The day was warm though dull and hazy like clouds would soon roll in to cool us off and set the scene for for a well-deserved afternoon nap. The threat of rain had come and gone, then rained on a 10% chance, and then left again for several days of the forecast, so we had ample time to let our sprinkled bales get some sun and wind in the stack before we covered them with tarps. After an extended first cutting, with rain on two of the three fields and all of the bales, five segmented days of erratic sleeping patterns during baling, and a marriage that needed a return to normalcy, a nap together seemed like just the solution. We expected to awake refreshed to do chores in the cool of the evening. We expected to find time to do those chores. We expected to have a hefty but manageable workload in setting tarps, cutting and tying strings, and securing them to the bales. We expected calm winds and sleeping children while we finished this last important part of first cutting. We were only granted half of those expectations but somehow something so much more.
It may have been 5 in the afternoon or 7 in the evening; when a body needs rest, the specific times blur together. In either case, we awoke to the lull skies turning to an oppressive blanket of gray clouds. There was an eerie still in the air for only a moment as if we’d slept through the placid part of the day, and the littlest inklings of a breeze were catching on the kochia weed and yellow petals of wild sunflowers growing around our arena. Beyond our property, a little dust devil trailed mysteriously across a planted field. Wiping our eyes, we suddenly felt God and Nature’s admonishment for sleeping before a job was done. We didn’t waste time in pulling on our last pairs of work jeans and scrambling to find gloves and hats, hoof picks and scissors--only half of which made it out-- followed by the chirping of kids tagging along oblivious to the circumstance.
Still clipping my hay chaps while walking, I arrived at the stack to find several strings already cut from the crunchy decade-old baling twine. I threw them over the back of my neck for later. Now would be the time for some extra hay hauling as my husband lifted 6-9 small bales at a time on the forks of the tractor to put on top of the five-high stack of 3x3 bales. With the wind at my back, I would precariously pull them onto the stack to make a rail on top. Because of the wind, tidy load on the forks turned into a pile of spitting and shredding bales on the stack, but incrementally, I placed them down the line. As I moved, I squinted my eyes to use my eyelashes as protection from the stems and leaves getting separated and strewn about by the wind that was growing in intensity. Slowly and steadily, I lifted them turning south and then to the east where the direction would grant a momentary reprieve as the breeze pressed on the side of my face then just as quickly tangle my hair in disarray, making it difficult to see. One by one, all the bales were set, so down the ladder I went.
With a sideways glance, my husband hauled the tarp up the ladder; my snide comments about the necessity of a haybarn were not appreciated at the moment. He unrolled the tarp and let the plastic wrapper drift lightly down between the stacks, the only place with a little protection from the wind. As I reached up to tie the first string, I realized I was far too short, and five-high was far too tall to tie this tarp as we had done in the past. With a side-arm throw, or two or three when contending with the wind, I sent all the strings up to my husband who tied them onto the grommets. One corner, then the next, but as the string dangled down, it didn’t seem to cover as much area as it used to either. My comments turned to cussing, and my husband laughed and prided himself in “cost-effective efficiency” here at the Next Summer Farm & Ranch. Perhaps savings on a ten-year-old ball of twine and the inefficiency created by struggling to make knots in short strings will help justify a haybarn before it causes a divorce.
The playful bickering continued as we pulled the tarp to unfold it across the length of the stack. It had been kept in place under its own weight before, but once unfolded, we needed to work quickly and carefully to avoid losing a finger or at least some plam-skin to a rope burn caused by wind taking the tarp and thus the string right out of my exposed hands. Unbeknownst to our children that any source of tension was growing, we picked up our pace as the sky threatened the rain that it had promised it would not.
The breeze stopped only as the calm before the storm, and our chattering ceased as well. I ran up and down both sides of the stack, making sure the drops of tarps were even. With the dexterity and artfulness of a well-rehearsed musician, I used the hoof pick to pull twine through the bales’ strings. Four, then eight, then twelve, making sure all the corners were tied down. Two, then four, then six sides tied, grunting and pulling to make my loops and knots.
With each of the corners in place for holding, we still had to adjust each of the tarps to be square. In big, wet drops, the rain rolled down the tarps and into our eyes as we looked up to tie our loops. There was no more talk of efficiency or haybarns, and the kids had found a dry spot to play under a trailer. He pulled the string; I tied it. Moved on to the next, pulling and tying. Pulling and tying.
The conditions grew worse, and we recalled all the other times we’d tarped in the rain, and how it is excellent marriage therapy. There are few other tangible experiences in which my husband needs me and I him; how we help each other in working together to accomplish a shared goal. Despite less-than-ideal conditions, and finding nowhere to escape, we press on because it is what needs to be done, but we do so together. Each of us can perform part of the work alone, but cutting strings, or setting hay on top, or hauling the tarp up the ladder all have an equally important counterpart and are meaningless without the partner needed to tie those strings, move that hay in place, or pull the tarp down the sides. Neither of us shirks the responsibility or tries to take the easy way out. There are no short cuts or hiding places, and everything is out in the open, vulnerable to the care of the other.
Between the stacks, a glitter caught our eyes. The discarded plastic remained as if it had thought to escape the storm and settle where it was calm. Instead, what was left of its shining surface quickly became sunken into mud created from the rain coming off of two stacks’ tarps. The rain kept drowning it in clear drops that splashed off it as if they no longer wanted to associate together. With our own throbbing, cold fingers, absence of arguing, and with the redeeming smell of rain on our skin, we stood in the weather and admired not what we expected, but instead the humbling experience God gave us that day.
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