of 110 miles. Worth it? Well, it looks great. The weeds and shrubs are under control for one more year. And the deer are loving the new re-growth.

I enjoyed the time watching the mice and rabbits scurry away, the hawks watching for an easy meal, the little fawns jumping up in front of me. The swallows and king birds swooping after the insects. Dodging the rocks the bears had rolled out of the hedgerows, and on the trails, a rotten tree stump or two they had tipped out, all in search of a tasty meal.

I recalled the days riding on the back of the hay baler while Grandpa baled the hay. The mechanical knotters on the old New Holland baler were always skipping and it was my job to yell when it missed so we could stop and tie the bale by hand. I sat on the bale chute and felt the hay slide through under the seat of my pants, until I wore out a few pair of pants and we decided we should put a board there. Mostly, it was great fun just spending all that time with my Grandpa.

On the steep side hill above the homestead, I remembered that this was just about the spot where we were riding the hay wagon while it rolled over. Not exactly an uncommon occurrence on our hilly farm. We were taught to move to the upper side of the wagon if it started to tip over. Never jump off, especially to the lower side, lest the load of hay or wagon would fall on you. It was fun when it happened, but a chore to reload the wagon.

And now I realize that there are too many stories and memories to relate all at once.