The Rural Voice, 1999-06, Page 24MAKING MEMORIES
Haying season was hard work in days gone by, but the memories are as
sweet as the smell of new -mown hay
I3g Barbara Weiler
Haying season arriving just at
the end Qf the school year in
June coincides with ruby red
strati berries so plump and delicious
that the juice runs down your chin
when you bite into them. The lilacs
are over, but the rosy clumps of
peonies and spikes of purple irises
may still be in bloom. The days are
long and filled with sunshine, and
children sing "No more pencils, no
more books".
When 1 was a child my father cut
the hay with the mower behind the
team of dapple grey work horses,
Doll and Nell. Later, when the hay
had dried, he hitched the team to the
hay rake, and raked it into piles. The
next step was to pile it into stacks or
hay cocks, to be picked up by the
team and wagon.
After supper, as the breeze
appeared, cooling the face of the
western sun with its breath, my father
and older brother and sister went off
to the field to stack the hay, while my
younger brother and I stayed with my
mother as she cleaned and tidied after
supper. When she was finished, the
three of us walked to the hayfield in
the cool of the evening.
20 THE RURAL VOICE
My mother loved the smell of the
new -mown clover, and always took
deep breaths, inhaling the odour and
remarking on its fragrance. As we
drew near, the workers paused in
their labour, and someone called out
"Here come the hay smellers."
We worked close together, parents
and children talking quietly as we
stacked the fragrant mounds of clover
and timothy. Darkness fell slowly as
the sun disappeared in a brilliant
display of gold and blue and
vermilion in the western sky behind
the avenue of maple trees along the
border of the hay field. We worked
on in the dusk until it was fully dark.
"Let's play tag," my brother would
shout. "You're it!" and we raced off
between the mounds of hay, the
fireflies flitting around us in the
darkness. Once a firefly found its
way under my brother's white shirt
and we could see its tiny lantern
flashing through the cloth, lighting
his body as he ran. In the blackness
we walked together back to the brick
farmhouse where we sat on the back
verandah for a time before we went
to bed, sometimes talking, more often
simply sitting quietly, our eyes
gradually becoming accustomed to
the night, listening to the chorus of
insect songs.
The next task was to bring the hay
into the barn after it had dried. The
team of heavy horses was hitched to
the hay wagon, and off we went. I
was allowed to ride to the field on the
empty wagon, dangling my overall -
clad legs over the side and hanging
on tightly with skinny, scratched,
brown arms. Often our grandfather,
Pa Shoemaker, was visiting from the
city, and he would help pitch on the.
hay. Building a load of hay is no
work for an amateur, and those less
experienced would settle for pitching
on the hay, while the expert on the
wagon would carefully build the Toad.
The poet Robert Frost described this
skill in "Death of The Hired Man":
/ know, that's Silas' one
accomplishment.
He bundles every forkful in its place,
And tags and numbers it for future
reference.
Usually when I went to the field
with the hay wagon I walked back to
the barn with my grandfather, but on
one memorable occasion, I got to ride
on the top of the load. There were