Letters from Hillside Farm (13 page)

Dear George,

Oh, what a great circus you put together, complete with “wild” animals! From what you described, Ginger stole the show, but didn't you expect him to? After all, he was a circus performer at one time. That raccoon, Gregory, is no slouch, either. It was nice of you to invite Rachel Williams to participate, and I'm so glad you involved your little sister, too. I'll bet she had lots of fun being a part of the show.

Swinging with a rope from the high beams in your barn—that really must have been something. Were you scared? I'll bet you could have heard a pin drop when you were doing that.

You are wondering if Amos spoiled the show. Believe me when I assure you that he didn't. Children know when they've seen something they like, and his little stunt didn't spoil it for them. I know you are disappointed that everything wasn't perfect. Think about what went right, and how your audience clapped and cheered. You did a good thing, bringing laughter and joy to people during these hard times.

Much love,

Grandma S.

June 28, 1938

Tuesday

Dear Grandma,

I'm still thinking about how much fun I had with my little circus, despite Amos's attempt to ruin my aerial act. I think everyone who came had a good time as well—they said they did, anyway. I was kind of tired yesterday, but I feel better today. Ginger doesn't seem his old self, though. I was so impressed with what he did and how he did it. But today all he wants to do is rest in his stall. I wonder if he overdid it?

Pa started making hay last week. He says the hay crop looks good, and he hopes it will be enough to last the cows and horses through the winter.

He hitched Maud and Tony to the hay mower, and soon it was chattering around the hayfield, cutting off the alfalfa, clover, and timothy (that's what Pa said grows in the field). By noontime, he had half of one field cut. He left the hay to dry in the field. Drying hay smells so good. I can't say I've ever smelled anything like it.

Late that afternoon Pa finished cutting the field and started raking the hay. Our hay rake is something to see. It has two high, narrow wheels, and between them is a row of steel tines that look like half circles. Pat sits on a high seat in the middle and pushes a lever with his foot every so often, leaving the raked hay in a ropelike row across the field. The rake must be easy to pull, because the horses really high-stepped their way around the field, swinging their tails. Before you knew it, Pa had ropes of hay strung all across the field.

Pa said my job was to pile the ropes of hay into little stacks, which are called hay bunches. I used a three-tine fork to gather the hay and make hay bunches about as tall as I am.

Pa says, “If you're a good farmer, your hay bunches won't tip over.” I haven't decided whether I want to be a good farmer—or whether I want to be any kind of farmer. But I tried to do the best I could. If a hay bunch tips over, the hay will get wet when it rains and will spoil. Pretty soon I had hay bunches sprinkled all over the hayfield. This is the kind of work where you can see the results right away.

The next morning, after the dew was off and the hay had a chance to dry some more, Pa finished raking and then he helped me make hay bunches. Soon the field was finished—hay bunches everywhere. On the hilltops. In the hollows. Along the fencerows. Pa said that if the sun kept shining and the breezes kept blowing, we could haul the hay to the barn the next day. And that's what we did. But something happened that we didn't expect.

Remember the old steel-wheeled wagon that I used to haul seed oats home from the neighbors'? Well, we lifted the box off the wagon and replaced it with a hayrack. The hayrack is three times as wide as the wagon box—so there is room in it for lots of hay—and it has a tall wooden framework on each end to keep the hay from falling off the wagon once it is loaded.

My job was to drive the wagon in the field and move the hay around on the hayrack as Pa pitched the hay bunches up to me. He's good at pitching hay and can toss an entire hay bunch on the wagon with one throw. As the load of hay got higher and higher, far above his head, he continued tossing up hay bunches, until I was a little befuddled about how to keep the load even so it wouldn't tip over. Pa kept telling me, “I think you need a little more here” or “You need a little more there,” pointing to places where he figured the load needed a little help.

When the load was finished, he crawled up on the wagon with me and we slowly drove across the rough hayfield to the barn. I could see Maud and Tony leaning into their harnesses, sweat soaking them as they plodded toward the barn.

At the barn Pa drove the load of hay onto what he calls the threshing floor, a place where earlier farmers threshed their grain by hand. Pa unhitched Maud, led her out of the barn, and hitched her to the end of a long, heavy rope that is threaded through a series of pulleys to the hay storage areas in the barn. Pa calls these storage areas haymows. (The word “mow” rhymes with “cow” and “now.”) Pa crawled up on the wagon and pushed a hayfork—a tool with two steel prongs about three feet long—into the load of hay. Then he yelled, “Ready!”

I said “giddap” to Maud, and as she moved slowly forward, the big rope tightened, the pulleys squeaked, and a huge hunk of hay lifted from the wagon as Pa stood clear, watching it. When the hayfork reached the metal track in the ceiling of the barn, it rolled along above one of the haymows. Just as it was at the middle of the haymow, Pa yelled, “Whoa,” and I pulled on the lines to stop Maud. Pa pulled a smaller rope, called a trip rope, and the hay dropped with a “whoosh” and a cloud of dust and hay leaves.

