‘Twas the night before baling and all through grandma’s house
Every person was stirring, even the mouse
All the tractors were ready and lined up with care
In hopes that the dew soon would be there
Grandma bustles in the kitchen cleaning up after the meal
Farmer paces near the window gazing out at his field
The grandkids get dressed in their favorite borrowed pajamas
Then carefully decide where to sleep at grandma’s
With the kids all tucked in and the equipment at the ready
All we can do, is sit tight and hold steady
You see, the hay must be perfect. Not too wet and not too dry
And the only time it is that way is in the middle of the night
How can you know you ask, When the hay is just right?
It’s an acquired art really, not to be taken light
I have not known many who can pass this difficult test
Farmer and his brother to name a few, but Grandpa Farmer was the best
So here we sit together awaiting what’s next
In the kitchen and on the sofa while farmer checks and rechecks
We chat for awhile until our eyes get heavy
then one by one fall asleep, with our shoes and jackets ready
Some sleep on the couches and some on the floor
all the while the farmer moves quietly in and out the door
Then finally, in the wee hours of the morning
the farmer comes in and gives us our warning
Get up! Get ready! We need to go
All hands on deck, it’s time to reap what we sow
Feeling groggy and tired we all step outside
We breath the crisp air, and see the starry night sky
The tractors roar to life and pull out in a line
go slowly ‘cross the bumps, always turn to the right and you’ll be fine
Each pulls into their row then turns their PTO on
Let’s off the clutch and gets their baling on!
Now the rhythm of a baler is hard to describe
It’s like your first time in a stick shift learning to drive
You let off the clutch and push on the gas
Only to “kill it” and lurch back so fast
Now imagine this happens every second or so
One hour down, two hours to go
The windrow goes in, the hay bale pops our
If you drive too fast you’ll clog up for a bout
Slowly, so slowly we work through the field
Farmer helps all the breakdowns, mighty wrench does he yield
Then just as the sun starts to peak over the hill
We see the last giant windrows, we’ve about had our fill
The last bale clunks out and we sigh a relief
It was all we could do to not fall asleep
On our way back to the pickup we bounce through the wheel tracks
Hundreds, maybe thousands of bales there to stack
Dragging steps back to grandma’s and through the front door
Only to lay down at last, and pass out on the floor
Watch this video to see this poem come to life, sorta.
