The first day I spent haying, I wore shorts and a teeshirt and laughed at the "old" farmers (probably about my age now) who wore canvas pants and long-sleeved flannel shirts. By noon, I was sunburned and covered with scratches from briars and jagged hay, and stung by bees trapped in the bales (they were perturbed by the experience, understandably). You better believe I showed up fully garbed, gloved, and hatted the next day.
This paean to hay almost makes me look back fondly on those days.
COMMENTS
I used to spend a month or so at my Uncle's ranch during the summer. He planted Alfalfa and would send me and my brother out every morning to move the irrigation pipes. I could be mistaken, but I think he had like a gazillion acres of the stuff. All this so I could ride the horses and fish in the pond. It wasn't worth it then, but it has increased in value since.
I worked in an Ag implement shop for two summers, spending most of my time crawling over pallets of twine and fixing rakes, untangling cutter jams and driving broken equipment back to the shop. I don't think I'll ever be able to pass a hay stack without critiquing the bale wagon driver's style and ability.
More power to you, Wonko. What I basically remember is that despite being young, strong, and vigorous, I was worked into a zombie-like lather by wiry old guys who barely seemed to be straining. I'd run from row to row trying to keep up with the wagon, while the geezers just sauntered. I heaved and they flicked. Which should have taught me something, if only I hadn't been stupid as well as young.
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