June 23, 2012
Oh Boy! It's time to make some hay! This is about the only time in farming where you can actually see yourself getting something visibly done! And it's only 112 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade!
The weather has been good for two days. The forecast is no rain at all, at least for a week, guaranteed, absolutely no way, cross our hearts and hope to die! And this dummy believes them! Well, it has been Monsoon season around here, and this is the first spell of dry weather this year, And not a moment too soon. The hay long ago went to seed, but there's nothing one can do about the weather. It will still be good hay if I feed it with some second cutting stuff.
So, whistling a tune, I fire up the 1959 Massey Ferguson 65. As the diesel engine roars to life, I notice a bit of oil bubbling out of the dipstick tube. Now this tractor has been fine, all winter and spring, until the actual day where I need to use it. Into the machine shop at the back of the barn it goes to ascertain just what expensive procedure I have the pleasure of looking forward to. It turns out I have a cracked ring. Now a week ago , when I fired it up it was fine. I can only assume that I am either plagued by ring cracking poltergeists, or this is a sign of Divine intervention, telling me to sell the farm and buy a condo in Florida!
OK, so I call up some buddies, promising all the beer they can drink, just get over here and help me break the tractor in two and replace the rings. It takes a full day, but by nightfall, we are up and running and ready to cut as soon as the dew burns off in the morning.
Morning comes, and I am sitting in the command module of the Massey, awaiting the last bits of dew to burn away from the bountiful green ocean of sweet smelling hay. The drum mower is already hitched up, with new belts and blades and WE ARE OFF AND CUTTING HAY!
The cutting actually goes well. I only hit a few groundhog holes, making a mental note to pick up some .22 Magnum ammunition and send these pesky vermin off to meet their maker. What a feeling to sit in a belching smoking machine, covered in sweat and motor oil from the vertical exhaust, reeking of diesel fuel and fresh green orchard grass and clover, the sweetest smelling thing God put on the Earth. Yesiree Bob, this is going to be a great year for hay! I will fill my barns and have enough left over to sell and buy myself a new Mercedes!
The next morning, I'm up at dawn, walking through the newly mown hay, tasting it and chewing on it, like I actually know what I'm doing. I hitch up the tedder to the little Kubota, and make the first pass with the tedder to start the drying process. Naturally, I forget where the groundhog holes were yesterday, so, of course, I hit them with the tedder, breaking off some fingers and cracking the plate that holds them. A bit of time running to Tractor Supply (It's pathetic, but I actually have an account there! Sometimes I think I put Mr Tractor Supply's kids through college!), and by evening we are up and running and the first turnover is done.
The next morning, I awake to an overcast sky. I find myself mumbling at the weather girl. She is kinda cute, but if she screwed up and it rains on my new hay, I will switch to channel 4 and deal with the grumpy old meteorologist! The forecast has been upgraded to a 20% chance of scattered showers. The hay is still too damp to consider baling, so we turn it a second time. Before I turn in for the night, I check the 11:00 p.m. forecast, and we are at a 30% chance of widely scattered showers for tomorrow, increasing to 60% by Saturday. We are baling hay tomorrow, no matter what!
The morning breaks grey and windy with a red sky. Just great! I hurriedly hitch up the rake and make my windrows at speeds approaching Mach One! The tractor is actually airborne half the time, as I have to get 40 acres raked, baled and in the barn before it rains. I hitch up the baler beneath a grey sky, with just a hint of the scent of rain in the air. We're off and running under an increasing cloud cover. Naturally, the baler finds every excuse to cause me grief. First, I break a shear pin on those long forgotten since yesterday groundhog holes. Then the knives miss a cut and I get a really nice birds nest of baler twine. I painstakingly cut it free under a blackening sky with the accompanying backdrop of thunder. I get a fifth of the field baled. I can actually see that it is raining down in the valley. I have to make a difficult choice, and figuring that something is better than nothing, I abandon 4/5 of the cut field to Mother Nature, and hurriedly hook the hay wagon up to the pickup truck, as I can drive it faster than the tractor. Where's all the people that want to help on the farm when you need them? I race across the field, jumping in and out of the truck, to toss a few bales on the wagon, jump back in, drive 30 more feet, back out again and so forth. The sky opens up and, shades of Hurricane Agnes, I am inundated by a full blown Monsoon. I have 33 bales of hay on the wagon. I tear off down to the barn, and attempt to back the wagon into the barn. Have you ever tried to back a 4 wheeled wagon up? I can back up a 2 wheeled trailer or boat like a pro. But this thing is giving me fits. I know that I'm trying too hard. So I unhitch it, spin the truck around and just push the *#%@$ thing in with my front bumper. I now have 33 bales of wet hay in the barn. Yeah! I throw the bales off, cut them open and spread them around the barn floor, hoping to dry them off enough to rebale them in a day or two.
2 days later, it's still raining non stop. I manage to back the baler in and rebale 31 bales. Between the diesel fuel, baler twine, tedder parts and engine parts, not including my time, sweat and aggravation, these are the most expensive bales of hay in history, surely belonging in a museum behind bullet proof glass, rather than in a hay barn.
And that cute weather girl? She can offer to bear my children, clean my house, make me coffee and bake me pies till she's blue in the face. I'm sticking with the old guy on Channel 4!
