Recalling a farm tradition through chaff-filled eyes
Summer in Atlantic Canada is usually a time to let lazy rule the day. Warm, slow weeks slide by as the clock seems to almost be at a standstill....Unless, of course, you have livestock that need feed come winter; because as any farm kid will tell you, summer means one thing: haying!
Growing up in Carleton County, New Brunswick, no other summer farm work had such a hold on folks as haying. People talked hay, listened faithfully to the weather on CHSJ-TV, and wandered their hayfields gauging the crop’s progress. During the height of haying season, neighbours pretty much disappeared from sight, except from fields, and only emerged back in society once it was all cut. On fine days, hay-hauling traffic filled every country road, moving tons of forage.
A sure indication of the right condition for mowing was the taste of the stems. A soft, easy-to-chew stem meant juicy feed, but a dry stem meant poor feed in January. We children walked through fields for what seemed like endless hours, chewing on stems, trying to gauge if the just-right stage was close, and then running home to alert the adults.
Good winter forage was the result of many factors, from rain to sun to understanding optimum harvest conditions and how to recognize them. The whole thing was akin to medieval alchemy with hints of science, tinged with magic and blind faith. Up my way, the ripening timothy was key, and once it was almost in purple blossom, cutting started. The correctpoint on the calendar was the days between the fading of the sixth full moon and the first glimmers of July’s, which was said to ensuring rich succulent feed in February. As well, you had best have the crop all under cover by St. Swithin’s, as that rainy saint could keep fields damp for weeks.
Snakes and sounds
A hay field often provided a wonderful playground, where children wandered free and far in those gentler times. Swaths of wildflowers galloped across the hay adding colour to countless shades of green. Hay was taller then—or perhaps, we were shorter—and once in the thick growth, adventures began. Deep in untracked jungles we stalked tigers, found lost cities, and scared ourselves silly with snakes of unimaginable size. And snakes were everywhere. Once haying began, it seemed the serpents gathered. No one was safe. I recall a snake flung up with a hay bale onto the trailer, and the youngster piling the bales going over the opposite side, screeching all the way! No haying season was ever free of snakes, and many have I encountered, coiled on a bale as I grabbed it. Ugh!
Certain sounds always spoke of haying time approaching, and the rasp of a file sharpening was one that stands out. Each triangular mower tooth had two edges that were carefully worked with a flat file. Once shaving-sharp, the sickle type mower was bolted onto the tractor, and the number of swaths cut around the hay fields would be nearly impossible to calculate.
Another sound linked to haying in my memory was the endless pumping of grease guns and tires. Tires on machinery seemed fraught with flats, ever ready to bleed out all the air. For several days prior to haying all tires were checked, filled and rechecked daily for air loss. A few tons of hay on a risky tire was trouble in the offing. A box of grease cartridges in the tractor shed was another harbinger; with countless hours spent crawling around machinery, searching out every point that needed a few pumps of greasy lubricant. I can still see the barn floor speckled with daubs of overflow grease from enthusiastic pumping. Wonderful stuff—until it filled your sneaker treads and you tracked it into the kitchen!
Nova Scotia Information Service. Nova Scotia Archives no. NSIS 12875
Making hay while the sun shines
Be it loose, standard-baled or modern-rolled, the haying procedure was basically the same. Just as the sun dried the dew, the field was mowed flat, leaving swaths, which by late morning were ready for raking. But first the hay had to have the right “sound”. What sound, you ask? Any old-time hayer knows it’s not a crunch or crackle nor a hiss. A handful of hay was rubbed with your fingers all the while listening for a coarse whisper indicating the curing was just right. Hard sharp sun with little wind aided the procedure, insuring good feed. Even decades later, I can still hear that soft sound clearly. Then, and only then, was the hay raked into long windrows twisting across the landscape to cure further and await the next step.
Before mechanized farming, long hay forks wound up big bundles of hay and pitched it up onto the wagon. Each forkful rained chaff down on you. But loose hay is now mostly a memory, and so it should be. I came along on the tail end of that time and handled just enough loose hay to know the reality was far from the romantic image seen in paintings.
By early afternoon the hay baler, either “square feed” or round style, slowly digested long fluffy rows of hay, rewarding you with bales that had to hauled back to the barn. Before the modern round bale, it was haying by hand; a dreadful job requiring a large crew. Families gathered, phones rang up friends asking for help, and relatives often came home for a visit that happened to coincide with haying time.
