One summer when I was about nine or ten my parents went into the custom baling business. Baling hay and straw is hard, hot, tiring work–not a job for the faint of heart. Not only do you have to work under the sweltering summer sun, but you have to cloth yourself in long sleeves and pants in order to avoid being scratched and cut to pieces.
Moving at a snails pace, I followed behind slow moving vehicle signs, windows down (no air conditioning) in hopes of catching a breeze–day and night. My brother and I hung out in fields of hay and straw watching as our parents worked–always trying to stay ahead of the rain. We ate packed lunches and drank water out of a thermos–Burger King was not in the budget. There were times when we had to help move bales of hay or straw–I quickly learned the difference between the two–straw is much lighter. I never liked moving either one, but I was always glad when it was straw rather than hay we had to stack. I learned to pick out the purple flowers of alfalfa and discern its sweet aroma–to this day, I love to smell it.
As an adult I recognize how hard farmers work and see the beauty in what they do. They work sunup to sundown in all kinds of weather to provide food for us to eat. I believe their satisfaction comes from the work itself not their pay.
We rent ten of our acres to a local farmer, these photos are taken of him harvesting our cornfield. It was amazing to watch that giant red machine devouring the dried stalks of brown.
The next morning, I again heard that quiet roar of a combine. I peal the curtains back to see our neighbor harvesting his corn. I grab my camera and head for our fence that separates our yard from his field.
Count blessings, Kasey