When lighting a fire under your own ass, be mindful of the frog.
Present day note:
I dig this one, but even I'm not sure if I'm being pessimistic in it. I'm not gonna explain it, that takes the fun out of it, but in my head it is equally motivational and downcast.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Guest Post: A hired hand's musings
As I mentioned before I was designed to be a hired hand, but my parents were inclined to sometimes hire additional help beyond me and my brothers. And in keeping with the summer hay work run I've had on the last couple farm stories I've got a guest post from an old high school buddy of mine who was recruited one summer to work with me out in the fields. Nathan gives you a damn good overall sense of how our little lifestyle plays out.
It’s been fourteen years since the summer I worked with Zeb putting up hay. Hands down it was the greatest summer of my teenage years. Filled with the freedom of driving, beer, and puppy love. Although the things that stick out most are ones that happened while working with Zeb. When I look back at it I remember almost dying on a tractor, jumping off a cliff that seemed to be fifty ft. high but was probably closer to thirty, a juggling hobo, the sale barn, and hay, lots of hay.
My day started at 10 a.m. getting to the house to find Zeb fresh in from mowing. We would rake and bale in the mornings go in for some grub and Kool-Aid. Then the real work started. One of us would drive the tractor while the other stacked, we would switch from load to load. While one of us was driving, the other one would stand in the trailer while a big green machine would pick the bale off the ground and put it at about eye level on the trailer (hard to explain what the pop-up loader is with out seeing it, might do a post on hay equipment at some point). This was nice on the upper tiers but when it’s over 100 degrees out and the loose hay sticks to you like glue, pulling them down was a chore. Zeb has told you about the beloved lofts so I’ll spare you with those horror stories. One day while heading back to the barn with a full load on I noticed a train coming so I hit the brakes and nothing happened. While holding back the urge to shit myself I went through the crossing, the train missing the back of the trailer by a few seconds. I’d like to tell you something like I never felt so alive, but the truth is I was just happy as hell I wasn’t dead.
While we worked our asses off most the time, on occasion we would go to the quarry to cool off. This place is like something you might see on a post card…beautiful. Sheer cliffs on one side and crazy scenery on the other. Once we hit the water Zeb started telling us stories of his brother’s friends jumping off the cliffs. Being that I’m scared to death of heights I nodded and smiled hoping it wouldn’t come up that we should do it ourselves. Didn’t work. Zeb was the first to go, went like it was nothing so of course I had to go. That first time it took what seemed like hours to work up the courage to jump. Once I did though it was on! There’s nothing like the rush of falling, smashing into the water and swimming up and up and bursting out of the water gasping for air. This was something that we did a few more times that summer, bringing in some other friends to make the jump.
I’m not sure if he’ll remember this, or remember telling me I was full of shit, but it’s true. One morning while driving to work I crossed a bridge and happened to look over and by the water there was a man juggling. He was sitting on the bank of the creek in a heavy purple coat juggling. This was only about a mile from Zeb’s house so I ran in to tell him. He informed me that I was crazy! We got on the tractors and headed out, passing the bridge where I had seen the guy juggling. In the 10 min that passed he had packed up and left. I assure you there were no early morning drugs involved, the guy was there! (I don't remember this, though there very well could have been a transient moving through the countryside.)
Although my main job was putting up hay, on some Monday’s we would work at the sale barn. For me this involved standing by a gate and giving Zeb hand signs for numbers, so he could put the livestock in the appropriate place. For anyone who has been on a farm you know the smell can be fairly rank. In a sale barn multiply that by 100! Minus the smell this was a pretty cake job. I only seen one guy get trampled by a cow, an hour later he was back at work.
Before this summer I had hauled hay only a few times usually as the driver. This was the first time, and the last that I would call putting up hay a job. Looking back I don’t recall the work being horrible. It was dirty and hot, but enjoyable. I could be off on my calculations and if so please correct this. but that summer we put up around 20,000 bales of hay. 300 a day for three months. How can putting up that much hay be enjoyable? It’s all in who you work with.
His calculations are about right, a 300 a day average is close. Some days it might rain or we just might not put up any, others we could haul in nearly a thousand from the field.
I don't have much else to add to his recollections. I do want to say thank you to Nathan Lea for taking the time to comb through his memory and write it all down. I will agree that working in the hay is dirty and hot, but more often than not fun and enjoyable.
It’s been fourteen years since the summer I worked with Zeb putting up hay. Hands down it was the greatest summer of my teenage years. Filled with the freedom of driving, beer, and puppy love. Although the things that stick out most are ones that happened while working with Zeb. When I look back at it I remember almost dying on a tractor, jumping off a cliff that seemed to be fifty ft. high but was probably closer to thirty, a juggling hobo, the sale barn, and hay, lots of hay.
