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After dinner, we unloaded the hay. It seemed such a long way up to that 10-foot by 12-foot door at the very peak of the barn's end. A metal track ran the length of the barn and extended out about 6 feet. A "car" with four metal wheels sat at one end. A rope extended down from a pulley with two large hooks. The rope ran all the way back to the other end of the pulley, then to another pulley outside the barn, and then finally back the length of the barn, staked to our Dodge truck by a clevis attached to the front bumper. This heavy, thick rope pulled the slings up the barn to the loft door and into the mow.
After the hay was deposited, Dad gave the rope some slack so it came back down and rested on the hay. One hook went into each end of the sling and then into the iron rings. Dad put the big truck in reverse and then started back. By hooking the rope to the front bumper, Dad was able to watch everything that happened as he pulled the sling up into the barn. Shirley and I stood a safe distance back in case the rope broke. Dad was never a hugs-and-kisses person, but our safety was his top priority because the farm was a dangerous place for kids.
As Dad moved the truck backward, the two ends of the sling drew together, gradually making a big ball of hay. Once they met, the sling started its ascent upward. The rope creaked as the heavy hay load stretched it tight. As the pulley and hooks attached to the sling and bumped the "car," it released the sling brake, swaying it back and forth, and disappeared into the barn. On rare occasions, the sling was accidentally tripped as it lay on the wagon, and the two ends of the sling slid out from underneath the hay and started up the rope empty. If this happened, Dad had to pitch off some hay by hand and hope the next sling could take a little extra weight as it was pulled up.
Two small ropes were tied to each end of the car, which allowed Dad to position the hay wherever he wanted: way back at the far end or just inside the big door. Dad took his three-tined fork and stuck one tine through the ring at the end of the trip rope. A twist of the fork, and he was ready. When the mow was partly full, he jerked, and the hay came crashing down and spread back out as it was on the wagon. The two halves of the sling, still attached at the car, swung wildly for a moment. If we were just starting, as we were that day, Dad positioned the hay toward one side of the wide barn or the other. He pulled gently on the trip rope to make the big sling sway wider and wider, then, at its furthest point, he jerked the rope.
When I got old enough to work in the mow, Dad let me trip the sling. As I jerked and ran, the hay falling behind me created a small gale of wind and chaff that swept over me. That was fun, but then I spent a good 15 minutes hand-pitching the packed hay to the outside of the mow. It was hot up there! Our shirts were wet when we climbed down to hoist up the next load.
On this particular day, while Dad was in the mow, Shirley and I pulled on the rope together to garner enough speed so the car would catch and lock in place at the very end of the rail. Then we carefully lowered the empty slings onto the wagon. Our other job was to pull the long, heavy rope back to the front of the truck, and ready it for the next pull. We did this first so we had enough slack to lower the slings.
It sounds slow and complicated all these years later, but it went remarkably smooth. Dad took good care of all his tools and equipment, and at different times of the year we greased and oiled the hay car, the windmill, etc. There was always a grease gun in the tractor toolbox and a handy oil can ready to do the job.
By my mid-teens, we baled all our hay and straw. An elevator moved the bales into the mows. The hay cars sat unused on the track, and cobwebs slowly settled on them. The hay loader was hauled to the woods and parked. Somehow, its shape always reminds me of a giant grasshopper, sitting ready at any instant to hop into the air. FC
- Harry Macomber lived on a Michigan farm until he was 24. He now resides in Watertown, Tenn., and works in the printing and publishing industry.