Regrets

They seem to have come early this year, the hot afternoon winds which blows relentlessly from the South. Temperatures in the upper nineties And it's hot almost unbearably hot if you're a teenager Sorry Throwing hay from the ground level up to the wagon then from the wagon to the stack. This morning there were clouds outside my window and even know I knew there'd be no rain seem to be promising.

When you're moving hay, morning is the best time, at least that is how I think. When dad was home are often before the workday began (his regular 9-to-5 type job) he would roust us out of bed and we would drive the tractor and wagon out to the hay fields and bring in the load before dad left for work. I think he knew that without his ramrod supervision anymore significant “hating” would not get finished until his return. And bringing in the hay Was my brother Ross's and my responsibility. At eight or nine years old the concept of loading hay into the wider was almost overwhelming. Ross would've been 13 or 14 and his focus in life was not loading hay. We tried however, throwing the pitchforks in the back of the rack and then Ross firing up the little International Cub tractor And we would bounce out to the field to the mounds of hay. You might remember from posts a few thousand posts ago regarding the process of cutting the hay and raking them into mounds to dry until we came by with our wagon pitchfork those mounds into the government and wagon. We are small farm, a very small operation. When the hay had cured enough we look at the hay onto the wagon. It was hot and dry and you got covered in hay dust. We usually went between two rows stopping at the top of 4 mounds. Then we would attack the mound with our pitchfork get a good fork size that carried over and throw it on the hay wagon. It was not uncommon to see a family of mice scurry for the lives when we lifted the mounds of hay. Our cat Midnight, before it's Unfortunate quadruple amputation and headshot, was usually with us looking for said vermin. In the early morning, especially after waking and a quick breakfast moving the hay was not so bad and dad would leave usually after helping unload the first rack of hay. Then my brother and I were out on our own. As the day moved on and the heat increased our relationship seemed to deteriorate. The harassment I would receive escalated from just verbal agitation to physical aggression. Older brothers are experts at psi warfare And I could be readily brought to tears. Even though we had only about 10 acres of hay from a nine-year-olds point of view the job seem never-ending. If we were lucky we would get maybe three fourths of a load and then take off for the bridge or would swim away the afternoon. We had every intention to get back after a “quick” swim but would be terrorized when we look up and see my dad's van pass on Boise Avenue on his way home. My brother and I would mount our bikes And race home If I my dad out in the field, by himself, throwing hay onto the wagon where we left it. He wouldn't say anything, I think he was too angry we were just each (my brother and I) grab our pitchfork and begin throwing hay out of the rack.

I think it broke my dad's heart that Ross and I were not cut out to be farm boys. Maybe it's because we're adopted and we didn't have that agrarian gene wandering around in ourselves. I think back and shiver with a little guilt of how painful that must've been for my dad. I wish it could have been different, I would like to think five had the way back machine I would go back and work harder to load more hay and to be more responsible But loading hay I guess there are no second chances and the hot wind blows on a July afternoon looking out my window…