Laid Bare: Essays and Observations by Judson, Tom (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

At 200 acres our family farm was small, and provided a mean existence for my grandparents. There were no hired hands, so the labors of us kids were essential to making sure the lofts were filled to feed the cows during the frigid northeast winters.

Cutting and raking are one-man jobs, done with a tractor and a machine, so I rarely came on the scene until it was time to bale the hay and take it to the barn. Pa drove the green John Deere tractor, which towed the bailing machine (in my mind’s eye it’s red, which would have made it a McCormick), which, in turn, pulled the hay wagon. That’s where my cousins and I were stationed.

On our farm we made rectangular bales; not the round behemoths seen nowadays. The lines of raked hay were fed into the bailer where the hay was formed into bales and tied with twine. From there, the bales came shooting out of the machine--high into the air, like human cannonballs at the circus--to land with a thud on the floor of the hay wagon. Presuming none of us got in the path of the oncoming projectiles, the bales were dragged to the back of the wagon and stacked neatly in rows. This continued until the floor of the wagon was covered, and then still longer until the piled rows of hay bales towered high above the ground, held in place only by a rear support and the ingenuity of the stacking system.

As our convoy bumped and jostled its way back and forth through the field under the baking July sun, it occasionally roused a spray of grasshoppers from their resting place in the hay rows. Bob-whites would complain and scurry as the cacophonous caravan came near, and once I recall a pheasant scolding us as we approached her nest.

We boys had an enormous mayonnaise jar filled with iced-tea back with us on the wagon, but Pa refreshed himself with a curious concoction called “Switchel”. Switchel (also served in a mayonnaise jar) is a particularly foul-tasting libation whose main ingredient is cider vinegar. There’s a little honey thrown in for good measure, but, although Pa swore by it, a swig of it would leave us boys gagging.

We didn’t leave the field for lunch—that would waste too much time. Gram always knew just when the sound of adolescent stomach-grumbling would be at its peak and would arrive in the battered old Rambler station wagon with potato chips, pickles, a loaf of Wonder Bread and a batch of egg salad in—of course—a mayonnaise jar. The sun, arcing across the sky, told us our break was really just a pause and we needed to finish up lunch and get back to the job. We’d wolf down our sandwiches and Gram would putter back to the house in the Rambler.

Idyllic? I hated every minute.

My cousins lived and breathed farming, but I didn’t want to waste my summer vacations bringing in hay. There were books to be read and lakes to be swum in and—most of all—old movies on T.V. to be watched. The fights my Dad and I had over me helping out on the farm were awesome. I remember him yelling once that I “read too many books!” (Translation: My son’s a faggot.)

Of course, I always lost those battles and wound up on the hay wagon, broiling in the sun, hayseeds torturing me down the back of my t-shirt, sweat soaking me through and through, being nearly knocked unconscious by the errant catapulting bale and trying to keep my balance as the wagon bounced over the uneven fields. All the while knowing that there was a Norma Shearer picture on the Million Dollar Movie that would probably never be shown again!

Boy, was I a stooge.

Looking back now, I think my protestations were an essential part of the experience; maybe if I had gone along willingly the memories wouldn’t be as strong, the remembered sensations not nearly as vivid. By hating every moment, I experienced every moment.

I don’t picture those days in the tans and sepias of old photos. No, I see the late 1960s in the super-saturated hues of 8mm Kodachrome home movies. The sweet corn presented proudly to the camera at the picnic after finishing in the field is lemony and lush. The scarf covering the pink rollers in my aunt’s hair is turquoise and diaphanous. The picture is a little blurry and the action is sped up just a little, like we’re all rushing to fit as much fun as we can into our too-brief summer vacation.

I don’t think Dad was right that I read too much. But, I’m dearly glad I always lost the battle and got to spend a few hot July days bouncing along on the back of an old hay wagon.

ALL WE OWE IOWA

Well, the way Randy tells it, he had just picked up his mail and there among the bills was an envelope addressed to him from his grandfather. Seems Grandpa would give each of the grandkids a check for $250 when they got married. All the other cousins had gotten their loot by this point but Randy was still unmarried. Who can say what got into the old man, but he decided to send Randy his check in spite of him still being a bachelor.

“How do you like that?” Randy said to Allen as they drove down the street in Allen’s red convertible. The thing is, Randy didn’t exactly consider himself “unmarried.” He and Allen had been together just a short time, but it felt like The Real Thing. So they went right to the bank where Randy cashed the check and handed $125 to Allen.

“And I took it,” said Allen. “And I spent it. And I haven’t stopped spending since.”

That check from Randy’s grandfather arrived in 1973 and, according to