Learning a new trick of the trade
Before this week, I was willing to tet, rake or stack hay, but had never baled. I adamantly refused to learn. I have this not-so-secret belief, the more I learn to do, the more I’ll be expected to do, and I’m not about to make the hay field the center of my universe. Period. End of discussion. My foot has been put down.
Also note, I love my husband more than I love myself-inflicted rules.
Last week, our middle daughter was in New York City on a mission trip, our eldest daughter was battling a severe allergic reaction, the young man who works for us was away on a fishing trip and the alternate help we hired failed to show up.
And we had hay down. Lots of it.
My son and I showed up to the hay field where my husband was baling. He was kicking bales into the wagon before going and stacking them himself. We grabbed gloves and went to help. Except, I am not allowed to ride the wagons anymore. Last year, I sprained my MCL doing hay and needed months of therapy to rehab an already weak knee, so I got fired. (Not super upset about it, just between us.)
My husband refused to let me stack, but he offered to teach me to bale. Reluctantly, I agreed. I listened to his instructions and then, when he and my son were ready, I engaged the PTO, put the tractor in gear and pulled out. It felt like I was flying across the field with my 50-foot long caravan of equipment. I asked if I could go slower, and my husband told me to check the speedometer.
I was going 1.8 miles per hour. One point eight mph? It was going to be a long afternoon.
There is a lot more to baling than it appears from outside. The baler teeth have to stay aligned with the windrow of hay. The kicker must be pointing into the wagon, even when going around turns. The speed of the kicker needs adjusted up or down depending on where you want the bale to land in the wagon. And even at 1.8 mph, if you take your eyes off of where you are going to adjust anything, you will drift out of the windrow and miss the hay.
At one point, I was given the signal to increase the speed of the kicker. I bumped it up – apparently a bit too far – and the next bale went flying into the back of the wagon. Before it hit the wall, it hit my husband square in the chest and hard enough to lift him off his feet.
He looked like a cartoon character who just caught a cannonball and goes flying across the sky. I could almost see my husband waving a little white flag that said, “Ouch.”
As I tend to do at inappropriate times, I laughed (and apologized). Once he shook off the cobwebs, he smiled and we finished filling the wagon. We filled a second wagon before calling it a day.
It must have been an adequate job, as I didn’t get fired, but I think he will be happy when our crew is back at full-strength and he is back at the helm.
I know I will.