We did this over and over, until the hay wagon was bare. Then both Pa and I climbed into the haymow and began forking the hay into every nook and cranny of the barn. What a job. And was it hot! It must have been more than a hundred degrees up under the roof of the barn. Walking on loose hay, where you sink well above your knees, doesn't make the job any easier. It's about the hardest work on the farm. The good smell of the fresh hay didn't make up for the hard work, and we are just getting started with the haying season. Pa told me that by the time we finish haying, the haymows will be filled with hay clear to the hayfork track.

Then the unexpected thing happened. We were working on the second load of hay. Pa was pitching hay onto the wagon, while I was driving the team from hay bunch to hay bunch and arranging the hay on the wagon. (Pa calls this “making a load.”) I wasn't paying much attention to Pa other than trying to stay ahead of him, when I heard him yell. I looked up and saw that he had dropped his three-tine fork and was running across the field, swinging his straw hat around his head, yelling, “Bees, bees!” At the time it was rather comical. I have never seen Pa run faster, not even when he was playing ball at the end-of-school-year picnic.

The next thing I knew, Pa had stuck his head into a hay bunch. He stayed there for a little while, but eventually he came walking back to wagon, rubbing his neck. His face and hair were covered with hay leaves.

“Look at you,” I chuckled.

“Bees got me,” he said. He continued rubbing his neck, which I could see was swelling. “Gotta put something on these stings,” he said.

I helped him onto the wagon, and I drove home. Pa sat quietly all the way home, holding his head in his hands. When we got to the house, I tied the team to a tree near the kitchen and ran to tell Ma what happened. Somewhere she learned that bread soaked in milk is a good treatment for beestings, and she quickly prepared a mixture, which she called a poultice. In the meantime, Pa sat on the porch in a kind of daze.

Ma was concerned when she looked at all the beestings on Pa's neck. She put the bread and milk poultice in place and tied a dish towel over the concoction. Then she helped Pa walk into the house and over to the couch in the dining room. Pa said that Ma and I should unload the hay and put the horses away, because we wouldn't be hauling any more hay that day.

I tried to do what Pa had done, while Ma drove Maud on the hayfork rope. Between the two of us, we managed to unload the partial load of hay. I left forking the hay around in the mow for another day. I unharnessed the horses and turned them out in the barnyard.

When I got back in the house, I saw that Pa's neck was swelled to twice its normal size and his face was a sickly red. Ma was worried. She was on the phone to Grandma Woodward, asking what she could do besides the bread and milk poultice. Grandma Woodward told Ma how to mix a concoction that would make Pa sick when he drank it and take the bee poison from his system.

Ma and I milked the cows, and Annie helped us feed the calves. I surprised myself with how much I can do, even with my gimpy leg.

I heard Pa throwing up most of the night. In the morning when I looked in on him, he was as pale as bread flour, but the swelling had gone down.

“Afraid you and Ma will have to do the milking again this morning,” he said. “I can barely stand up, I'm so weak.”

“You're lucky you're alive,” Ma said. “Grandma Woodward told me she had heard of people dying with fewer beestings than you had.”

It took a couple of days before Pa was back to his old self and we could continue haying. He gave us quite a scare. I didn't know that beestings could be so dangerous. I also learned that when someone is sick, you have to take up the slack, as the farm work still needs doing.

Your grandson,

George

July 4, 1938

Monday

Dear Grandma,

We are still making hay. The barn is nearly filled, but still I wonder if we'll ever finish. I don't want to see another load of hay for the rest of my life. And I'll bet Maud and Tony feel the same way. Pa and I are out in the field every day, making hay bunches, loading them on the wagon, and forking the hay around in the haymow. Hay doesn't smell nearly as good as it did when we first started; now it smells like work. Hard, sweaty, never-ending, day-after-day work.

I've been learning how to use a three-tine fork. Haying is easier if you know where to grab the fork handle, know how to twist it, and know when to push and when to pull. Don't laugh, Grandma. All these things make a difference. If you use the fork right, you finish the day a little less tired. Like Pa always says, “Little things make the difference.” He's sure right when it comes to a three-tine fork.

At the breakfast table this morning, Pa said it was the Fourth of July and that we would work only until noon. He said we would drive to Round Lake, where there's a big community celebration, and he asked Ma if she would pack a picnic dinner.

I spent the morning making hay bunches, thinking about Round Lake and the Fourth of July celebration. Pa had said there would be games for the little kids to play, like drop the handkerchief and blind man's bluff. I knew Annie would have fun playing those. A few days ago when we were at the mill waiting for cow feed to be ground, Pa and I heard that the celebration would include a big tug-of-war between the older kids. I hoped that I might be a part of that. It's done over a small pond, so participants are told to bring along a change of clothes in case they fall into the water.

Ma made her special potato salad, a chocolate cake, and a batch of beans and packed it all up with some sandwiches. She even stirred up a jar of lemonade with slices of yellow lemons floating on top. We all climbed into the car and were off to Round Lake for dinner and an afternoon of fun. Even though the outing was Pa's idea, I suspect he was worried about the hay that was sitting out in the field. But I figured a half day away from it surely wouldn't hurt anything, unless we got a pouring rain, but it didn't look like any rain was coming anytime soon.

