THE HAY HOOK The Ol’ boy was getting on in years. He was not capable of farming his fifty or so acres anymore on his own. He needed help to harvest his alfalfa crop. What better a place to acquire help than the agricultural club at the local college. He knows the boys there are bright, honest kids from good backgrounds. He knows they are accustomed to hard work at home. He knows they are laden with responsibilities at a young age The hay was already bailed. The Ol boy’s good neighbor cut, turned, and baled the hay. He had promised one third of his crop to the neighbor for his services. The neighbor could not, though, pick up, deliver and stack the hay for his friend. The Ol’ boy had to rely on local help for that chore. Thus my brother called me during the week to see if I was interested in helping him load the hay. My Brother knew he could get better, more dependable help at his fraternity house but, being the giant-hearted individual he is, he asked me. My brother knew I needed the cash, as I was a constant whiner for money. I always needed more money. I had an early crush on money. I guess I had a need to impress my friends with my party resources. I agreed whole heartedly to help my brother with this project. I figured I could work most of the day Saturday and party that night. My brother was a big brother in every sense of the word. He watched me and helped me as much as I would let him. I was very different than him. He nonetheless tried to help me and show me the right path at every opportunity. I just wanted to party. I loved life in a very selfish way. I constantly toiled with the righteousness of good and the self-serving selfishness I catered to. I was bad. The morning was beautiful. My brother picked me up early. I was still asleep when he arrived and he patiently waited for me to get ready. When we were on our way, he stopped at a fast-food outlet and bought us some donuts and coffee. My brother’s friend, Brian, had arrived at the Ol boy’s place ahead of us. Brian was a good, righteous boy from the badlands of New Mexico. He was a typical good farm hand with a great head on his shoulders. He had been raised by great parents and showed the greatest of respect for others. He was a good strong worker for the task at hand. The Ol boy had obviously prepared for us far in advance. His hay truck and elevator had recently been worked on. The dew was just starting to evaporate off of the sickle, johnson grass, san jose wheat grass, and alfalfa which dominated the landscape of the Ol boy’s little farm. The sun had just shown its face over the Organ Mountains and was pouring into the beautiful Messilla valley area. The cottonwood trees were fully leafed after the mild winter and into the spring. The grounds were alive with grasshoppers, lizards, and countless birds. I was enjoying myself, taking in the beauty as we prepared and familiarized ourselves with the equipment. We had brought our own leather gloves. Any farm boy carries his leather gloves to work. The Ol boy opened his barn-shop and brought out an array of tools which must have been passed down to him from his father, and his father before him. We had our choice of different models of hay hooks to choose from. I chose a long handled, heavy hook which was probably originally designed by some old blacksmith for some real heavy laborer. I always over tooled myself. I think it has something to do with my ego. My brother armed himself with a lighter, shorter hook. He always knew how to arm himself for work. He used reason in most things he used. He selected a hook to match his stature and to help him get the most out of leverage and position. Brian was to drive in the morning hours, paying attention to the hay elevator, aiming up the bale lines, and stopping occasionally to straighten up bales that obviously bounced sideways falling out the back of the bailer. His morning job was one of attention and awareness. He operated the truck in low gear, watching his RPM, speed, and communicating with us. He had to be careful not to overburden the equipment or us by timing the bales with the speed of the truck. My brother and I should have known better. We never did work together well. After so many years of working together on the farm, we should have realized that both of us, working such close quarters, on the back of the truck, stacking the hay, was too confined a space for two similar mindsets. We have our differences yes, but we also have too many similarities in basic nature such as leadership roles and organization and basic mechanical skills. We could not agree on who should be pulling the bales off of the elevator and who should stack the bales on the bed of the truck. The bales must be stacked properly on the back of the truck or they fall, or the stack leans, or you don’t get a proper tight load of hay. Efficiency was in our heads, not teamwork and communication. We were the recipe for disaster. The Ol boy rode shotgun with Brian. I guess he wanted to observe our work and protect his harvest. He obviously did not want