164. FARM BOY
By mid-September it was
harvesting time for the corn
crop. Corn grew everywhere.
The local farmers grew it, it
seemed, in every field nook
and cranny they could find.
Along with hay, it's really
what got their cows through
the Winter, and every other
day too. Corn was (cattle corn),
of vital importance. As silage,
after it was chipped and
chopped and blown into the
silos, fresh, it would - over
time, and with the weight
of itself, piled up, and heat,
begin to ferment. By end
of season, when the silage
was getting pretty empty
(usually sometime close
to the middle of Spring,
when the cows could go
outside and begin eating
the new growth and grasses,
etc., instead of the stored
up silage) it was all almost
like booze - a heady,
alcoholic fermentation
which could sometimes
be enough to make a
cow woozy. They liked
the stuff, and a buzzed cow
is something to see, yeah.
Deep silage had the coolest
smell - like an elixir, sweet
and boozy too. Night-train
express for cows. (Night Train
Express is the cheap, street
booze the bums drank -
major nasty, super strong,
known to blot out the brain
with extended use. It's still
sold, still around, but I don't
know what anyone drinks
these days). When corn-
harvest time came, Warren
(Warren Gustin was one
of the neighboring farmers
I worked for, for 'milk
and meat' - as it was put,
meaning food and supplies
- no money. Most of
whatever I'd need - nails
and tools, some gasoline,
milk, butchered meat, etc.
- They just sort of took
me on as a family member.
I'd walk over there, about
5:30 am, to get the farm
day started, and be busy
until maybe 8 or so, then
go back, if nothing else
came up, about 3, for
the afternoon and evening
stuff. It sounds dreary,
but it wasn't and it all
worked out. Because
of the Hurricane Agnes
flood, which pretty well
wiped-out Elmira for
over a year, and Whitehall
Printing too, I had no
other work.The only
cash I generated was a
$4200 a year contract
to take care of the local
schoolhouse (now a car
junkyard, oddly enough)
and 10 or so bucks a day
driving a school bus
around at certain times),
anyway - Warren and
I, for the field work,
had an agreement that
I could make my own
decisions about hat to
do and when, so I had
the ready control of his
tractors, and truck, and
cars too - all part of the
reciprocal agreement.
Plus, whenever I chose,
I cold eat over there,
with them. I didn't do
that often, but sometimes
I did. It was like eating
with The Waltons, an
old TV show about that
stuff - about 8 people
too, and me; big family
- even had a Grandpa.
I'd jump on a tractor
(John Deere) when I
felt like it and just
start cutting the rows
and rows of acres of
corn. It was the greatest,
most solitary thing I'd
ever done : the big old
power plant beneath me,
the roar and grumble of
the tractor, the steering,
the bumps and ridges
(they had no suspension,
rode rigid, except for the
sprung seat). All around
me, higher than my head,
or even, was the natural,
strange, outside-of-ordinary
experience of moist and
noisy corn plants going
down. I'd be towing a
huge cutting blade that
would swipe down the
plants, row by row. The
tall corn plants would
remain where they fell,
maybe a day, maybe two,
so as to dry out just a bit.
Then I'd come back with
the tractor, towing a
harvester rig too. It would
lay its daggers along the
ground, pick up the cut
corn plants and feed them
into the chopping blades.
The harvester had a tall
directional smokestack
sort of thing, adjustable
for height and direction,
and when connected it
would then blow the
chipped and harvested
corn, by this time all
little chunks, into the
silage wagon running
alongside me - if
another tractor was
along - or behind me,
if I was pulling yet
another wagon. Once
the wagon got filled
up, it was back of the
barn with the wagon,
and it was again blown
along, this time into
the silo top, slowly
filling it up for the
upcoming cold season.
The fermentation of
the new, wet crop of
silage would begin.
-
This was all pretty magical
stuff for me, and I grew
constantly amazed at what
I'd learn and see and do.
I'd never had an education
of this sort at all. No tricks,
just straightforward work,
but a real and solid work,
the sort of work that had
grown this country up
from nothing. It used to
make all that frothy
department store and
amusement stuff look
like nothing to me. Pure,
waste, people doing
nothing. It was as if -
unless you experienced
this kind of process and
work - you had no real
hands-on experience of
what life was about, its
work and its struggles.
Each day we'd shovel
out the feed for the cows
and cattle - there was
some beef cattle being
raised too, for butchering
and selling as rendered
product. It wasn't all
and always dairy -
from the little door hatch
at the bottoms of the silo.
It was last, as I said, if
done right, for 7 or 8
months, as you eventually
reached the boozy bottom
- and about time to begin
the process all over again.
(No one ever wanted a
failure. No one could
afford it; but sometimes
there were silage failures.
It happened - usually
to dumb or drunk or
sloppy farmers, those
whose all other habits
were bad too. You could
tell; it was always the same
sorts of guys). What could
go wrong? Mildew. Rot.
Moisture. It could all
almost turn to poison,
and then you were stuck.
Sick cows. Having to
buy feed, for months,
probably with money
you never had in the
first place. Selling
cows, losing product.
Real bad.
-
Before the corn, in later
July, and August, there's
be haying. Or the cutting
of other crops - some
guys grew oats - large
beautiful fields of an
ocean-colored green-blue
that just shone in the sun.
A beautiful shimmering
field of glory. In the 70's
other guys were trying
soybeans. Back then it
was touted as a wonder
crop to grow; high protein,
great food future, and all.
Some people tried it; seems
though it never really
took off. Fields of alfalfa
and timothy, and other
grasses, they all had to
be cut, and then baled.
All automated, towed-
with-tractor stuff, just
like the corn, just not as
mysterious. Hay-baler
machines, cutting blades,
great swipes through the
standing fields, the baling
machine pulling up all the
cuttings and then square
packing then in bales,
already tied with string,
all machine done. One
guy would be driving
the tractor and three
or four of us, walking
behind a slowly-driven
pick-up truck or
hay-wagon, would
have to stoop to pick
up each of the bales (they
were unceremoniously
spit out onto the ground
as finished bales of hay)
and throw them up onto
the truck or wagon, while
another one or two people,
on that wagon or truck,
would tightly stack and
position the bales. A
truckload could be
200 bales, guessing.
Then, back to the barn
barn, to the 'elevator'
ramp, which was a
mechanized chain
drive that would pulley
up each bale, after we
again handled and
lifted each one,
maybe 20 pounds
each, the 'wetter' and
newer the hay was,
the heavier too. This
hay-elevator would
carry the bales up to
the hayloft, top part
of the barn with a
top side door, where
again we'd have to
handle and haul and
carefully stack each
bale - all for the long,
upcoming Winter and
Spring, until next
growth - food and
bedding too, the hay
was. It took care,
and some knowledge
too. No drunks or fools
please. If the hay was
too wet, or stacked
incorrectly, as it
simmered and made
heat, an air current left
open by mistake -
leaving a gap or a
channel - could
spontaneously
erupt the heated and
almost cooking hay
as that air current passed
along it. It would/could
ignite, of its own accord,
make a flame, and
take down a barn,
and cattle, to smithereens.
Unchecked fire. I know;
I've seen it. No fun. So,
that was only a part -
all work, no play,
makes Jack go away?
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