Rain's Coming

Today's farmers are walking media hounds.  You won't catch one far from a computer, smart phone or a tablet.  Even hubby has succumbed to the lure of instant information on his smart phone.  This week everyone was constantly checking the latest weather report while we watched a major storm system march toward us.  Naturally we had two major jobs to be finished before it rained....that's just farming.

Our son had given a small, late patch of tobacco to the oldest grandson.  This piece was the last to be cut and managed to get a heavy frost on it.  That meant leaving it in the field for a few days before hanging it in the barn to stabilize the damage from the frost.  However, it needed to be in the barn before the rain hit or risk losing it.  The trick was leaving it as long as possible and still get it put up before the weather hit.  Hence, the close watching of the weather front.

Hubby had cut a late crop of hay in front of the house.  Most of our hay now is done in big round bales that can sit in the field without damage from the weather.   However, hubby wanted to square bale this late crop to have in the barn for those times when you needed to feed new mothers in the barn or weanling calves in the barn lot.  It's much easier in close quarters to use the smaller square bales.  Unfortunately, they don't do well if they are in the field when it rains.  The cool weather had slowed the curing of the cut hay so the hay was ready about the same time as the tobacco.  Naturally.

The tobacco crew (a group of friends and hands that join together to cut and house each other's tobacco) showed up and lit into the tobacco patch.  In short order the tobacco was loaded and hung in the barn.  One job down and the rain was still holding off.  Now it was time to tackle the hay field.  It wasn't long until the field in front of the house was dotted with bales of hay. 

I had just finished ironing (yes, I am the only remaining person that still irons!) when hubby appeared in the kitchen.  "We need your help!" he asked, "the boys are taking pictures and we're short handed."  It seems that the grandsons had been scheduled to do pictures and weren't going to make it to the farm in time to help.  The process of loading hay is fairly straight forward.  Two (or more) men pick up the hay bales and put them on the wagon and one "ricks" or stacks the hay securely.   When the wagon is full it is them unloaded by lifting it up into the loft of the barn.  Farm boys never needed to lift weights at a gym to get great muscles.  The problem was they had only three men and no one to drive the tractor.  So, guess who was elected?

I reminded my son that the last time I drove picking up hay I dumped half a load in the field.  He grimaced tiredly and begged, "I think I might cry if you do it again."  In my defense the guy ricking that time was a novice and the load was tottery before I made that fateful turn.  This time son was ricking and he's good at the job.  So I climbed on the tractor and started to the field.  It's certainly not hard--the tractor is going at a slow walking pace and all I have to do is keep it between the rows of bales so they can pick up from both sides. 

The problem is that I have an exhausted hubby giving finite directions on how and where to drive.  The key is he is doing it from the middle of the field with lots of gestures that I can't quite decipher.  "You want me to go through here?' pointing left, "or here?" pointing right.  He responds with a five finger point down the middle.  I choose left he screams "just go between the damn bales" pointing right.  Suddenly he stopped, threw up his hands with a pleading expression on his face, "it's OK, you are doing great!!"  I just laughed and kept on in the direction he pointed.  You see he had suddenly remembered that this was the same wife who had once left him stranded in a field because I don't take screaming well. 

It's good to know that they can be trained.

We got the hay up with no hurt feelings--but plenty of hurt muscles.  We don't do much heavy lifting anymore.