When I met my bride Kathy in 1977, she had brought her horse Nightshade from the Chicago suburbs to be boarded in Plover, Wisconsin. Our relationship continued to flourish and so did my understanding of her need to be around equines. I was renting a farm in Scandinavia, Wisconsin, and it was a great fit. The only thing is, I knew nothing about equines, and for a man in his early 20’s that’s not something you like to admit about anything, but at 66 it’s extremely easy to look back and relinquish the youthful, haughty bravado and admit limitations.
My first experience of putting up hay was the next summer when Kathy moved her horse to the farm I was renting. Just down the road lived an old retired dairy farmer, Mike Larson who was more than happy to get help putting up his hay. In return I got part of the yield. He was a short, stout Norwegian with bulging biceps, short legs, bib overalls, a weathered Funk Seed hat, along with a grin that could be seen for miles. The John Deere tractor popped along pulling the bailer and the hay wagon and myself. Mike would stop every once in a while and school me on the proper way to stack hay on the wagon. Mike would say the words ” Ya” sure ” before each lesson , slow with the high-toned “Ya”and then dropping to the long R with the tone rising back. ( Ya- Shoe- er.) ” Ya sure you can stack those bales tighter, locking them together.” ” Ya sure you can stack them higher, moving forward.” He knew I had no idea of what I was doing and never once was he belittling , but always with a smile in his redirecting. Ya Sure.
Beating the rain before baling, having enough rain to sustain a second crop and making sure when the hay is put in the mow it’s not too green that it starts a fire-these are things that I never gave a mind to until I was 23 years old but its been 44 years of making sure that our equines have enough hay. The anxiety it caused was normally minimal and we were lucky that it always worked out.
I have had a lot of nice people help me over the years. I’m grateful for all the assistance because it’s not nearly as much fun by yourself. I had a customer who volunteered his two boys to assist me , when the day came, I called them up to tell them when to show up. They politely told me that something had come up, and they couldn’t help me that afternoon. I proceeded by myself, a bit disappointed. A couple hours later a car pulled in my drive way and I saw the father and two boys. The father spoke first ” Boys tell Mr. Forseth what you need to.” They both admitted to lying about having something else going on and said that they would like to make it up to me by working for free for me. I told their father I would give them a ride home when we were finished , and the father said. ” They can walk!” Good father, and the boys are pretty exceptional, also. I paid them and gave them the ride into town. This year My help wasnt coming till 5pm, and rain was headed our way, I began tackling one wagon alone. Throw 10 off, stack 10. Humid as hell, and alone I would take 15-minute breaks when I got 40 in. When I hit 200, I was a bit worn and realized that I should have taken longer breaks but the weather was a motivator. Like every year, the hay gods sent my neighbor, and his 14-year-old stong son to help me cross the finsh line. Nothng reminds my body of its age like making hay.
The feeling derived from having the barn full of hay for the year is a feeling that is like no other for me. It lasts for a week or so, and I can now say that it might not be a trip up Kilimanjaro or landing a monster brown trout, but an accomplishment comes with the promise of another adventure next year.
Ya sure, hay’s in the barn
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