Bailing Hay

When it’s time to bail hay in Iowa, it’s always so hot out that your sweat drips down your stomach like a spider and all the airborne hay particles stick to every exposed part of your skin. Eventually it isn’t even worth scratching at all the itches because everything itches, even your attempts to itch yourself. I was a scrawny girl with pretty weak arms but it really made me feel tough working beside all the men that actually appreciated whatever I could do. We had a small piece of land that was bailed and we share cropped it – so somebody else came with all their big equipment and hired help and did most of the work for half the final loot, but we always had to help with the last part because there could never be enough people. And we always recruited whoever we could to help for that last part - my loyal (or tricked) college friends who weren’t really sure what a bail of hay even was, or my ex-football playing co-worker who could throw two bails overhand (wow, my mom said, don’t you have strong arms!), and eventually my boyfriend, who toughed through the main and married me anyway, but made me promise not to ever make him go through that again. The share croppers always brought their hired help as well, and although we only had to speak about three words to each other to get the job done I soaked up as much of their very different life as I could.

The Sunburned Guy. This was the guy who had bailed so much hay it was the same to him as sitting in front of a computer is to me. He was probably the oldest guy I ever saw out there, and had a potbelly and a life’s-been-too-hard kind of swaggering walk, which made me wonder how long it would take an ambulance to get out there. The only day I ever knew him he was lobster red from head to foot and didn’t have a bead of sweat on him. The lack of sweat shocked me, but his attire was even more absurd. He was wearing a floppy straw hat, cutoff jean shorts, flip-flops, and no shirt. Generally, when you bail hay, you want to protect as much as your skin as possible to protect yourself from each scratchy 50 lb bail that you have to hoist up with your body, rest on your leg, or push off your forearms. This guy had not a drop of sweat on him, nor a scratch or even slight rash. His lobster red and wrinkly skin showed no sign of distress other than being a deep shade of red that could only mean all-body skin cancer. Can sunburn and irritation be so permanent that your skin stops responding like normal skin and takes on an alternate and infinite sweatless, rashless, surreal state? The Sunburned Guy defied the laws of skin. To me, he represented victory.

Oblivious Man. He gently hopped a fence, and I was expected to follow with no exchange of dialogue. He slid through the ditch on the other side and headed into the hay field. Meanwhile, an invisible strand of barbwire that he had gracefully plucked aside and released whipped back and scraped across the softest part of my arm. Trying to keep my composure and remain strong, I choked back the sharp pain, grabbed the wire and began my maneuver over the fence. The barbs caught my shirt and the deep ditch threw my balance and I got sort of hung up on my way through. I looked up at the guy for a hand, but he was already gone. This man brought out the man in me.

MacGuyver Farmer. The bed of his wagon was missing floorboards and rails, but he had nailed down chicken wire to prevent one of us from sticking a rogue leg through or sliding off. Instead of stacking the wagon with bails that had been previously deposited on the ground by the bailer, he stood on the wagon, which was attached to the bailer, and hooked the bails coming out of the bailer with a crowbar. The wagon hitch was too long for the bailer so he had to haul each bail over the three foot gap with the crowbar, relying on the momentum of each bail as it was shot out of the bailer. He then threw the bail back to the rest of us as we slipped and slid across the moving wagon bed on the chicken wire trying to get them stacked. When something broke out in the field, he would fix it with bolts and boards that he pulled off another part (were these essential?). This farmer had learned immortality, and he taught me fear.

The Hot Farm Boy. He never spoke or looked at me, but I couldn’t imagine not looking at him. He was classic: tall, tan, strong, beautiful face, elegant moves, no previous connection, very close association. I never knew skill at bailing hay could be such an attractive quality. He could have gone to my high school, but if he had we wouldn’t have known each other. Hot Farm Boy caught my attention that day because he was a guy my age that could do exactly what I was doing with grace and skill that I knew I could never have. I recognized that day how attractive it can be to be good at your own thing.