Hay Dreams
by Ken Bradbury
Driving by the John Deere baler in my business suit. Dreams… memories Of clover dust, hot hay mows, brain-numbing ice water, the bloody stump of baled blacksnakes and too damn many bumble bees. “Buck and a quarter an hour. All you can eat for lunch, guaranteed two months baling.” Sold. A 14-year-old mind begins to amass the fortune, “Six days a week, ten hours a day, times $1.25, times eight weeks…” Sunlight stirs the hay dust into the shape of a ’65 Mustang, pale blue, hatchback, four-on-the-floor, envy-of-the-parking-lot.
“Your Uncle Bob lost his hand in a baler, you know.” “He shouldn’t have stuck it in. I ain’t gonna stick it in, Mom.”
Opening day of baling season, no wintering in Florida for the John Deere farm teams. We hit the ground a-running, dressed for clover combat. “Alfalfa’s easy. Lighter. Don’t stuff your sinuses. Smell’s sorta clean, even.” “Straw? That’s girl’s work. Straw isn’t work, it’s a vacation.” Real men don’t buck straw. They eat it. I yearn for just one easy day of straw. I’ll lie about it later. “But clover. Clover Hay! Now that’s what makes a man!”
We look upon the boys in the neighboring field with envy. .. paid by the bale.. “Two cents a gosh-darned bale! Can you believe it?” “They’re probably shootin’ for a GTO.”
Love working with Gene. Big, raw-boned farm boy, but not bright. You brag on him, he’ll work harder. You brag on him, he’ll take your bales. “Holy Shoot, Gene! How’d you get muscles like that?” “Man Gene, I wish I could toss ‘em as high as you!” Gene is building a stairway to my Mustang heaven.
Town boys mow lawns. The townies haul groceries to old ladies’ cars. Town boys tend gardens & drive their fathers’ cars. No tan. No man.
Green debutantes on parade, the bales march up the rusty elevator, through the mow window and lose all composure as they drop, without ceremony, into the arms of the boys below. Each thump producing a snoot-full of clover dust. “I heard of a guy gettin’ killed by a bale once.” “Oh come on.” “He did! Dropped right on him and smothered him to death before they could dig him out.” “That’s stupid.” An afternoon and evening spent in visions of suffocation.
“Would you ruther be stung to death by bumble bees or bit to death by a snake?” “Neither. Now shut up.” “Come on, you gotta choose one.” “Stung, I guess. I hate snakes.” “You mean you’d want bumble bees down the back of your shirt, and your pants, and in your shorts, and….” “Shaddup!” Nightmares now… suffocation, bees & snakes. I begin to hate my brother.
Days of killer heat.. praying for rain … praying for a busted PTO, busting for a break. Stomach sleeping with back afire. Crawl home and crash. Even Mom doesn’t complain of the hay chaff on her sofa. This is a working man collapsed here.
The shower trap clogged with unnamed green things… bluejeans thrown at the foot of the bed, soaked with sweat… A salty yellow check on the dresser. Musty grey socks. The color of Mustang.
Driving by the John Deere baler in my business suit. Dreams… memories Would I feel silly to stop and ask to ride a round? Then ride atop the load to the barn? Then stack a load in the mow? I’d pay a buck twenty-five an hour. My mini-van wonders why I keep reaching for the gear shift.