Last summer I finally learned to bale hay. Normally the guys don’t need help with that, but at my request, Dad decided to teach me. It is not quite as easy as it should be, with the equipment we have. Every few windrows the baler broke the twine.  The brakes were lacking on the tractor too. It was such a cute little tractor, with a shiny, red coat of paint. It had one of those old-fashioned metal seats, also very shiny and red. That’s partly why I wanted to drive the tractor. Because it was so cute. That is a girl’s view on things.

I soon discovered that a shiny seat equals a slippery seat. With one foot pushing the bad brakes as hard as I could push, and the other on the clutch, I naturally slid back until both petals were out of reach. It would not have mattered on level ground where brakes were unnecessary as I shifted into gear. This particular field was on a hill. Our only hay-field on a hill.

It also would have worked out fine if I wouldn’t have had to stop on the slope, but with the baler skipping bales, I stopped on the slope. When I stopped, I kept the tractor in gear and killed the engine as soon as possible. Going up hill, if I timed it right, I could come to a proper halt and then kill the engine before the tractor started to roll. Most of the time I jolted to a stop or rolled back first.

Going downhill I had to rely on the brakes, but then I didn’t slide on the seat so bad. I didn’t have too much trouble either way, until it was time to start again. Then I clung to the steering wheel with one hand to keep me in place, while I started the tractor and shifted with the other. I could rarely push the brakes hard enough to keep me from rolling some before I got the tractor into gear. Dad grew frustrated as I rolled backwards over windrows and hay bales. “Push the brakes!!” he hollered, as he braced himself against the tire.

I shoved the tractor into gear, and popped the clutch. As it jolted forward, I yelled over the clatter of the baler, “I’m trying; they don‘t work!”

“Course they do!” I heard him shout, before I bounced out of earshot. Maybe they worked for a guy who was much stronger than I was. And who had longer legs. They were not working for me. I found out later, that the steering wheel was broken once, most likely by someone clinging to it while he pushed the “working” brakes incredibly hard.

I had a lot of fun baling hay though. It was a beautiful morning. The breeze was cool, and the sun warm on my bare arms. I loved slipping around on that cute red seat, as I bounced up and down the field. I loved the clatter of the baler, and trying to take the corners without leaving skippers. And though a hayfield on a hill is inconvenient, it provided an incredible view of the valley.

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… you have nightmares about leaving water running.

… you accidentally bring a 5-gallon bucket to the house after milking instead of the little wash bucket.

… right in the middle of singing ”Away In A Manger” for the millionth time you forget the words.

… someone asks if you remembered to milk, you automatically panic.

… you forget you are in a conversation with someone mid-sentence. (Your own sentence.)

… you can stare straight into someone’s eyes and appear to listen intently without hearing a word.

… you forget why you have something in your hand.

… you forget what year it is (and your only nineteen).    

I regularly do all of the above. For more stories visit Country Cowgirl.

My family was working bull calves that day- snotting, blowing, insulted bull calves. At 600 pounds, they were just big enough to cause some damage, and a lot bigger then I am. We were vaccinating, worming, and sorting them. We also banded some of the smaller ones, and I can understand why they were upset.

We’re not setup to handle a lot of cattle, even little ones. We get by, and make do. When we were finished with a bull and let him out of the chute steaming mad, some of us girls had to substitute for fences. I do not look anything like a fence, but I was only blocking a small space. I stood with one hand holding a steel panel. On the other side was a post, then the opening the bulls were suppose to go through. My sister, Lori, was substituting for a gate between the bulls we were finished with, and the ones we weren’t. At least I did not have upset calves on both sides.

Before we finished, Lori had to jump on the fence to escape charging bulls at least 8 times. She was getting very good at it. Every time a bull came by, she flinched and measured the distance to the fence.

I did not have a fence to jump on. When a bull charged me, I stood my ground as long as possible and tried to look tough. Sometimes it worked, and he would change his mind at the last minute. Sometimes it didn’t. I tried blocking one with my prodding stick, jamming the stick against a post. That didn’t work. The bull just kept coming and ripped the stick out of my hands. For some reason, I grabbed him around the neck instead. I guess it was instinct. I barely slowed the bull down, though my left arm was sore for days.

When another bull refused to back down, I managed to look scary enough that he didn’t want to hit me straight on. Instead, he ran full on into the panel I was holding. I held on to it until the last instant, and he hit my arm too. The right arm this time. Shoot!

I thought I would get away with only my arms sore. Then just as we were finishing, I got trapped in a corner, and one of the bulls kicked me square in the rear. Stung like fire.

We all had a blast with those bulls. They are so funny when they are angry (especially to those on the safe side of the fence). One of them would charge Lori, and I would laugh like crazy until he took a shot at me. Then Lori would laugh, and ask what I was scared of. It was great fun.

After we finished and it was getting dark, I headed for the house. The thought suddenly hit me that some day I might get married, and have to leave all this. I don’t make a habit of praying for my future mate like some people do. It just feels weird to me. But that night as I watched the sunset, I prayed very earnestly, “God, please let me marry a cowboy.”

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Daniel is one of my older brothers, and my family loves to laugh at his complete randomness. For example is one of the last times I walked to the barn with him. We were talking and laughing, when suddenly he lost concentration, and took off after our dog, Ruff. Ruff stayed ahead of Danny until they reached the haystack. Then Daniel took a flying leap, and they both vanished behind the hay. Daniel soon emerged dragging Ruff behind him by a leg. I have no idea why. Danny didn’t know why either. I asked him, and he said that his dog wouldn’t care if he pulled her around by a leg. I later saw him apologizing to Ruff, and Ruff didn’t look very convinced.

Then there was the time when we were moving 300 calves home from the pasture. My sister’s and I were moving the calves on horseback, when Daniel came to help with his Jeep Cherokee. He was all into driving those calves. When the calves weren’t moving well, he flew in behind them with the horn blaring. Slamming the brakes and spinning the wheel, he slide into their midst. Snow flew in billows, and the calves scattered in all directions. Those of us on horses went to gather them up again, as Daniel yelled at us, “C’mon! Can’t your horses go any faster?!” Then with a big sigh, “Why do I have to do everything around here?”

 Another time, the guys were unloading round bales, while I worked in the house. I glanced up to see a bale roll by the window. It had gathered some speed by the time I saw it. It missed the yard fence by inches, and rolled over a rubber tub of water. The result closely resemble a volcanic explosion. Then I saw Danny chasing the escaped hay bale. His arms were waving and every stride covered about 20 feet. Even so, the round bale was faster. I’m glad it was. I’m not sure how he planned to stop it, once he caught it. The bale finally caught in a gulley, and Daniel seemed satisfied. He was panting and laughing, while the other guys grumbled and stewed.

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