Hayseeds

We sang Old Macdonald in school. Those words had a deeper meaning for me than most kids. Farm sounds, sights and smells were all too familiar to me and my family. I was used to horses and cattle. Uncle Everett raised livestock to supplement his income, and his fields were used to grow feed for the animals. Uncle Everett had two horses; Ruby a tan mare, and Spade her mischievous black offspring. Spade was unpredictable at times; he might sneak up on you and butt you with his head or take a nip at you, so watch your back when he was around. Careful walking among the steers, too. one of them might want to butt up against you, and watch out if their tails were raised, 'cause you're on the receiving end of a stream of warm, liquid manure.
My cousin Charlie had two dogs, too, and I considered them with almost the same regard I had for Whee-Zee. There was gentle Snowy, a Dalmation, and Butch; a big wiry- haired mix of Collie and whatever. Butch looked like a big happy bear that was always smiling.
Aunt Bette and Uncle Everett's farm in Clarksboro was a gathering place for the entire family, and we'd all meet there every year to help Uncle Everett bale and store his hay.
By the time we all got there the hay was lying in the field, already cut and dried out by the sun. Uncle Everett would be in the lead, driving the tractor that towed the baling machine. Following behind on another tractor would be one of my uncles or one of Uncle Everett's brothers, towing the hay wagon. The dry grasses would be picked up by the baling machine. It would spit out the hay in dry, itchy blocks, bundled and ready to be tossed upon the wagon. Uncles and older male cousins would walk alongside the wagon and throw the heavy bales up to whoever was unlucky enough to be assigned the job of stacking them on it. It was an important job, making sure the bales were stacked just right, so they would shift properly with every bump in the fields and not come tumbling down. The stack would grow higher and higher, and those poor souls stacking the bales were painting themselves into a precarious corner. The last two men or boys on the wagon would ride atop the load to the barn, and begin the process in reverse, gradually reducing the stature of their wobbly tower.
It always seemed to be really hot at baling time. And humid, too. As if the sun couldn't wait to make the job a lot harder, a lot sweatier.
While the men worked in the field my aunts and grandparents and older female cousins would be getting the food ready for the massive cookout that would take place later in the afternoon. Fresh Jersey tomatoes and sweet corn, hot dogs and hamburgers, grilled chicken, and sometimes maybe a goat roasting on a spit. Watermelon and cantaloupes, nectarines and peaches, and Richman's ice cream from down in Woodstown. Lots and lots of good food, Jersey fresh long before it became a slogan.
Softball in the field with dried cow pies as bases, but be careful running the base paths, because we might have missed some of the fresher ones. All of us younger kids would be playing tag or hide and go seek in the barns,playing with the dogs, or just watching all of the commotion.
The highlight of the day would be hayrides. Our hayrides would be different from what you normally see in the movies. We weren't in a wagon being pulled lazily down a dirt road by an old horse. Uncle Everett had an old Dodge truck that had all but the cab removed. A wooden flatbed was built on it, the doors and rear window of the cab were taken off, and it was used as an all-purpose utility vehicle for carrying things all around the fields.
Hay would be laid upon the flatbed, and we'd all pile on for a ride through the fields. Whoever was driving would make sure they hit as many bumps and rough patches as possible, and we'd all have to hang on as best we could. That would be for the little kids and the eldest and the ladies. After their ride, the real thrills would begin. The bravest, or maybe the craziest of us all would get on board and try to hang on while the truck was driven faster and over the biggest bumps in the fields. You would be tossed up and down, sliding back and forth with the hay, holding on for dear life as the truck tore its way across the fields. The object, of course, was to see how many of us could stay on, how many of us would be thrown off, left behind in the dust, as the truck sped on with its load of laughing, sliding fools. It was a fitting end to a long day of hard work, good food and family cheer.
We'd sleep soundly that night, all of us. Tired from the work, red from the sun, itchy from the hay, and full from all the food.
I couldn't wait for next year and another chance to hang on, another thrill ride through the fields of hay.