Hayride

Hay ride the story

We scurried toward the barn. An unaccustomed sense of urgency fed by the light smell of threatening rain in the air and red clouds showing where the day was just lighting the eastern edge of the sky quickened our bare foot steps. Today was the day we had to have the hay off of grandpa’s field before predicted rain might ruin whatever was left on the ground.

The Gibson tractor with the big metal trailer behind it

waited in the soft light. The steel on the trailer glistened with a soft sheen of dew.. “hurry hurry”it seem to be saying. We hurried.

The milking was done in near record time. We dropped the pails in the kitchen and raced out to where our older brother Ron was sitting on the little tractor. It was put- putting impatiently. Our older sister Lenore was already in the trailer. We jumped in and leaned against the cold metal sides grinning and whooping as the trailer jumped ahead and another hay field adventure began.

Grandpa’s field was the farthest we ever went to get hay. It was a long ride but LeNore new how to keep us awake. After bone jarring ride down the rutted driveway in the springless trailer we sang summer camp songs and “Mr Mr Johnnyberbeck”and “There’s a hole in the bottom of the sea” and one about “the engine in the ford made the wheels go around” at the top of our lungs and forgot the chill and the threatening dampness until we ran out of songs a couple miles from the field.

At 8,10 and 11 Becky myself and Cal were veteran stompers. Nory was not interested in throwing hay. She was short. We needed two people on the ground pitching hay onto the trailer. Cal was elected. He was the older than me. When it became obvious that this was his chance to be promoted to pitcher I was secretly crushed. I knew why it wasn’t my turn, but he was getting to do it early. He was tall for his age, skinny but strong. I decided it would be stupid useless and dangerous to fight about it. He would be down there with a pitchfork throwing hay at my legs.

We had come to blows in the barn and ended up trying to skewer each other with pitchforks before. No, I decided to just let it be. Cal grabbed a fork and headed for the nearest haystack grinning ear to ear.

Ron was an athletic kid who always seemed to be going faster and harder than anyone.

The hay flew . We stomped and hopped and walked around on it. We stomped it into the corners and down the middle but mostly we stomped a circular route that tied the hay together from the outside of the load in.

As the load reached the top of the trailer (it had a long way to go up yet) Becky stopped suddenly. “Darn Sticker!! she muttered” She didn’t swear but it sounded like one. She reached into the load and gingerly pulled a huge Canadian thistle out and threw it over the side. Then she stood on one foot and pulled a wicked looking spine out of the side of her bare foot , tossed it over the side and went back to stomping.

The red spots from the wound disappeared into the hay. She didn’t say another word about it. Cal and I were not surprised. Becky had spent most of her short life tagging along with us and doing whatever damn fool things we did. Climbing just as high in tall trees and swinging from the top of one small tree to another, learning to swim in a muddy pond with no adult supervision. Stomping barefoot through deep woods until we weren’t sure how to get back.

Nothing seemed to phase her much. She was a tough little cookie. We didn’t tell her how proud we were of her. But we had quit complaining that she would slow us down a long time ago.

The morning wore on. The trailer moved from one group of haystacks to another and we three stompers resolutely

marched around as fast as we could. The load was bouncing more than seemed right but we were tying it together as well as we could. The day remained mercifully cool. We became unusually quiet while dodging the pitchforks coming near with their flying loads to avoid being stuck by a wayward fork tine.

It was always possible but seldom

happened. In the heat of the battle we were all looking out for each other but there was a new guy to the job down there and eventually he would have to throw hard to get to the top of the load. He wasn’t all that tall yet.

At some point everyone agreed we had more hay up than we could really stabilize but there was just a little more and than a little more and it was the last load from the field and we wanted it all.

Finally the pitchforks were handed up handle first and driven as far as possible into the hay like giant hairpins in a messy giant blonde head of hair. Cal climbed up the front of the load with a little help from Becky and I, bounced a couple times on the top of the load and said “Ronny you better drive careful this load is pretty loose”.

The stompers were silent. It was their load to ride. No one wanted it to come off.

Ron was careful, slow and easy across the sloping field.

