Making Hay: My Summers as a Hay Baler

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The tractor had a radiator leak. One would think Dad would fix that problem, and he did, in his own unique way. His solution was to set a cream can on the drawbar, tie it on securely and fill it with water. OK, I filled it with water every morning. No, that didn’t stop the leak, but it was now manageable.

When the tractor began to steam, I would get water out of the cream can with a little tin can, fill the radiator and keep on working. I had no idea this was a strange solution. It seemed perfectly normal to me, as did parking on a hill.

If I didn’t park on a hill to get a rolling start, I had to crank-start the tractor by hand. Rarely did I let myself get caught in that situation. There was enough work to do without working up a sweat before I even got started. If I had to crank, I got cranky. Wonder if that’s where the name originated?

In my teenage years, it seemed I spent an eternity in the field. As an adult, looking back, I realize that time helped form the person I am today. I still love being outdoors in the summer. I no longer rake hay, but I can often be found picking green beans in the middle of the day.

When I step outside and get a whiff of freshly mowed hay, it never fails to send my mind back. I am sitting on a rusty red tractor, raking hay in Grandpa’s bottom field. If I close my eyes and breathe deep, I can see Dad on his big tractor and Grandpa circling the field on his H.

Many women keep fine china and dishes in their china cabinets. I don’t have fine china. My cabinet is filled with pretty dishes, a collection of bells from various states, and something more precious to me than any china. Placed lovingly on a shelf is all I have left of my little tractor, the rusty old crank.

A freelance writer for more than 20 years, Brenda Brinkley keeps her computer keyboard busy at her home in Marshfield, Missouri.

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