Days gone by

Last week’s heat wave prompted a call to an old cousin for a trip down memory lane.

Today most buildings and residences have central air, or a version thereof to take the edge off stifling heat. Reported temperatures hovered in the mid 30s and humidex ratings closed in at 48 degrees Celsius. It was no week to be standing around in the sun, that’s for sure.

They speak today about heat domes and climate change. We don’t disagree that the weather is evolving, but this heat wave isn’t the first to grip Wellington County.

The call to cousin Tom was about a particularly hot summer nearly fifty years ago when baling hay. Once the dew was off, tractors, a baler and wagons headed off to one end of the farm or the other. These were still the days of small square bales with one sometimes two guys stacking bales on a wagon. Uncle Billy preferred this method over bale throwers, figuring the bales were less apt to twist and turn. Once to the barn where it was all unloaded by hand, there was a benefit too – it was far easier to handle bales that way, than yank them out of a thrower rack. Without the twists and turns, bales rode up the elevator with ease before being firmly placed in the mow. Once the day was over, the face of the mow needed to be true and square.

These days were long before entertainment rested in every pocket and hand. There were always cousins and neighbour kids looking to make a few bucks and do something. Cousin John would be out from Fergus many days in the summer helping get the hay in before the next rain. The work wasn’t easy and some days sweat fell off the brow enough to sting the eyes. In between loads, the large maples and  a cooler jug full of ice water fresh from the well quenched thirsts that seemed unquenchable.

Depending on where the sun was in the sky, there was always a tree line and a bit of shade waiting for the next wagon. Apple trees, come August, were always tempting despite knowing they tasted like sour gummies. One bite, maybe two was about all a person could stand.

Never people to waste, or let a crop go uncollected, the day would always come to head to the island field. Some years it was a meadow of hay and other times mixed grain. The lane to that field was through some low land. Low enough it could be considered a bit swampy. The mud oozed between the treads and equipment seemed to labour as it was dragged along through the muck. That few hundred foot stretch between the mainland and the island was sheltered by a canopy of cedars and spruce. At the end of this maze, the sky opened up and the sun beat down. This was the island field – a proverbial heat dome where a breeze never seemed to happen because it was surrounded by trees.

Any sense of the how and why of that little field has been forgotten. With modern farming techniques and big equipment, that little piece of paradise has been returned to natural habitat. Trees now flourish where alfalfa and mixed grain once grew.

For a few summers, three generations of family worked together and made hay. It’s just nice now to sit in air-conditioned comfort and think about what was. It was hot, but it was good.

Looking back those were the best of times.