When he got to the driveway he speeded up. There was just the fainest cool kiss of mist in the air. When we got to the pavement he hit full speed, which wasn’t saying much unless you were clinging to he top of a swaying pile of hay.. The four riders snuggled down into the hay to get out

of the chilly wind with our faces stuck up to watch the world go by. Tears from the chill wind streamed from our eyes and rushed back into our hair. Life was perfect. We were the kings and queens of everything for a while.

The load swayed ominously at every dip and pitch in the road. We exchanged looks of alarm and stayed quiet.

We were too tired to talk. Everyone had been going full speed all morning and we needed the rest. Except Ron who was still bristling with energy. He hunched over the tractor, willing it to go faster. The little machine was already doing it’s best.

Eventually we rolled into Vashon, the biggest tiny town on the island and home to the only traffic light. It was a four way stop flashing red light dangling fairly low over the intersection. Ron eased the tractor to a stop. It was readily apparent that we had once again made our load too high to slip under light. We had seen this before and we were ready. Normally the holding up of the light was Ron’s job. He loved being the center of attention. Nory wasn’t interested in the job, which meant Cal and I were for the first time ever left to do it. We never doubted that we could pass this little manhood test. Cal moved to the front of the load with a pitch fork. I picked up a fork and stationed myself in the middle. Neither of us were ready for how heavy the thing along with it’s heavy wires was.

We were both strong for our ages but there was no guarantee that that was going to be enough. We needed about two feet of lift to get the load and ourselves under the light. Cal slipped the tines of his fork around the thick wires beside the light, which was directly in front of him. He leaned back as the trailer moved slowly forward and the heavy light moved just barely above it. Cal looked like he was going to drop the thing. But he drove the end of the fork handle into the hay and let it take most of the weight. The light was getting close to me. I was sure I could do my half better than Cal had.

Carefully I slipped my fork under the opposite side from Cal’s. I lifted hard to get more height, careful to touch only the wooden handle. The light settled lower. It was heavy! We had been arguing for years over whether we would be electrocuted if the light or the wires touched us during this procedure. I always favored electrocution. Panic gave me extra strength and I heaved the light up just enough to clear the load. Becky and Nory flattened themselves on the hay and tried to wiggle safely under the looming wires. I set the end of my fork handle into the hay and it was pushed down into it but the wires past over us and I let the thing drop at the back of the load. Ron had been watching the drama unfold instead of where he was going. He was nearly hitting the back of Mr Adams new Studebaker pickup with the corner of the trailer when he turned away from our cheers of relief. He hit the Brakes hard! The hay shifted toward the front, the top third threatening to bury Ron and the tractor under a runaway haystack. Ron was quick. He pushed hard on the steering rod and swerved the tractor and trailer within inches of the new truck. Our unique little performance with the light had attracted the attention of everyone near the intersection including Mr Adams who was leaving McCormick’s Hardware with a sack of nails. His eyes bugged and looked as if they would pop out. He was very proud of his new truck and for a moment it looked to be in real danger.

Ron wanted to not get buried and not to get embarrassed by losing a load of hay in downtown Vashon in front of about ten locals. He down shifted and popped the clutch. In low gear the Gibson could pull almost anything if it had traction. It leaped forward. The top third of the load leaped back and left the back of the trailer in slow motion, depositing a huge pile of hay, four riders and two pitchforks beside an empty parking space and the front two feet of one brand new Studebaker pickup. Mr Adams remembered to breath. The onlookers burst into relieved laughter when it became apparent that no one had been skewered by a fork and the hay had cushioned our fall into the street. Profoundly embarrassed, Ron sent all four of us riders back onto the load. He was going to put it back on himself which made perfect sense since he only needed to stand behind the trailer and throw hay and he would do it so quickly that even with four stompers it would be hard to keep up. Mr Adams backed his truck up and swerved around the hay pile. We scrambled onto the trailer giggling nervously. Ron tossed one fork down beside the sidewalk and picked up his favorite. The one he had purchased himself with money from his extensive list of yard work customers.

People stopped to watch the crazy Swift kids reload the trailer. The crazy Swift kids worked fast, aware that they were blocking half of the main street of Vashon and that if the county sheriff arrived someone was sure to mention the performance with the light. Having never researched the legality of that maneuver we were certain it would get us in trouble.

The load was put back on and stomped as tightly as the four of us could do in the short time Ron gave us. The pitchforks were handed up and stuck into the load. A smattering of applause and a few derisive hoots accompanied our retreat out of town.