to sit in his old farmhouse on such a beautiful morning. He preferred the company of young whippersnappers. He craved the companionship of others. I think he sensed the brother problem. He was from a big family too. He understood. He was smart. You have to be smart to get old. My brother and I took turns grabbing the bales off of the conveyor. A firm grip of the wire on the front of the oncoming bale, a swift chop with the hay hook on the back of the bale, pull it off the conveyor, kick it off of your knee, and position its fall to conform to the structure of your stack. We didn’t call the bales; we just timed ourselves to pull all the bales off in unison. I think Brian may have been overloading us also. We got tired in a hurry, with not even twenty- percent of the bales picked-up, we started to get careless. Grab the front wire and hook the back of the bail. That’s the order, but if you can imagine facing each other and grabbing the same bale at the same time. My brother put a hook into my middle finger, right through the leather glove, right below the mid knuckle. I had grabbed the front of the bale not knowing he had grabbed the same bale. His hook was searching for the back of the bale. The operation took a turn for the cussing, cop-out-of-work, hold everyone up, what do we do now, and get him out of here, routine. My brother was always watching out for me. I could see in his eyes the anguish he felt for me. He must have felt terrible for what had happened. He insisted on immediate bandages and for me to sit it out. The Ol boy decided to drive the truck for Brian while Brian joined my brother in bucking the bales. I went to sit in the Ol boy's home. His family was out. I poured a huge glass of water, one of those mega ounce deals you might find on special at your favorite convenience store. I turned on the TV and sat back in someone’s’ lazy-boy. I had set the water on the carpet by the lazy-boy. I reached over with my right hand, not remembering my most recent major injury, and attempted to raise the huge glass of water. The pain came back instantly. I let out a minor yell, and released the full glass of water across the room. Most of the water was concentrated in the middle of the room on an old designer rug and the wood floor. The rest had splashed against the cheap wallpaper and some magazines. I was about to panic. The Ol boys farmhouse was the top of a two story, wood framed, wood floored, garage. The Ol boy must have had junk in that garage dating back to the beginning of time itself. I could hear the water spilling on something with a metallic ting below. I thought to myself about covering up my blunder. Now remembering my pain and injury in a more careful manner, I started looking for things to help clean up the mess. I had a major guilt trip going through the Ol boy’s stuff. All his clothes were clean. The house was tidy. The only thing I could find that I thought would work was a new looking giant bath towel. It looked puffy and thirsty. I first dried what I could up off of the floor. I then went to the Ol boy’s garage downstairs. I could see the men working in the field only several hundred yards away. I snuck into the garage and dried what I could off of old lamps, tools, boxes, and junk. The towel became very dirty. When the men made a turn at the far end of the field, I went back upstairs. I threw the dirty towel into the empty washing machine, opened the windows and door, and had a seat. I was still thirsty, but I did not want to stand up again. The activity had agitated the pain in my finger. I just wanted to sit and wait for the carpet to dry more. I thought the spill may be undetectable in another hour or so. The Ol boy’s wife and daughter came shortly thereafter. I was very embarrassed because of what had happened and I was not about to tell anyone about the water. If I got caught, I would confess. But I thought I could still get away with what had happened, as long as my brother and crew hurried the hell up so we could leave, and the Farmer’s family would not notice the very wet rug. I felt uncomfortable in their house now. I had to explain to them why I was there. They saw the bloody bandage on my finger and seemed to understand. I excused myself to a shade tree in the front yard. At one point I heard the mother say, “Well I guess your father made this mess”. I then knew we had to leave the farm before the Ol boy went back into his house or my secret water accident may be discovered. Just as I was most nervous, the farm crew came around the corner of the cottonwood grove. The boys stood around for about 5 minutes while the Ol boy paid everyone. I didn’t want to get paid for such a short day of work, but the Ol boy insisted and paid me a little anyhow. As we were driving away down the short drive I turned to see the Ol boy looking at us from his steps just outside the farm house. His wife was there with him, and I knew what they were talking about. My spill had been discovered, but I wasn’t busted!
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