The Rural Voice, 1991-09, Page 49NOTEBOOK
horses forward and gazes heavenward, trip rope in hand, as our
very first "bundle" of new hay ascends smoothly towards the
barn roof 30 feet above. But alas! As the fork locks onto its
track carriage, the resulting small vibration is enough to
dislodge the burned -out lever control. About 900 pounds of
hay harvest splashes down over 40 square feet of barn floor,
hay wagon, and my father.
Striding manfully behind the horses, who were now pull-
ing along the roof track a fork and carriage absolutely empty of
payload, I am amazed to hcar behind me a string of muffled
obscenities. Glancing fearfully over my shoulder, I am even
more amazed to see Dad surfacing from a mountain of loose
hay which had seemingly arrived from nowhere.
Leaping from the submerged wagon and discarding the trip
rope so he could wave his arms with more meaning, my father
came bounding out to the horse -pull contingent, now at full
parade rest, to demand through a spray of saliva, sweat, and
half-digested hay exactly what in hell I was playing at to allow
the horses to pull the hoist rope so unevenly. An answer to this
question seemed to me not only self-incriminating but also
very difficult, since the horses outweigh me 60 to one and, with
that handicap, allowing or denying them anything were
operating alternatives in which I clearly had only minimal
input.
In any case, having coughed up the remaining shreds of
ingested hay and being then incapable of sufficient breath or
imagination for further demonstration of navy talk, Dad
transmitted horse -handling instructions in point form, bade me
walk the objects of that refresher course to the start line, and
himself returned to the wagon where he again set the hay fork
and flashed me the Onward and Upward signal.
This time I paid strict and careful attention to developments
astern — which is not easy considering it involved stumbling
forward with one's head on a 180 -degree swivel while
attempting to influence the direction and enthusiasm of 4,000
pounds of spirited horseflesh.
Again the slow, steady, graceful journey of the hay fork and
its fragrant burden towards the roof peak. Again my father on
the wagon below, trip rope at the "ready." Again the small thud
of the fork clicking into its track carriage. And bingo! It's
raining hay.
The empty fork creaks hollowly on the useless track, the
puzzled horses lurch to a ragged halt, Dad disappears under a
green cloud sent from on high, and I begin fighting a highly
dangerous urge to laugh out loud.
Pop explodes straight up from his latest immersion,
practically cartwheels off the wagon, forgetting in the process
that he's still clutching the trip rope which almost emasculates
him before he hits the floor, and advances in full cry on the
horses and their juvenile handler.
Wild of eye, incoherent, slapping madly at a buzzing halo
of flies, his overland approach and subsequent "speech to the
troops" is noticeably compromised by a mid-air entanglement
with the trip rope. The agony of that incidental disaster is
evidentially reduced only by holding one's knees very close
together while maintaining a posture bcst described as the half -
crouch. This, of course, is a most difficult position from which
to deliver the forceful opinions that Dad was then filtering
through a red haze of rage and pain concerning the antecedents,
and intelligence, and the future prospects of the unsmiling
horses and/or their now -hysterical driver.
Try again? Why not? Only this time I'm to be the trip rope
puller while Dad gets to set the fork, operate the horses, and
generally demonstrate proper procedure. Fork in place, horses
moving steadily forward, a really big bundle of hay rides
skyward. Click! Everybody inhales as the fork locks onto the
carriage.
And — a miracle — everything moves smoothly along the
roof track without dropping a single hay blossom. Tension
departs. Hostility recedes. Anger evaporates. Pop grins
expansively, calmly directs me to unload the fork. I throw all
of my 68 pounds on the trip rope. Nothing happens. Dad stops
grinning, leaves the horses, adds his bantam weight to this
unrehearsed tug-of-war. The hay bundle sways suggestively
but the trip lever remains immobile. Now we've got a half -ton
of hay suspended out of reach over the storage floor, and a
jammed lever control.
Enter ingenuity. My father disconnects the horses from the
haul rope, leads them into the barn, fastens the trip rope to their
harness, and thus gently returns the loaded fork and its carriage
to a position 30 vertical feet above the wagon. Using the wagon
as an elevated base, he installs a wooden extension ladder
against the suspended hay bundle preparatory to inspecting the
rebellious fork lever control at first hand. Whereupon, in
response to some invisible tremor or act of a vengeful God, the
control lever snaps up, the hay bundle snaps down, the ladder
is reduced to kindling, and my father is once again eyebrow -
deep in dusty hay.
Only the whine of the tireless flies disturbs the ensuing
silence and, through a rising fog of fresh dust, the empty hay
fork swings gaily over a scene reminiscent of a moonscape.
The entire barn floor, the wagon, miscellaneous equipment,
doorways, granary — all lie buried beneath a deepening strata
of hopelessly tangled loose hay three to six feet thick.
And at ground zero, my father gazes murderously around
the havoc we have wrought and begins yet another exhortation
for divine demerit points on everything and everybody, animal
or vegetable, within the sound of his voice — which, it must be
admitted, can now be heard for two miles as the crow flies.
When the dust and exotic language subside, I return the
horses, who aren't yet breathing hard, to the attack position
while Dad swims to the nearest edge of his latest ambush. He
pulls the fork down to wagon level and, setting to only half its
possible depth, signals The Charge in hopes that a smaller hay
bundle will somehow lock onto and release from the track
carriage without mishap. This strategy, however, still requires
tripping the control lever at the opportune moment. To ensure
the success of that critical operation, my father this time loops
the trip rope around his belt the better to free both hands for
firm, resolute, teeth -clenching trip -rope function.
The universe momentarily unfolds as it should. The fork
and its reduced load rises majestically to the roof, locks onto
the carriage with a satisfying thud and — joy! — begins a
stately procession along the track. But wait! The trip rope,
SEPTEMBER 1991 45