My day started at 10 a.m. getting to the house to find Zeb fresh in from mowing. We would rake and bale in the mornings go in for some grub and Kool-Aid. Then the real work started. One of us would drive the tractor while the other stacked, we would switch from load to load. While one of us was driving, the other one would stand in the trailer while a big green machine would pick the bale off the ground and put it at about eye level on the trailer (hard to explain what the pop-up loader is with out seeing it, might do a post on hay equipment at some point). This was nice on the upper tiers but when it’s over 100 degrees out and the loose hay sticks to you like glue, pulling them down was a chore. Zeb has told you about the beloved lofts so I’ll spare you with those horror stories. One day while heading back to the barn with a full load on I noticed a train coming so I hit the brakes and nothing happened. While holding back the urge to shit myself I went through the crossing, the train missing the back of the trailer by a few seconds. I’d like to tell you something like I never felt so alive, but the truth is I was just happy as hell I wasn’t dead.
While we worked our asses off most the time, on occasion we would go to the quarry to cool off. This place is like something you might see on a post card…beautiful. Sheer cliffs on one side and crazy scenery on the other. Once we hit the water Zeb started telling us stories of his brother’s friends jumping off the cliffs. Being that I’m scared to death of heights I nodded and smiled hoping it wouldn’t come up that we should do it ourselves. Didn’t work. Zeb was the first to go, went like it was nothing so of course I had to go. That first time it took what seemed like hours to work up the courage to jump. Once I did though it was on! There’s nothing like the rush of falling, smashing into the water and swimming up and up and bursting out of the water gasping for air. This was something that we did a few more times that summer, bringing in some other friends to make the jump.
I’m not sure if he’ll remember this, or remember telling me I was full of shit, but it’s true. One morning while driving to work I crossed a bridge and happened to look over and by the water there was a man juggling. He was sitting on the bank of the creek in a heavy purple coat juggling. This was only about a mile from Zeb’s house so I ran in to tell him. He informed me that I was crazy! We got on the tractors and headed out, passing the bridge where I had seen the guy juggling. In the 10 min that passed he had packed up and left. I assure you there were no early morning drugs involved, the guy was there! (I don't remember this, though there very well could have been a transient moving through the countryside.)
Although my main job was putting up hay, on some Monday’s we would work at the sale barn. For me this involved standing by a gate and giving Zeb hand signs for numbers, so he could put the livestock in the appropriate place. For anyone who has been on a farm you know the smell can be fairly rank. In a sale barn multiply that by 100! Minus the smell this was a pretty cake job. I only seen one guy get trampled by a cow, an hour later he was back at work.
Before this summer I had hauled hay only a few times usually as the driver. This was the first time, and the last that I would call putting up hay a job. Looking back I don’t recall the work being horrible. It was dirty and hot, but enjoyable. I could be off on my calculations and if so please correct this. but that summer we put up around 20,000 bales of hay. 300 a day for three months. How can putting up that much hay be enjoyable? It’s all in who you work with.
His calculations are about right, a 300 a day average is close. Some days it might rain or we just might not put up any, others we could haul in nearly a thousand from the field.
I don't have much else to add to his recollections. I do want to say thank you to Nathan Lea for taking the time to comb through his memory and write it all down. I will agree that working in the hay is dirty and hot, but more often than not fun and enjoyable.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Seeking Patronage
I need a good old fashion patron. Some aristocratic fellow, or madame don't matter to me, to set me up so I can just write for a couple years. This grind of day job, eat dinner and hit the library for a few hours of writing a night takes it's toll after a couple years. Now I was pretty lax in my dedication to my craft for those first few years, but I'm committed now and in it for the long haul.
Now some of you might say they have grants for that, and you'd be right. My issue there is that it takes all the fun out of the arrangement. It'd feel like I'm writing for the state; politics don't give a shit for my prose. Where's the aristocracy, my filthy and filthy rich old spinster, or elusive convict; I don't have a preference. The state blindly gives out grants, but who's there to appreciate it after I scribbled something hackish out. No see, it just ain't the same.
I'll write make no mistake about that. Can't guarantee the form; novel, screenplay, pulpy Lothario tale, though most likely either of the first two. And it'll be cheap. I can get by on say twenty five grand a year, maybe a little less. And I'll figure it out so it comes up as a charitable donation, win win. And for that money you don't just get the feeling of assisting a creative mind, no I'd be at your service. To an extent. Got a dinner party I'll work the crowd, talk your ass up. Someone might ask 'And how do you know the host?', 'Oh, she's my benefactor.' That line alone puts you into a whole new category of awe inspiring sophistication.