With an assortment of farm hands great and small, a hay wagon or truck, plenty of pop bottles filled with cold water and escorted by Butch or Buster, the haying crew sallied forth like a Roman legion on the march. That first trip into a hay field was always overwhelming, and still is, I’m sure— despite the rolled round bales being easier to gather mechanically,
it’s still hard work!
Anyone who has never handled hay in the merciless summer sun has missed out on a real treat. Gritty hay chaff spills down as each heavy load is handled and every fly in creation tries to chew you up alive.
To the haymow
Correctly loading a hay wagon was an art, as you wanted solid holding power—losing a hay load on a scorching July day is a problem best avoided. Loose hay was stomped down until it was firmly in place; modern bales are piled snug and stacked straight with the trailer sides. Once loaded, the ride to the barn on a swaying stack of hay was akin to being in a houdah on some patient pachyderm, as the wagon rolled under tree lined roads until the barn loomed ahead. Once the load was backed inside the barn, quick work got the forage into the haymow. After a few gulps of fresh cold water, the process began again.
Since green fresh hay can sweat in the loft and goes through a further curing process, rock salt was spread to prevent mould or burn damage. Baled hay could actually combust and burn, but I don’t recall that ever happening. Others claimed they found bales blackened and burnt smelling, but not us. Good hot drying days and rock salt seemed to work, since our hay slumbered sweet and fresh.
Those massive old hay barns that once dotted the countryside were equal parts hay storage and adventure for country kids. No summer gathering of small cousins was complete without a night sleeping in the hay loft. Climbing high into the rafters, we spread out blankets and slept sound with a fort of hay to hold back the terrors of the night. But sleep was the last thing any of us wanted with scary stories, secrets to share, and laughter ringing into the country darkness. When sleep did take us under her wing, we slumbered safely, with a stout-hearted farm dog on guard below.
We always joked that no weight loss regime could top the pounds lost during haying time, and the more we ate the hungrier we got. We ate like lumberjacks. Ravenous as ravens, we devoured heaping plates of hearty grub, washed down with beverages to slake the hayer’s unquenchable dry thirst. Best of all were the fresh raspberry tarts, and nothing tasted better as you ate quickly, ever watching the sun’s progress.
Fickle weather fears
Old Sol was master, and we worked under his reign, ever aware of the fickleness of summer weather. A gully-washer of a thunderstorm at the wrong time was our worst nightmare, drowning the cut hay and resulting in poor feed. Oh, the number of times I have watched black clouds on the far horizon, roughly estimated the remaining hay to be handled, and prayed for half a day longer to dry. Speed built as the clouds did and we rushed about the fields, using strength we never knew we possessed. The last load of hay—just as a rainstorm rolled up—was the worst, as exhaustion now was impossible to ignore and a good deal of blue language filled the air. That said, I can never recall a single season where we lost our hay crop to rain. More than once the final load was getting damp as the wagon was backed in under cover. But all the careful preparation, weather watching, and working co-operation never failed.
Haying on the farm nowadays has progressed to rolled round bales stored outside in protective wraps. Big improvements certainly have made a tough job less so, but the heat, flies and dust still keep a fellow honest. My days of handling hay bales are mostly behind me now. Some years, the only hay bales I handle are the ones my wife uses for Thanksgiving decorations. But every June, I still watch the moon darken the timothy blossom and walk across the fields, tasting sweet summer stems.
Signs and sayings
Like much of country life, gathering hay was dictated by folk beliefs, best followed closely. “Hay too soon can be a boon, but wait too late, expect ill fate,” cautioned hayers. If the first forkful missed the wagon or the first bale burst, it was never put back in. Better to let the fairy folk thatch their cottages with it. Before mechanization, the draft animals were carefully observed as the hay was gathered. If they seemed fussy, the feed was not first rate. Calm and steady meant they were harvesting forage they approved of.
But of all the signs to watch, the most critical was long after the summer was over, and winter was master. The old adage goes that on Groundhogs Day, half your hay and half your wood should be gone. Many a farmer in the dim past stood in their hay barn on February 2, and tried to gauge the amount left. If you look closely in old hay barns, there is often a mark on a frame beam or wall plank indicating roughly the half way point.