Saturday, March 12, 2011

HAY, THERE!

For several years after we moved to the country, we let our neighbor cut hay in our meadow. As long as he didn’t use fertilizer or pesticides to increase the yield, this arrangement benefited everyone. He got 50 bales of hay; we thought the annual mowing would help control weeds.

What we hadn’t counted on was the beauty of the hay bales scattered over the field. The sunlight on the golden mounds, the shadows in the evening, birds perched on top––we looked forward to having the bales around and missed them when our neighbor collected them for the winter.




One fall, our neighbor hired a young man to help with the baling. He gave him one instruction: make sure the round side of the bale does not face down the hill. If I had two hours and a cup of liver snaps, I could train my dog to face a hay bale in a particular direction, so we didn’t expect any problems.

If you are not familiar with bales, here’s the deal. The farmer cuts the hay, then rakes it up and presses it into a rectangular or circular bale. It might be wrapped with twine, netting, plastic, or wire. A bale weighs about a ton, is 7 feet high and about 5 feet across. If she had a good run at it, Obe could scamper up a bale and sit on top of it. I did that once, too, with the help of a ladder; it was a great view.

Husband Bruce and his friend, Aaron, were standing on the near edge of our pond casting for bass. It was a lovely evening full of that dense, golden light you get when the sun is low. I stood up on the hill and watched the boys drown a bucket of worms. At least they were enjoying a good chat.

When I glanced sideways, I thought I saw a bale move. Nah. Must have been one of those asteroids that circulate in old eyes, floaters that make you think a mouse just scurried past you. Even a tractor with a long spear on the front struggles to move a bale, so it’s unlikely one would shift its position independently.

But it did move. Just a little at first, groaning as it crunched against the dry field. And it kept moving, ever so slowly. That’s when I noticed: the round side was facing down the hill. Toward the pond. And the fishermen.

The bale was soft, so I figured it would just settle into an indentation and stop. I was wrong. It gained momentum. “Hay bale,” I yelled. The guys squinted at me. “Bale! Moving!” I yelled louder. They looked puzzled, then resumed casting their lines.

The bale was about to crest the hill, so I ran over and tried to block it. It didn’t take long to squelch that idea before it squelched me. The bale picked up speed until it was flying down the hill, occasionally taking to the air when it hit a rough spot.

The pond is a hundred yards wide, but that bale headed for the only spot it could do any harm. “Bale!” I screamed once more.

Just before it reached the pond, Bruce and Aaron turned around. One dove south and one dove north. It was a 7-10 split, the old bedpost, the toughest spare a bowler can face.

Moving a hay bale is hard work. Moving an underwater hay bale is much, much harder. And quite a bit more entertaining.