The threat of rain had increased noticeably by the time we quit waving back to the people on the sidewalk. A few old veteran hay makers muttered about our chances of getting that hay home dry enough to put up. We didn’t hear them.

We were having the same thoughts.

Ron was once again urging the Gibson on. The load was big enough that it could only be pulled relatively fast in high gear on a level road. And cemetery hill was coming up. He was very careful on the turn onto cemetery road. When we came to the steep downhill run before the equally steep run up it he let the rig coast. Our speed picked up way past full throttle high gear on the level. Cal and I and Becky whooped and grinned as we hurtled down the hill. Happily oblivious to the very real danger of losing a load at that speed. Nory, possessed of more maturity and a lot more good sense, hunkered down in the middle of the load smiling tightly.

At the beginning of the hill, the last worst obstacle between us and our driveway, our speed dropped precipitously and Ron began down shifting smoothly. The tractor chugged and strained mightily and slowly like the little engine who could. We began to fear we would have to get off and push. Eventually we crested the hill and once again coasted to the bottom.

A few miles later we crawled up our rutted driveway clinging to the swaying load and made it to the barn. All we had to do was unload.

The load of hay was backed under the high wide hay door in the end of the barn. The little tractor was tied to the long thick rope snaking out of a side door. Ronny pulled the hay fork to the end of the high beam that ran the length of the peak of the old barn and down onto the hay. He scrambled up onto the load. Nory and Cal and I grabbed pitchforks and stationed ourselves inside along the walls. Becky was outside by the trailer in full sight of the tractor.

Ron was doing triple duty. He set the hay fork, jamming two thick, pointed thirty inch tines into the load and pulling the levers up to set anchors in the the hay. Then he jumped down, ran to the Gibson and pulled the heavy rope away from the barn, all the while watching his little sister who was waiting for us to yell DROP! Normally the person in Becky’s spot would pull on the rope to release the load of hay and drop it onto the hay stacked inside. Becky wasn’t yet heavy enough to trip the levers. If she held on tight enough she would have just been dragged inside. Her job today was to keep the rope where Ron could grab it and jump up and down and wave frantically when she heard us holler drop!!

When that happened Ron would stop the tractor, run back to the trailer and pull the trip rope, releasing the the anchors and dropping the hay wherever it had stopped on it’s way down the beam.

From inside we heard Ron working the fork into the hay. In a few seconds the tractor revved up and the big rope tightened. The beam above us began to shudder under the weight and a really big load of hay blocked the light coming in the big door. That was a sure sign that the load was tightly stomped. In the barn we grinned through the dust. The top of the hay fork snapped into the carriage on the beam. The huge load of hay stuck in the wide door and the shuddering increased. Finally the hay slipped through, swinging back and forth and sprinkling loose hay and dust. We hollered drop! when the load was about thirty feet into the barn and Becky yelled and waived. The tractor stopped and Ron ran and pulled the trip rope. A cloud of loose hay descended onto the hay already inside.

Show time in the barn! LeNore began stabbing the pile and pitching the hay to the side against the walls. Cal and I did the same on our side. We could hear the Gibson backing toward the barn while Becky tried mightily to pull the big fork back toward the load. Maybe she forgot about the thick heavy rope that was tied to that fork had to be pulled back through the side door. The fork swung back and forth and she managed to move it a few feet before Ron pulled it rapidly to the release point and it descended to the load again. The process repeated until all the Hay was inside. Outside a light rain had finally begun. Inside a lot of hay had been left in the center of the barn. It was too early to milk. There would be no more hay to haul for at least a week if the rain stayed around. We had free time for a few hours after lunch.

Which brings us to why we left so much hay in the middle.

While Ron put the Gibson away in the implement shed we put the pitchforks away in the barn and Becky ran around to the side door. Our damp hair and faces were coated with dust but we had won the race with the rain.

That was fun! She cried. Lets jump in the hay!

There are two levels in the barn on Merry Hill farm. When there is enough hay in the lower level you can jump off the top level and disappear into the hay on the lower level, bouncing and rolling down the side of the pile. When you got out of the hay there was a ladder to take you back up to do it again and again and again.

Crazy fun in the Barn. A perfect ending to a day spent stomping and riding in the hay.