Memoir Year: around 1980–1983

Memoir Year: around 1980–1983 Written: 2025

Hay days were a festival. Not an event we attended, but one that sprang from the land itself.

The Allis-Chalmers WD led the parade, pulling behind it an ancient hay rake with tines like iron fingers. It looked older than anything else on the farm—older than Dad, older than the house, older even than the idea of machines. When it lowered its rake and began gathering the cut hay, it made the strangest mechanical symphony: clinking metal, rust-on-rust groans, the thrum of the tractor, the soft whisper of hay sliding into piles.

People would literally pull over on the road to watch, because nobody used equipment like that anymore. Our farm was a living museum without intending to be.

Behind the tractor and rake came the helpers—uncles, aunts, family friends—walking alongside with pitchforks to catch the stray hay that tumbled off. Mom would make lemonade and bring it out in old coolers, ladling it into mismatched plastic cups that smelled vaguely of the garage.

For us kids, our job was not glamorous but glorious: stomp the hay down in the wagon. We’d ride high on the growing mound, bouncing with every jolt, sinking our bare feet into the fragrant softness, trying to pack it flat enough for one more load.

Dori ran alongside the wagon, darting in and out of sight like a farm spirit. She always kept an eye on us, especially when the equipment was close. She seemed to know where the dangers were better than we did.

Hay days weren’t just chores. They were gatherings, ceremonies, seasonal rites. And the tractor was the drum that set the beat of it all.