Mike and Cliff unloading the last wagon |
T
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here’s a part of the horse life that a lot of horse
owners, trainers, and barn owners take for granted. When I first got “into” horses, I didn’t even
think about what went into caring for them beyond which horse I’d be assigned
for my lesson. I didn’t know about
farriers and vets and the rest of the horse professionals, just the horse under
my butt and the guy in the red coat yelling instructions from the middle of the
riding ring. I was fifteen and nowhere
close to owning my own horse, so I can be forgiven for my ignorance.
Later, when I owned horses but kept them boarded
out, I learned about shoes and vetting and (eventually—which is a sad
statement) about dentistry. I thought I
was really getting the full horse experience because I had to get my own horse
out of the stall (or chase her around the pasture with a halter and a
pissed-off expression). I wasn’t even
close.
Eventually I moved to a farm where there was a lot
more hands-on stuff. That’s because it
was, really, a farm, not just a bunch of stalls in a fancy barn in someone’s backyard. It wasn’t a “stable” or a “facility”. It was a working farm with cows and tractors
and fields full of corn and soybeans and alfalfa and hay. Until that point I’d had only a nodding
acquaintance with such stuff. My Cliff, a former dairyman from PA, tried hard to get this all through to me, but I didn't get it. This was
to be an enlightening three years.
The Hay Guy was omnipresent throughout the 50 years of my horse life, of course, and the
source of much bad blood and target of criticism. Whether the Hay Guy brought good hay or bad,
on time or late, in sufficient quantity or short a few bales, cheap or
high-priced was a topic of conversation akin to political discussions. We owners weren’t directly involved with the
ins and outs of the work of farming. We
rode horses and complained. That was our
job.
That last farm where I housed my horses was where I
learned why the hay is sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes early or late,
sometimes cheap and sometimes unaffordable.
And I learned to work. I put my
shoulder to the wheel and helped unload wagon after wagon of hay bales and
stacked them. And I loved it. I loved it so much that, when it came time to
buy a place of my own (when I had six horses boarded out seemed a good time to
do that), I looked for a place where I could grow the hay I fed the horses, and
from a 30-acre lot with a modular bi-level on it, my farm grew.
Down the Line: Martin on the left, Tommy on the right, Dean invisible in the stall or behind me...I lost track of him. |
What an amazing experience it’s been to be able to
plant and grow exactly what I want my horses to have, and I use my never-ending
Xanax prescription mostly to get me through haying season twice a year! The Weather Channel isn’t just 24 hours of
droning to me. It’s my lifeblood. I wake up to it, go to sleep to it, and have
the app on every piece of wireless and wired equipment in my possession. Non-hay folks may think a 20% chance of showers
is just a minor inconvenience. Put 600
bales worth of hay on the ground, and it becomes a nightmare that leaves you
sleeping with one ear to the sky…assuming you sleep.
Eventually, and with a great deal of good luck, the hay gets made, and that’s where my
gratitude for the tough guys comes in. I’m
not talking about the buff bods grunting at the local gym. I’m talking about the nice guys who do real
work for a living. In my current gang of helpers
there are three auto mechanics (including my man, Cliff), a contractor, a carpenter, and a US Marine putting jet engines together as a day job. These are my Hay Guys. I'm pleased as all hell that they're our friends.
Ryan, catcher, on the stack |
I’ve got to quote Mike, the mechanic co-worker of
Cliff’s, who put it succinctly when he said, “I love this! I get to come here and learn something new
every time. It’s physical and makes me
feel like a better person. It’s great!”
Martin, a newbie, announced with a smile, "I could do this again." That’s just how I feel about it, and the other guys seem to concur because they will show up, as they did last week, in 90+ degree heat and stack 673 bales of hay, cracking jokes and laughing all the while. I pay them when they’re willing to be paid, which isn’t always. Endless bottled water, beer, and sometimes pizza is part of the deal. Camaraderie is key. I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the wagon.
Martin, a newbie, announced with a smile, "I could do this again." That’s just how I feel about it, and the other guys seem to concur because they will show up, as they did last week, in 90+ degree heat and stack 673 bales of hay, cracking jokes and laughing all the while. I pay them when they’re willing to be paid, which isn’t always. Endless bottled water, beer, and sometimes pizza is part of the deal. Camaraderie is key. I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the wagon.
No, I’m not in the photos. That’s mostly because it’s my camera. I love riding my horses. I also love my job of “monkey” (that's my coined term--one guy called it “ballerina”,
but I hate that), scaling the outside of the freshly-filled wagon to break
apart the puzzle of bales and toss them down to the guys waiting below. Love it.
Really love it. Even in mid-chemo
when climbing was out of the question, I couldn’t resist pushing the bales
along the elevator. Putting hands on
fresh hay bales is somehow thrilling, and watching them stack up until every
spare inch of space is full is what every horse-farm owner dreams of. The weight of a bale has a certain power to it and lifting that weight is the best kind of affirmation. What’s not to like?
And I get to be in the company of these wonderful, tough
men who don’t ever get the credit they deserve for the kinds of work they do
that keeps us all moving smoothly through our days. These are my hay guys, the mechanics, the laborers, the contractors,
the Marine, and, at other times, the tree guy, the high school football players, the horse shoer…they’re
my hay guys, my tough guys, and they're the real force behind a society that’s run astray following the guys in
thousand-dollar suits. How’s that workin’
for us?
Next time you saddle up at some competition and are totally thrilled with the gleam of your horse's coat, give a thought to these people and the ones that grow the grain and grind the sawdust and sweat bullets on a daily basis. Thanks, Tough Guys, for all you do!