The Hay Harvest

Picking up 500 odd bales of hay (small squares) out of the paddock is no easy task.  Especially in the summer heat.  So already from the time of our first harvest we have learnt to start in the early evening, and work into the night.

Back then our attire was also rather amateurish, what with bras, shorts, sneakers and all that.  And of course our daughter was much younger then - we used to put her to sleep, and take the baby monitor with us in the truck.  But if the baby monitor was inside the cabin, it would lose contact.  So I drove the truck, holding the steering wheel with one hand, while holding the baby monitor outside the window with the other hand, all the while watching that the bales would get picked up by the loading arm, and making sure the crew on the back was ok.

What a relief it was when my parents offered to help.  Even just having someone at the house to look after our daughter was a huge relief.

Since those early days, we've also invested in some serious harvesting clothes.  It wasn't a financial investment per se.  More a rummage through the cupboard.  Long sleeved collared shirts, farm boots, long pants that hang over the boots - strategically vented in my husband's case - and good leather gloves.  And all of a sudden you've got a team that's just as ready to go boot scootin, as picking up hay.

Last year we got new neighbours, and they offered to help.  Kar-Lee rocked up, gazed at me sitting in the drivers seat of the truck and commented "Oh, I didn't know you had a trucking license."  I gently rolled my eyes up to the sky, pouted, and muttered something about a few rounds in a private paddock.

Last year must have been easy work because this year the neighbours have offered to help again.  Richard is away fighting fires in the Grampians, so it's just Kar-Lee and kids.

When picking up the bales from the paddock, three people makes up full house on the back of the truck, so the other two kids just run along ahead of the truck, trying to fix up the bales so they align better for pick up.  But when it comes to unpacking the truck, and putting the bales in the shed, it's all systems go, and everyone's in the game.

The younger kids don't have much experience behind them, and at times they are like little mice, dashing across the hay bales here and there, and no matter where they go, they are always in the way.  And of course we're working into the night, so they are getting tired.

But they never lose their spirit, and keep going like little duracell drummer bunnies.  By the end of the second truck the hay stack has grown high, everyone is sneezing, the bales are starting to feel heavy and Kar-Lee's youngest son is swinging from the rafters.  We're in stitches.

Then Kar-Lee and the kids drive off to pick up Richard from two towns down the road.  All merriment vanishes in a puff of the dust they kick up as they drive off, and the night darkens somehow.  We load up the third truck in silence, interrupted by the occasional "slow down" from the truck tray.  We're half way through the unloading when Kar-Lee returns with Richard.  Kids are safely tucked in bed, dreaming of huge hay stacks.

We joke and laugh again, as the hay stack in the shed grows, and grows.  I line up the last four bales on the tray of the truck, and start boot scootin.  Then we're all back in the field picking up the last truck load for Bob.  There's still more bales left in the paddock, but we've run out of room on the truck.  We park the truck, and break open the beer.

Real farmers

Ok, it's official.  We are now "real" farmers.  Six cows - I mean steers (farmer speak) - have arrived at our farm.  They spent the first 3 days sulking at the gate, but now they have discovered grass, the dam, and that special treats come in yellow buckets.

Typical day at the farm

I've been reading Bill Bryson's "At home" recently, and was awed by how little we really know about how people used to live on a day to day basis. It also occurred to me that, while I write a whole lot of interesting (or otherwise) things in my blog, no one knows what a typical day at the farm is really like. So, here goes. A description of a typical day at the farm ... from my perspective. (And just to be clear - this is a typical day now, post chemo. Before the whole cancer thing, life was a whole different kettle of fish.)

I wake up. Must be day, because there is daylight coming in through the ensuite window - one of the few windows where we don't draw the shutter at night. For exactly this purpose - so that when you wake up you can tell whether it's day or night. I jump out of bed, get a drink, take my homeopathic remedies, and jump back into bed. It's 7:30am. I lie in bed, thinking that maybe I still need more rest, but after 20 minutes I decide I am wrong.

