Bales

Harvest is done and now comes everything that has to be done before winter sets in.  Mike baled cornstalks until 10:30 last night.  Now we have to bring the bales home.

Hauling bales with a pick-up and two rail trailers really isn't a tough job.  However, in some situations it can be treacherous.  These possibilities of danger are amplified when performing job responsibilities with a two-year old in the backseat. 

{She did her own hair.  "No, me do it!"}

Let me preface today’s story by letting everyone know that #5 has been diligently trying to master the art of putting on her own mittens.  Now you’re up to speed for the rest of the story.

This is the first year we’ve farmed this particular piece of ground.  Therefore, the first time I’ve hauled bales from there to the feedlot.  When Mike asked if I could help, I said “sure”! (maybe not that willingly, but it looks good on paper)  Then I drove over there.  I forgot about “the big hill.”  It’s tough enough to pull 12 BIG bales of stalks up the hill, but having them push you DOWN the hill is another story.  I'm totally being a girl here.

Before the journey even begins, I can play in my mind the exact happenings if something went terribly wrong on my way back to the feedlot from the field: a cornstalk bale carnage, if you will.  Bales everywhere, me afraid to call the farmer, rail trailers bent all to hell, two-year old screaming, myself crying, farmer shows up, MORE crying …  Get the picture?

This grade may not look like a big deal to some of you; but to a forty-something flatlander farmwife it’s as intimidating as the giant slalom is to a twenty-something mountain-raised Olympic skier.  Seriously.

Clearly, I’m nice and relaxed when I get to the field.  I did have a little down time before the farmer and his pay loader showed up.  I perused the latest issue of Vintage Victorian (or something like that) to calm my nerves.

We’re loaded.  Good to go.  Time to scoot.

 I tootle along through the first two miles singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and approach the crest of THE BIG HILL with caution.  I brake steadily and wind down to a nice kinda Dodge Ram kinda crawl. 

As we begin our descent to the valley below, number 5 says, “Fum in der.”  Let me translate:  “Thumb in there!”  She’s found some mittens and was able to get her thumb in the right spot all by herself.  She’s proud and I wasn’t listening.  She knew I wasn’t listening…

“Fum In Der!”

“Okay, sweetheart.”

“FUM IN DER!”

“I know, I see.” 

(I really didn’t – my eyes were fixed on my course.)

“FUM IN DER!!!!!!!”

…no response from me…still trying to drive and stay married.

Due to my lack of attention, she starts screaming.  I’m almost crying.  I do my best to ignore her.

 I reach the bottom; the sweet, sweet bottom of the hill.

She picks up her pretend “Cars” phone.  Sobbing,, quietly, deep breaths, (you can picture it) she says, “Daddy, come git me.”

I couldn’t have been happier that Daddy didn’t have to “come git us”.

Navy Seals should train with a two-year old in their backpack.

Becky