It seemed like everyone in the world was at Round Lake. We could hardly find a place to park the car. Kids were running around, swinging and sliding down the metal slides, and swimming. Families were spreading tablecloths on picnic tables and getting ready to eat. I think we got one of the last tables in the shade, under a big old pine tree.

While Ma spread out the meal, I walked over to a bulletin board, where a sign said that everyone interested in the tug-of-war should gather near the lake at two o'clock.

Ma called out that dinner was ready. I sat down, and we dug into one of the best meals I've ever eaten. Maybe that's because I don't get potato salad, baked beans, and chocolate cake every day. Or maybe it's because I worked up a powerful hunger making hay for the last three weeks. Either way, I ate way too much, and after I was finished I mostly wanted to crawl off in the shade and take a nap.

Pa shook me. He was holding his pocket watch in his hand.

“Five minutes to two,” he said. “Didn't you want to try the tug of war?”

I got up and made my way toward the shore of the lake, where a large crowd had gathered. A tall man with a big voice was announcing, “Everybody interested in the tug-of-war, assemble right here.” Ma, Pa, and Annie walked over to the tug-of-war area, too, to watch the contest.

Wouldn't you know it, Grandma? When I lined up for the tug-of-war, the first person I saw was Amos Woodward.

“What're you doin' here, Struckmeyer?” he growled at me. “This game's for strong kids, not ones with gimpy legs.”

“If you can do it, I can do it,” I told him.

“Here, here, boys!” the announcer said. He was wearing a little flat-topped straw hat with a red band around it. “Everybody who wants to play can. I think I'll put you boys on opposite sides. Might be interesting.”

He pointed to where each of us should stand. We were on opposite sides of a little pond of murky water that someone had dug in the sand next to the lake. The pond was about six feet across by four feet wide. I couldn't tell how deep it was because the water was so cloudy. A piece of hayfork rope, maybe thirty feet long, lay across the pond.

Soon the tall fellow with the straw hat had us all organized. I suspect he was counting us to make sure each side had the same number of kids. I wished he had paid more attention to the size of the kids. I glanced across the pond and saw a bunch of big strong farm kids.

“Here are the rules,” the announcer began. “When I shoot this gun, start pulling.” He pulled a pistol with a white handle out of his pocket. (It looked like a real gun to me, but later Pa told me that it shot blank cartridges.)

“The idea is to pull the other side into this here pond. The winning team does it two out of three times. Is everybody ready?”

I grabbed hold of the rope with all my might.

“Kaboom!” The pistol shot echoed across the lake. I hadn't expected it to be so loud and dang near fell down when it went off.

Grandma, before I knew it, I was dragged right to the edge of that little muddy pond. I saw Amos on the other side grinning like crazy, his face getting redder by the second as he pulled on the rope. I planted my good leg in the sand, yelled over my shoulder, “Pull!” and, by golly, slowly my team eased away from the pond's edge. Of course this meant that Amos was getting that much closer to the pond.

I looked up to see that his face was even redder than before, and now his smile was gone. “Pull! Pull!” he yelled.

I was so proud of my team, Grandma. I didn't even know most of the kids, because they came from all around Link Lake, but we sure knew how to pull together. The next thing I knew, Amos had toppled into the pond of muddy water, followed by one teammate after the other. It was hilarious to see a pond full of kids all wet and muddy and tangled up in the hayfork rope.

“Kaboom!” The pistol shot stopped the pulling.

“Favor to this team,” the thin man said, pointing at us. A big yell went up from my team as we watched the other kids crawl out of the pond, dripping with water and mud.

“For the next go, we switch sides,” the tall man said. We ran around to the other side.

“I'll get you this time,” Amos said as he walked past. He was a mess—mud on his pants, on his shirt, on his face, in his hair.

Now we had a wet rope to deal with, and before you could say, “You're gonna get muddy and wet,” my team was in the pond.

So there we were, two teams of wet, muddy kids, with a rope that was wet on both ends, and one more pull to decide the winner.

The announcer had us switch sides once more and said, “This time whoever pulls the other team into the water wins.”

I looked around at my teammates. What a wet mess we were, with mud in our hair, covering our clothing, everywhere. The same went for Amos's team. Each side grabbed the muddy rope and began pulling and pulling. First one side was on the brink of tumbling into the pond, then the other. Finally, Amos pulled a dirty trick. He said quietly so the judge couldn't hear, “We give up.” Of course, he didn't mean it. But several of the kids on my team quit pulling. The minute they did, Amos and his team gave a mighty yank, and everyone on my team fell in the muddy pond once more. We lost the tug-of-war.

Pa was laughing when I crawled out of the muddy pond the second time. I was soaked to the skin.

I stripped off my shirt, shoes, and socks and jumped into the lake, wearing only my muddy pants. Eventually I was clean enough to crawl into the dry clothes I had brought along.

I walked by Amos on my way to the car. “Told you I'd get you,” Amos said. He had a snarly look on his face. I didn't say anything. Why does he have to be this way, Grandma? I didn't mind being wet and muddy—or even losing the contest. But Amos cheated. Pa has taught me never to cheat, no matter what.

Your grandson,

George