Even with this being a lush, green time of year our animals plow through any hay stores faster than the mice build nests for their young. Only a few weeks back I had an adventure in hay fetching, my first time actually picking up a load rather than having it delivered. (Hay is cheaper to pick up in the field, before the farmer has gone to the trouble of storing it in a barn.) That time loading 90 bales was fairly easy for me, as I simply tossed bales down from a hayloft while the seller stacked them on the flatbed trailer for me. (Since the price difference per bale was only 25 cents, it was worth it to pick up the hay from the barn.)
This week, already, the storage trailer was again bare and the animals were still ready to eat. Since my regular hay provider (now a good friend) had fresh hay this time, I returned to him but opted to save $2.00 per bale by picking the hay up from the field. (I’ve seen price differences ranging from 25 cents to a few dollars per bale, depending on what it costs the farmer to bring the hay in from the field.) After working the day doing construction on our place, he had left in time to bale a newly-mown field into square bales. Although I was a bit daunted by the task of both picking up the bales from the field and stacking them to travel, when I said that if the loading got to be too much for me I would simply ask for the more expensive delivery, my chivalrous friend reassured me that he would help. (Chivalry is alive and well in the southern United States.)
Hooking up the flatbed trailer, parked on the slope of the front field took numerous attempts. Each attempt entailed moving the truck to what appeared to be a close location, hopping out to check, assessing the placement achieved and figuring the changes necessary to achieve success, and climbing back into the cab to try again. Usually I can get it hitched with just a few tries, but today’s heat and humidity combined to soften my gray matter—leaving me with salt-fogged glasses and an even foggier spatial logic which is sad because on a good day I can be spatially challenged. Just like in our old neighborhood, the neighbor’s entrance was timed perfectly, albeit unintentionally: she came by to offer assistance just after I had successfully lined up the trailed hitch and trailer. The truck and trailer and I exited our driveway only about a half-hour behind schedule.
Not far along the road, the image in the rearview mirror informed me that a tire that had been soft after the last hay run was now flat. The combination of the double axle and empty load allowed us to make the short journey (just a few miles), and the missus at my destination quickly trotted out the air compressor to re-inflate the tire before pointing me to the hayfield. The youngest daughter deftly maneuvered the family’s four-wheeler and led the way. A stop halfway up the hill provided genial conversation with the farmer and his father. We entered the hilltop hayfield just as the shadows were lengthening and I was awed by the magnificent view rolling out below us, stretching to the fire tower on the edge of town and extending into the nearest towns of Watertown and Norene. Plus, the extra time that I had taken to hitch up the trailer beforehand had been well spent because the air had cooled considerably so I wouldn’t have to be a walking rainforest in the field. Phew!
As it happened, loading the trailer was good exercise but far from impossible. After all I had three generations assisting with the job, and again I did not actually stack the bales onto the trailer. I was heartened when my friend appreciated the safety provided by the cattle-panel “walls” I’d installed on the trailer, especially since the gentleman who had stacked the previous load had seen the panels as unnecessary space-robbers. (The flatbed has a strong metal frame “enclosing” its space which I gather is plenty of structure for many around here.) Given the free rein to load as many bales as he could fit onto the trailer, Jeff rose to the challenge: he didn’t stop until the field was empty and I had 98 bales lashed on tightly.
Given the amount of help the family had provided, I opted to exercise only a $1.00 discount from the delivered price when writing the check. It only seemed fair to me. This family has been so giving of their time, assistance, and advice; we like to compensate them fairly for the work they do on our behalf. Coming from the Northeast, where gouging customers seems to be the norm, we continue to be impressed by the honesty and fairness of the people here and generally override any objections made to fair compensation that may exceed the previously-agreed-upon price. Jeff grumbled to his wife that I never allow him to give me anything and that was that.
As much as I was enjoying the company, I couldn’t stay to chat because the truck was expected home for a Lowe’s run. A reminder phone call ensured that I wouldn’t forget this additional obligation, so the hay and I rolled off into the dusk post haste. All should have been well: the load had been acquired and was lashed on well; however, almost immediately I saw that the freshly-inflated tire had gone flat again under the weight of the hay. (One problem with buying used vehicles cheaply is that they often come with well-used tires. One particularly-long trek with the horse trailer resulted in a tire chewed to ribbons by the time we arrived home.) Stopping for a repair—right there by the home of the handiest man I now know—was not an option for the truck. We were late. By the time we rolled to a stop up by our barn, the tire was a goner. Unfazed, I was pleased that we had obtained a load of hay at a reasonable price, that I had been able to send business my friend’s way, and that after chocking the wheels my day was done.
Life here allows for ready optimism and practically limitless good cheer. Even though it turned out that I could have taken the time for tire repair because the truck arrived too late to be of use that evening, the anger I would have unleashed in my old life passed through me too quickly to even be expressed. Life here simply feels good. (Do I miss teaching? Absolutely, but this move has done more good for my physical and mental health than a year’s worth of ah ha! moments in a stuffy classroom.)
Middle Tennessee: it’s good for me.
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