hay bales and whiskey

It was the summer of 1992 and a day much like today. It was hot, humid and the breeze pushing the hot air around only made it worse. Growing up on the farm, my family joked that we always picked the hottest week of the year to hay the upper fields. On the years that we did two cuttings, we seemed to also pick the second hottest week of the year. Despite the conditions, when that last bale went into the barn, well that's a feeling you wouldn't understand unless you lived on a farm.

It was a Friday. I was heading back to Burlington after working a case in the Northeast Kingdom. I kept looking at my watch and plotting my course to get to back to the city in time for happy hour at Esox. Around three o'clock it dawned on me that I wasn't really sure where I was. I had a general idea, so I kept heading south looking for the next main road to turn right on. I knew if I kept following the sun, I would eventually end up somewhere familiar.

I kept driving but no crossroads appeared. I finally came upon a farm on my left. It was iconic Vermont. A white two-story farmhouse, big red barn, tractor-shed and a farmer's garden planted out back. Across the road were large hay fields that had just been cut. The smell of dried hay carried with dust and chaff rolled in the window with the wind. I passed the lower end of the fields and saw an older gentleman throwing hay bales onto the back of a flatbed trailer being hauled behind an old F-150. An older woman who I assumed was his wife suddenly jumped out of the cab, truck still in gear, ran up to clear a bale or two to the side and then got back in. Then she would stop while he stacked what he had just thrown on. I laughed a little because that's how my dad and I did it for years. And how I learned to drive.

I passed by them and pulled over thinking I probably should ask for directions. I looked back at them in the mirror and saw the old man give his wife the hand signal to stop and then he sat down on the bale at his feet. Memory lane came knocking and I recalled riding home from a jobsite in dad's truck one hot afternoon when we passed a neighbor's farm with hay down in the field. Thunderstorms were approaching and he pulled into the field and said, "Let's give them a hand." 

I looked down the road to the south and saw thunderheads building. Then I looked back at the old couple in the mirror and for an instant saw my dad's face. So, I turned the truck around and pulled up behind the hay trailer. I got out and walked up to them. Me with long hair, camo BDU pants, a Metallica t-shirt and an earring. The old man stood up and asked if he could help me. I said, "No sir, I'm here to help you."

He introduced himself as Ed, his wife as Mary and handed me a bottle of water. I sipped the water as we agreed Mary would drive, Ed would stack on the trailer, and I'd throw bales. As Mary got back in the truck, I pulled a bag of Levi Garrett out of a pocket and packed a chew. Ed looked down from the trailer and asked if I could spare some. I threw him the bag. He packed one, threw the bag down and said, "Don't tell mother." I laughed, gave him the nod and started throwing bales. 

It didn't take long to fill the trailer. Ed looked at the gray clouds approaching from the south and then at the forty or so bales left in the field. It was obvious he wasn't going to ask me to stay and load another trailer so I told him between their truck and mine we could probably get the rest of it pretty quick. And we did. We got back to the barn, stacked the hay from the trucks in the loft and then got the trailer into the barn just as the thunder started and rain began to fall.

"We'll leave that right there. I like to have something to feed out if I need it. Appreciate your help. Can I buy you a beer?"

Before I could answer he ducked into the tractor shed and came back with two bottles of ice-cold Miller High Life. We stood in the door of the barn watching the storm blow through and talked about my life growing up on the farm, deer hunting and his sons. Two years apart in age, the oldest was a JAG lawyer in the Marine Corps, the youngest a helicopter crew chief in the Navy.

"Those two couldn't wait to get away from here, said no way in hell they were gonna be farmers." 

"Take it from me, Ed, every farm kid says that. I did. But I go back every chance I get."

"Yeah, yeah, they do too. When they can. The youngest thinks he'll come back after his twenty is up in six years, the oldest will probably stay in as long as he can."

Mary appeared on the porch and waved Ed over. He came back and said, "Mother's got supper in the oven, it'll be about a half hour if you can stay."

I looked at my watch and decided Esox could wait and accepted the invitation.

"Good. You like to fish?" I said yes. He went back into the tractor shed and came out with an old Zebco set up and a fly rod. "Which one you want?" I pointed to the Zebco and he told me to follow him. 

We walked past the barn and through the cows in the pasture a short distance to a pond about the size of a hockey rink. A small, almost dried up stream fed into the north end and another flowed out the south. A split rail fence, falling down in places, encircled the pond. I said, "It looks like a hockey rink."

Ed laughed and said, "Close, just shy of regulation size but we watched a lot of hockey games out here when the boys were growing up. It's spring fed out there in the middle. We got bass, crappie, pumpkinseed, bluegill, the boys used to catch fish in some of the other ponds and lakes around and then bring 'em back and put them in here."

Mary caught up to us carrying an old wire milk bottle carrier with three Mason jars of brown liquid and what looked like a knitting bag. We walked through a gate near the inlet where there was a wooden platform with a small dock jutting off it into the pond. On the platform were two Adirondack chairs and a small table. She handed us each a Mason jar, took one herself and raised it in a toast.

"To old farmers and new friends."

We clinked glasses and I took a sip. After throwing hay bales in the heat and dust it was one of the best things I had ever tasted. She saw the look on my face and said, "Jack Daniels, ginger beer and a splash of our maple syrup." Then she sat down and started knitting. Or crocheting. I don't know the difference. Turned out this was their Friday night ritual. 

Ed stripped out line and started casting off the dock. While he did so he told me about the flies he tied, showed me what looked like something between a dragon fly and a grasshopper. Then he showed me his fly box lined with a few dozen small insect looking flies. I had no idea what I was looking at. At the time I had zero interest in fly fishing. I look back now and realize I missed a great opportunity to learn something.

Ed caught a few fish while we talked. I made a few casts on the Zebco but caught nothing. And then Mary said it was time for supper. Meatloaf, roasted potatoes, summer squash and a cucumber tomato salad. Dessert was a sponge cake with a buttery lemon sauce. The best meal I'd had since the last time I was home. We finished with a cup of coffee. Sanka, out of the jar. 

I helped Mary with the dishes and then bid my farewell. Ed tried to slip me a twenty. I told him we were square and handed it back to him with the bag of Levi Garrett when Mary wasn't looking. I shook his hand, hugged Mary and got into my truck just as the last of the sun slid down behind the trees. I looked in the mirror as I stopped at the end of the driveway. They were standing in front of the barn waving. I looked twice because for a split second I saw that old barn in North Norway.

I got back out on the road and noticed a paper bag on the truck seat beside me. I opened it. Two meatloaf sandwiches. Still warm. I decided missing happy hour at Esox was probably a good thing and opened one of the sandwiches. A short time later I found a right turn and in about ten minutes knew exactly where I was. I remember laughing and almost choking on the last of the sandwich because I'd never really been lost at all. Just in a different place.

I thought of this old story tonight as I stepped out on the dock and caught a few fish in the pond. I don't know whatever happened to Ed and Mary. I'm sure they've since passed. I hope that their sons returned to the farm. And I hope they throw flies on that pond and sip one of their mother's cocktails on Friday nights.

Littles Pond

22 July 2022