From little on, because of my farming roots, I’ve always been mindful of what the sky is doing. Dad gave us kids the job of watching the weather report. Back in the day, we didn’t have weather apps on our phone, much less have a mobile phone. We had a telephone attached to the wall with a rotary dial and couldn’t even use it until one of our chatty neighbors got off.
Plunking ourselves in front of the TV, we’d tune into Channel 2 at 6:15 p.m. to catch the weather report in real time. One day it was my turn and I missed it. When Dad inquired, I hemmed and hawed and flat-out lied, “Partly cloudy!” figuring there would be a 50-50 chance it very well could be partly cloudy. Did he catch my red-faced lie and call me on it? Nope. Although I’m pretty sure he had a notion. Silent guilt speaks louder than words.
He’d figure when to cut hay depending on the weather. Three or four good sunny days in a row would be perfect for cutting, drying, side-raking and baling small-square baled hay that we’d have to hoist off the wagon onto an elevator and up into the barn. A lot of the hay harvested on our family farm though, was chopped dry hay, blown onto the barn mow floor in huge mounds. To feed cows, we’d fork it out through the hay chute down into the carts below.
One day, my older sister went up to throw hay down and thought she smelled something funny. Sticking her finger deep into the mound of hay she quickly withdrew it. It was so hot her finger burned. Running down to tell Dad set in motion fire trucks who flew out to our farm, lights flashing. Many, many neighbors came to help. Bringing their three-tined forks and rakes, they pitched hot hay out of the barn doors. The fire fighters doused the hay, drenching the glowing embers quickly before it festered into a full-blown blaze.
The neighbor ladies brought food and gathered in our kitchen, serving it up to the workers along with plenty of water. There was action all over the place.
My sister’s quick thinking — by first of all, knowing something wasn’t right and secondly, calling for help — saved our barn that day. I’ll never forget the stench of wet, smoldering hay. I can’t even imagine my dad’s frame of mind; he must have been torn, grateful our barn was salvaged yet sick at heart with all that work for nothing.
The farm I grew up on was on a dead-end road. Whenever anyone came down our driveway it was specifically to see us. We’d have regulars — the milk man, the artificial inseminator (until my dad took classes, then he took over breeding), occasionally the vet would stop and a farm service truck would pull in when we needed repairs on milking equipment.
Us kids would be outside playing and run to the barn when the AI guy came, as with a mischievous grin, he’d sprinkle baby powder across our bare toes. Oh, the simple joys of a kid on the farm.
Marrying a farmer and continuing to watch the sky, I greatly appreciate June Dairy Month, which honors farmers and their inexhaustible efforts, putting in long, grueling hours to bring food to tables across the land. With high-powered tractors and massive machinery, farmers work way past sundown, especially during planting and harvest seasons.
Back in the day, large equipment wasn’t a necessity, because farmers owned and worked small family-owned dairies with land mostly surrounding their farms, so didn’t require much road travel.
Most people don’t mind the troublesomeness of sharing the road with these monstrosities. I’ve seen cars pull way over, letting the farmer take up more than his share of the road. Before planting always comes the season of spreading liquid manure. If you want to clean out your sinuses, inhale a good whiff of farm-fresh, country gold as its being spread.
A while back, a farmer friend of ours wanted to sell a parcel of his hunting land. The potential buyers were from the city and requested part of the field attached to the parcel he was considering not be spread with manure so that when he drove to his land and back home he wouldn’t smell up his garage. Needless to say, the deal fell through.
Talking with our friend that day, he exclaimed, “I wonder how they think food gets on their table?” I gather the inconvenience of what it takes to grow crops is too much for some.
From childhood to adulthood, my farming roots run deep. Want to eat today? Thank a farmer and honor June Dairy Month.
“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is My word that goes out from My mouth. It will not return to Me empty but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” Isaiah 15:10-11)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
FARM LIFE FROM A FARM WIFE: Farming deeply rooted in Wisconsin life
