It’s my first Father’s Day without my Dad.  Less than six month’s time doesn’t seem like much when one is more than halfway through the sixth decade of life, but it feels like such a long time ago that he died.  I will never again send a Father’s Day card–something I know he enjoyed receiving.  I have ‘Dad’ programmed in my cell phone, yet I will never be able to call him again to hear his gruff ‘Hello,’ to laugh at his silly jokes, to bear with his political rantings, or to hear him say, ‘I love you, babe–thanks for calling.’

Tomorrow is the first day of Summer, though for most of the country the calendar is not keeping up with the warming temperatures of the seasons–record heat has already scorched the land.  When I think of Summer and my Dad, one of the best memories I have is putting up hay for our horses.  Sometimes we would just buy hay and artfully stack it in the back of the GMC pick-up–if we did it right, we could haul so many bales without tying them down or losing the load.  But the best way was when we put up the hay ourselves.  Dad would cut the hay with a sickle mower, let it cure, rake it over with the big-toothed rake at just the right time, then get out the old International #46 baler.  With the patience of a saint and only a few cuss words, he would bale the long rows of hay, stopping when a bale flew out of the chute with only one string tied.  He would tie the string of the bale still in the baler and adjust the knotter so it would tie again.  The scattered, untied bale would be put back into the windrow to be baled again.  Sometimes we pulled the hay rack behind the baler and grabbed the bales as they exited from the faded red International, but more often the bales were spit out on the ground in a rhythmic, geometric pattern, and we picked them up later.  At times it was my job to drive the tractor at a slow, steady speed while my Dad, Mom, brother and sister picked up the bales or stacked them on the hay rack.  Other times I would walk along one side of the tractor, pick up a bale, and with the help of elbows and knees, I would chuck it up on the moving wooden planks.  As the stack got higher, it was harder to get the bales up to where they belonged.  I marveled at how my Dad (and later my brother) could pick up a bale and toss it above his head with seemingly no effort at all–no knees, forearms or pushing involved!  The job I liked best was stacking the bales on the hay rack–it was almost like a puzzle.  Dad taught us the best way to stack them so the bales on top would ‘tie in’ the ones below and inside so the stack was tight and stable.  And when we had a load, I loved the feeling of sitting on the top of the stack, smelling the sweet, hot smell of fresh hay, and riding back to the barn to start unloading.

It was hard, hot work putting up hay, and it was a family endeavor.  The smell of the hay, the sound of the baler, the feel of standing on the swaying hay rack, the sight of a stack of bales, and the delicious taste of cold tea going down our throats when the work was done will forever be etched in my mind and body.  It was fun work, together work, important work.  Most of the time, we don’t even realize how important those moments are when they are happening.  On this Father’s Day and eve of Summer, I am so thankful for all those moments I had with my Dad.