My skills are yours as well. A close friend just passed and you're up for the eulogy, we'll sit down and create a loving, poignant and layered send off for the dearly departed. Big board meeting, together we'll captivate and control all who sit around that big mahogany table. Don't try to bring me in on a midnight round of sexting with your mistress, that's below both of us. Feel free to tell me about it afterward though, I might could use it, and you will find yourself immortalized on the page. This is not just your name on a plaque at the gallery this is a relationship. Me and you, you and me creating not just art, but life (did I just go too far there? No, I don't think so).
I will continue on, and this offer will not be the only thing I type out today. Because with or without a patron I will write, that's what I do.
Now some of you might say they have grants for that, and you'd be right. My issue there is that it takes all the fun out of the arrangement. It'd feel like I'm writing for the state; politics don't give a shit for my prose. Where's the aristocracy, my filthy and filthy rich old spinster, or elusive convict; I don't have a preference. The state blindly gives out grants, but who's there to appreciate it after I scribbled something hackish out. No see, it just ain't the same.
I'll write make no mistake about that. Can't guarantee the form; novel, screenplay, pulpy Lothario tale, though most likely either of the first two. And it'll be cheap. I can get by on say twenty five grand a year, maybe a little less. And I'll figure it out so it comes up as a charitable donation, win win. And for that money you don't just get the feeling of assisting a creative mind, no I'd be at your service. To an extent. Got a dinner party I'll work the crowd, talk your ass up. Someone might ask 'And how do you know the host?', 'Oh, she's my benefactor.' That line alone puts you into a whole new category of awe inspiring sophistication.
My skills are yours as well. A close friend just passed and you're up for the eulogy, we'll sit down and create a loving, poignant and layered send off for the dearly departed. Big board meeting, together we'll captivate and control all who sit around that big mahogany table. Don't try to bring me in on a midnight round of sexting with your mistress, that's below both of us. Feel free to tell me about it afterward though, I might could use it, and you will find yourself immortalized on the page. This is not just your name on a plaque at the gallery this is a relationship. Me and you, you and me creating not just art, but life (did I just go too far there? No, I don't think so).
I will continue on, and this offer will not be the only thing I type out today. Because with or without a patron I will write, that's what I do.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Line 'O the day - April 26, 2008
All I’m in the mood for right now is a little nonsense, but reality just won’t leave me be.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Anyone can stack hay. Not as good as me though.
So I've slipped on the farm stories here, but I've got one today and then a guest post next weekend.
 |
| Candid shot of me around 17 or 18, with a freshly stacked truck. Me and that old white Ford moved a lot of bales together. |
My last post was in regard to hay and since we're in the middle of summer, barring any rain, every day is a day for hay right now for my old man back on the farm. And the title of this post might be clouded by years of not actually stacking hay, but in my prime, as it were, I fully would have stood by that statement. At twelve and thirteen I was the little guy on the crew, so I couldn't toss the bales up onto the wagon or truck all day. With that physical deficiency I was stuck on the wagon stacking what was tossed up to me. Now whatever I stacked had to travel, sometimes only a few hundred yards others it would have to go miles. It had to withstand rough ass ground out in a field or coming up a steep slope from a bottom pasture. The stack also had to withstand speed out on the road.
Different techniques could be employed to strengthen the stack. Simple things like crisscrossing the layers or stair stepping the tiers as you go up, and then obviously tying down the stack. It all sounds simple, and well it is, still though the ability to stack hay while balancing on top of a moving wagon while it bucks and shimmies across the less than even ground of a hay field is no easy feat. And simply put I was damn good at it. I lost a stack here and there, but when your bale count gets up into six figures you're bound to have a few problems. Plus I can still blame some of that on poor driving and not my stacks.
As I grew I had to step off the wagon and actually throw bales, but I also continued to stack quite a bit. But when you start on the job training at thirteen by the time you're twenty you're an old pro. And all I'm saying is that for a few years back in the day I'd a been starting stacker on a hay hauling all star team, if there was such a thing.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Line 'O the day - April 21, 2008
There’s a lingering feeling I’m on the verge of something great; anxiety abounds though, as it might just be spectacular failure.
Present day note:
I have no clue what this is in regard to.
Present day note:
I have no clue what this is in regard to.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Line 'O the day - April 13, 2008
Events beyond my control have somehow transpired to place the reins in my hands. I’m just worried destiny doesn’t like the bit.
Side note; Happy birthday little brother.
Side note; Happy birthday little brother.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)