It’s 6:00 am. Sun’s shining through by bedroom window and dad is in the kitchen makin' coffee. I know I’m supposed to get up, but I just want five more minutes in my comfy bed. He gives me ten. Breakfast is puffed wheat cereal with the allotted two spoonfuls of sugar. No coffee for this 12 year old. My older brothers are up too and we head out to the fields after we're done with our puffed wheat that actually no amount of sugar can help. It’s cold, so we’re all dressed with long sleeved flannel shirts, jeans, and heavy shoes.
Dad starts up the 1949, 2-ton, Dodge flatbed, six cylinder truck with the hay elevator on the side. He gets her running smooth and I schootch into the driver’s seat. Dad tells us where to start and sends us out to the field for the days work. We start loading the truck with the bales. They average 60-70 pounds each, so I get to drive while the boys load. They take turns walking the field lining the bales up with the elevator while the other stacks them on the flatbed. The sun heats up and after a few rotations we take a short break to cool ourselves with some home-brewed, ice cold, sun tea. When we’re loaded, we head to the hay barn to put it up. We’ve stacked enough on the first floor that it’s time to use the 'big' elevator to send 'em up to the second floor.
A short stop for lunch of roast beef sandwiches with homemade bread and butter. No mayo, no mustard, just butter. I hated those dry sandwiches, but dad said there wasn't no need for fancy stuff.
Back to it. Storm's a comin' and we are lucky to get the last load in before rain starts washing the sweat off our bodies. We leave the truck at the barn and walk to the house with a strand of hay in our mouths to chew on. It’s sweet.
Back to it. Storm's a comin' and we are lucky to get the last load in before rain starts washing the sweat off our bodies. We leave the truck at the barn and walk to the house with a strand of hay in our mouths to chew on. It’s sweet.
