Practice Practice Practice

This is a tale about patience. This is a tale about knowing when you are wrong and can't go any further. And above all of admitting when you need some help.

The enemy:




A very simple and valuable thing. A round bale of wheat hay. An item of importance to most people who own large herbivores. An item that stand over six feet tall and weighs about 1200 pounds. This item cannot be picked up and tossed into the bed of a pickup truck.



This is the tool. A simple and very creative trailer/hauler. The hauler is backed up to the bale, the forks are slid under the bale. A hand crank pulls the bale up into a semi reclining position. The bale is driven to where it is needed. The hand crank lowers the bale in place. The trailer is pulled forward about three feet. The crank is used to lift the forks, flipping the bale onto it's flat surface. The end.
Or so it should be.

Enter my father. My father is an intelligent man who took up hobby farming in his golden years. He, with the help of a knowledgeable friend, grew wheat on his 40 acre plot. That is a postage stamp in these parts.
Good snow. Good sun. Good rain. Good wheat.
Cutting. Curing. Baling.
Hungry horses.
Borrow a hay hauler.
Dad has an older tractor, hence forth be known as Gertrude, that is almost as old as him. It has grumpy gears that don't like to catch, a halfway clutch (won't engage until halfway or better) and a very reluctant fuel gauge.,
Dad had me come out to the field while he drove Gertrude. He had me sit and watch as he tried over and over to line up the trailer with the bale. Gertrude turned left, Gertrude pulled forward, Gertrude turned right, Gertrude backed up. Miss, miss, miss, miss. I sat on the little lawn tractor, which I used to get out in the field because Dad doesn't allow hitchhikers, texting and playing sudoku on my phone.
Finally Dad reluctantly agrees that no, he can not line this up. I casually mentioned that I loaded the last one, with the truck when I couldn't see the trailer. Steam slowly seeped from his ears.
He climbed down (a feat in it's self, considering his bum hip) and grumbled about the nature of poor Gertrude. A tractor has no safeties, a tractor is raw power, it will kill you. Then he was angry that I was "doing the gears wrong and it was scaring him". I tried to not breathe fire back and calmly mentioned that this was my first time with Gertrude and that maybe if he would explain the gears, then maybe I would know them.
More steam, head shaking and some mild stomping. I know there were a host of swear words waiting expectantly at the gate, but my Dad has always been a gentleman about not swearing in front of the ladies of the family. Steve has informed me that he knows enough words and phrases to make a drunk marine blush.
Swearing aside, I take ten minutes to undo his line up and to catch the bale. It is cranked up. I am dismissed from Gertrude with a jerk of the thumb and remanded to my lawn tractor.
He takes the bale out of the field and down to the turn out for his horses. He moved Gertrude along the fence, turning the corner and I am beginning to wonder if he is just going to keep circling.
Through hand signs and yelling over Gertrude's cranky roar, I learn that he wants to back the bale into a corner. I sigh. Two and a half hours have passed since he needed my help in this. It was past 6:30 and I had four kids that were starving for dinner because all of the yummy but nutritionally vague snacks my mother provided were not filling the void that only whining to mom can fill.
Tack is gone, subtly has flown the coop. I yell back to him, "We just spent 45 minutes proving you can't back up!"
He gave me the patented "dad look" that said my complete lack of respect had been noted. He did, however, put Gertrude in park and we went to lower the bale. I leaned on the crank, and the lock didn't budge. I leaned harder and lifted both feet off the ground. The lock didn't budge.
Because I know when I am up against the wall, I called out, "I don't have enough mass to unlock the gears!"
Dad yells back, "That's a first". Lovely.
He climbs down, once again, a long procedure and we fix the locking mechanism. I lower the bale as he starts the process of climbing back up. I then ask him to pull forward three feet. He fights Gertrude into gear and pulls up six, lurches back one and motions for me to lever up the forks to tip the bale over. Crank, crank, crank, slip. Too far forward and the forks don't have any leverage and the bale rocks on it's rim. He makes a face and I think I see a thought bubble above his head, mixed symbols floating, #@$%$%^. Maybe I was wrong.
We both take up the task of pushing and leaning on the upper edge and manage to heave and push the bale over. Hay slivers and chafe filter into my hair, my eyes and worse, my bra.
Dad then announces that the round bale holder needs moved into place.
I loose my patience and inform him that I have four hungry kids waiting in his backyard and a husband who has contacted me twice, wondering where I was. I was granted mercy.

The following day, I get the phone call. I can have a bale of hay. Yipee! I have to help again. Yikes.

Dad pauses and yells, which way should I turn?
Angels trumpeted from the heavens, planets previously lost, found alignment, millions saw the face of God in the clouds.
We managed to load the bale in record time.  We haul it to my house, the horses welcome it with fast and happy teeth.
We off  load the bale and manage the flip, prefect.  Dad never had to dismount.  He cranked Gertrude into high gear and sped her home at an amazing ten miles per hour.

In the end, Dad has learned to ask and accept help.  I learned to have patience with him.  In  the end, I think we both should practice more so we can get our time down even better!

Practice, Practice, Practice.

And how was your day?