Back Home by Chris Hardie
I had a dream the other night.
It was a hot summer day and I was in the hay mow stacking bales. I could feel the chaff on my sweaty skin, hear the chatter of the elevator chain bringing up the bales from the wagon and smell the sweet aroma of the freshly dried alfalfa.
I was young. I felt strong. I was stacking bales with vigor. I was alone in the barn and knew – but didn’t see – that Dad was unloading the wagon.
The dream faded and I awoke. Dad’s been gone for four years. I haven’t baled small squares for five years. I have no farm animals to feed anymore. The tractors, baler, rake, wagons are gone. I am not young and trying to stay strong.
I don’t put much stock into interpreting dreams. The subconscious is a mysterious creature and can weave nonsensical thoughts into crazy threads.
I do know that I miss Dad and we spent many hours putting up hay – both together and with the larger crew of my brother and cousins back in the dairy farm days.
Funny thing is, I miss haying and I don’t miss haying. I commented to my wife Sherry the other day that I don’t miss trying to put up dry hay during a summer like this when it rains nearly every day. I enjoy not having that stress.
I do miss the physical work and the satisfaction of a day’s work well done. I miss seeing the barn filled with hay and the knowledge that our sweltering summer labors were putting away fodder for the cold winter ahead.
Age and perspective also are at play. I hated raking hay when I was a kid because I found it incredibly boring, driving around and around a field with no distractions to occupy my busy young mind. I enjoy raking in my older age for the exact same reasons — it’s a rare opportunity to empty a busy old mind and fill it with some self-reflection and contemplation.
Along with the hours of work stacking bales, we also had fun. Large hay forts were constructed that sometimes ran for 50 feet or more.
We weren’t building engineers, but it’s amazing what you can construct with hay bales. We had tunnels, drop-offs, mazes and larger spaces where we would hang out. We once spent a night camping in the hay barn – without the campfire!
We were always disappointed when our forts disappeared because the building blocks were tossed down the hay chute to feed the cows below. But then we had a chance to build something new.
The hay mow was also the site of some derring-dos. There was a driveway between the two mows where broken bales were tossed. The pile of loose hay became many feet deep and cushioned acrobatic leaps that grew more exciting with each stack of bales that brought us closer to the roof. Flips, backflips, forward somersaults – it was like high diving without water.
Yes, it was dangerous. But so was everyday farming. What our parents didn’t know didn’t hurt them.
Not many people even stack small square bales anymore. The industry has gone to larger bales wrapped in plastic that don’t have to be dry and can be stored outside. Most hay barns like mine are a relic to the days of farming past.
All that remains are some broken bales, layers of chaff that dates back decades and many memories.
Chris Hardie spent more than 30 years as a reporter, editor and publisher. He was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and won dozens of state and national journalism awards. He is a former president of the Wisconsin Newspaper Association. Contact him at chardie1963@gmail.com.
