Makin’ hay. Loved the smell, loved sitting on and playing in the hay bales, loved the cousins coming over to help.But … because he thought he could do anything, my dad always expected I could do a whole lot more than I really could.
I’m in, maybe, fourth grade. The hay’s been baled and the bales spit out all over the field. Dad perches me on the tractor seat, puts the tractor in gear, points me between two bales, and hops off. He, uncle and cousins take turns running alongside to grab the bales and toss them onto the haywagon while the others ride up there and stack the bales neatly. All the while we’re moving and I’m around 8 or 9 years old steering this whole contraption. Dad’s bellering at me to turn this way or that. I’m petrified. I go between the wrong bales. He bellers some more. He hops back up on the moving tractor (I'm terrified he'll fall under the tire and be run over) and jerks the wheel in the direction he wants me to go. Course righted, he confidently jumps down but the little driver's struggle continues.
I'm the shirtless worried-looking farm kid in this picture -- not the one in the dress -- that's my sister who, you can plainly see, never had to drive a tractor.
Later. The work is done. The hay is in, and everyone is jubilant. Except me. I’m still shaking a bit, fear hanging on me like bad perfume. Dejected and embarrassed for my failure.
And my tenderhearted, soft-spoken cousin, Cliffy, sidles up to me and gently says, “It's okay, Myrna. You did a good job.”
I will love him until I die for that.
Be kind to one another, tenderhearted... Ephesians 4:32
Fearful. You stirred up a memory, I too was fearful for you. Such a little girl and such a big responsibility! What is amazing is that you DID it. You look little and frail but you have an inner strength. Some call it sisu.
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