I get up, get dressed and have breakfast. Very quietly of course, because the rest of the household, that is husband and Sabina, is asleep. If luck has it, they are still asleep at 9am, when I finally sneak out to ride my horse. I am back in the house (having ridden said horse), at 11am. By this stage, husband has had enough time playing with Sabina, and is absolutely busting to be set free. So off he goes, outside, engaging in farm maintenance and innovation tasks.

Sabina and I have a snack, and then I survey the situation I have been left with. Sometimes the guinea pigs need to be taken out, other times I might engage in a few small tasks such as throwing out a dead mouse and resetting the rat zapper, or cleaning a shelf in the pantry (yes, from mouse droppings).

At 12:30pm I start preparing lunch, which is usually ready at 1pm or so. Lately, husband has become pretty good with his timing, and is usually milling around the house by this time. On a good day he even comes in and sets the table. On a bad day, I have to get out the front door and ring the big fire bell.

By 2pm lunch is eaten. Sabina and I go for a 20 minute lie down, and husband cleans up after lunch. Then husband heads back to his farm tasks. When the alarm bell rings that our 20 minutes is up, Sabina and I usually have giggle and tickle time. Then we head out to ride Sabina's pony. Hopefully, I get to ride my pony at the same time. After riding, we feed the horses.

By this stage it's about 4:30pm at best. I gaze longingly at the garden, and see it screaming at me. I grab the required tools and dig in. Or slice in. Or saw in. At 5pm I realise that I should be heading inside to make dinner. Oh, but maybe I will just trim a little bit more. At 5:30pm I must finish. But of course I can't leave a mess in the garden, so I quickly clean up and put away my tools. By 6pm I rush inside. Dinner is now officially late, and I haven't even started yet.

I create a tornado in the kitchen, making salad, providing Sabina with a snack, slicing meat and preparing dessert simultaneously. We eat at around 7pm, then blissfully relax around dessert. Husband and Sabina head off to the bathroom while I clean up. At 9:30pm I dash off to the bathroom for my own shower, hoping that I can be in bed by 10pm. Quite often, however, I get caught up in some conversation with my husband, or some blog writing, and I end up in bed at 11pm.

I read a book for about half an hour, before turning the lights off.

The farmer wants his dinner

I am busy perparing dinner when I get a phone call from my husband. He is somewhere on the farm, finishing off something, as per usual. These were his words. "Listen, I am in cow shit. The cows from the neighbour's have broken out. They are all over the road. I have just rang the neighbours, but they need to go into town this evening. So they can't fix the fence. We have to round up the cows into our paddock."

I turn down the simmering pots, and head outside with Sabina. Keep in mind that I am still recovering from chemo here, and a walk to the road is a big effort. When I get there, I am very pleased to discover that he was only metaphorically speaking when he said he was "in cow shit". Phew!

Then we spend the better part of half an hour rounding up the cows into our paddock. Mainly it's a pretty passive and quiet task, as the cows take their time to decide - will they, won't they go through that gate?

And where does that leave our dinner? Well the potatoes got a bit too roasted, but somehow, everything else turned out fine.

The farmer's wife

Amongst our family and friends, my husband gets title of "the farmer". Why? Because he builds fences. He chainsaws, collects and splits the wood. Because he's taken the jockey wheel off the trailer and rolls the contraption by hand when he wants to attach it to the tractor. Because our daughter says "Papa's hands are rough. Not smooth like mine or yours."

Me? When it came to rolling the trailer by hand, I gave it a single heave, and said "oh no, too heavy". We won't even mention my effort at building fences.

Today, the farmer is getting ready to go on a bike ride. Farmers do that, you know. And I need to get 12 bales of hay out for the horses.

The farmer is still in the garage tuning his bike when he hears the rumble of the tractor. He pops his head out to see the tractor towing a trailer full of hay. By the time he's returning from his bike ride, the tailer and tractor are standing quietly side by side in the shed.