I should have let go of that darn hay bale! Who in their right mind continues to hold on as the world inverts itself before their eyes and then promptly tumbles to the hard ground below while a torrent of scratchy, packed, square bales continue to rain down on top of them? This girl, right here. Apparently. In retrospect, I am sure letting go would have been far less mortifying and painful. Unfortunately for people like me, we don't think in retrospect before the fact. Often, for people like me, it takes years - in my case, almost twenty years.
The truck that carried the bales was, at one time, an old camper. This particular camper had been an old Winnebago from the late 70s or early 80s and had carried the clan of my Iron Family from Virginia to Arkansas where we began living the country life a year earlier. As of that ominous, hay bale attacking day, the old camper had been given a hefty makeover. The living quarters had been torn off, leaving the bare, flatbed bottom, and the cab was all that remained. We had ourselves a right, regular, hardy farm truck.
On this day, my dad, my brother James and my brother Thomas and I had all headed out to a nearby field where we were gathering and stacking dozens of square bales. There was an old, four room house on our property - a call to a different era - wherein we would be transporting the bales and stacking them for the winter that was to come. All day long, under the miserable heat that is Arkansas climate, we grabbed hold of taught twine, hefted and tossed bale after bale onto the back of the flatbed. My dad, wanting to make as few trips as possible, and being the ever efficient man that he was, stacked those golden squares higher and higher and higher until a tower of shade fell over us on the ground below.
It seemed to take forever and by the time the last bale had been stacked like the fittings of a rubix cube and we were all covered healthy, alternating layers of sweat, dry grass dust, spider webs, and gnats, I was more than ready for a refreshing breeze and a break. So when my dad asked which of kids would like to ride atop the mountain of hay and keep it steady for the bumpy drive to the old house, I was quick to volunteer. Up over the hood and the roof of the cab I scrambled and onto the top of the bales where I made myself a comfortable seat smack dab in the center.
"Now listen," my dad called up to me from what seemed like very far below. "Spread yourself out. Lay on your stomach and hang on to the twine so you don't go bouncing off." (The road we were to travel was a pothole marked, boulder checkered, rivet worn dirt road that wasn't even comfortable to walk on, let alone travers from atop a rickety flatbed load of hay bales. "I don't need you falling off so just lay still and try to keep the bales steady."
Fall off? Who? Me? Pft! This was going to be a blast. I wasn't going to fall. I was going to let the breeze blow through my crusty, plastered, sweat soaked hair and enjoy the view. Still: "I'm not going to fall, Dad!"
My dad gave me a look that I have long since learned to recognize as his "Too smart for your own good, huh - look and then told me, "Well, now, I don't want to lose any bales so if those bales come down you better come down with them." I took this to mean, Don't let go! Hang on to them!
The whole ride back to the old house was uneventful save the occasional wobble of a bale or the slight, stomach churning, two inch air lift my body did from time to time as the truck encountered a large rock or crevice. Initially, I took my dad quite seriously and plastered myself like a four limbed star fish to the top of the stack of bales. Stretched limb to limb I, I dug into those bales with all the force I could muster. By the time the entrance to the field in which stood the old house came into sight, however, I was thoroughly relaxed. Sure, the hay was poking me uncomfortably, and sure I couldn't stop sneezing from the dust in my nose and eyes, but the breeze had dried my sweat prickled skin and the rocking of the truck was lulling me into a false sense of security.
Turning off the dirt road to enter the pasture to reach the house was a tricky thing. The dirt road was not wide and on one side was a long stretch of barbed wire fence. The pasture surrounding the old house was also encased in barbed wire fencing and held only a narrow gap through which the truck could pass and so the turn in to the field had to be executed at just the right angle. To top it off, not only was the angle sharp, but there was a small ditch and then a sharp rise of ground where the truck would have to be revved in order to get keep the weight of the bed of the truck from becoming stuck.
My dad, giving me more credit than was my due worth and apparently believing me to be smart enough to still be aware of my surroundings, hollered out his window for me to "hang on" and then cranked the steering wheel.
Bump! went the front two tires as they hit the small drop and Lurch! went the back of the truck. Vrrr!! went the wheels as they plowed down and up, gaining momentum to haul the remainder of the load over the small obstacle and into the field. Uh-oh...went my mind.
My eyes flew open, my body lifted off the bales and was airborne for a brief second in which I latched onto the twine wrapping the bales and tangled my fingers into unbreakable knots. Oof! Back down I went. Phew. That was close. And then the back tires hit the same dip-and-bump the front two had except this time my dad really had to floor to keep the tires from becoming stagnant and stuck. The truck lurched drunkenly from one side to the next, the bales began rocking and trembling dangerously, and I; I realized with dismay that the stack of bales was going over and my hands were hopelessly caught in the twine. There was no getting free and, as the top level of bales went flying off, I made up my mind (perhaps I was justifying the inevitable fall I knew was happening) that I was nothing more than an obedient daughter. Dad had told me to stay on no matter what and I was staying on this bale. No matter that I had all but chained myself to it and couldn't let go even if I wanted to.
What happened after that was a dizzying blur of toss, tumble, blue sky, ground, hay bales, tires, shouts, more blue sky and impact that sent the breath out of me in a whoosh. I wasn't graceful enough to twist like a cat and land bale first. Nope. I landed on my back, bale solidly anchored to my center, and curled around it like a monkey. I managed to let out a pitiful wheeze and open my eyes in time to see about a dozen more bales rushing towards me with glee. The thud, ouch, grunt, mommy, smack of the ensuing bales left me winded and with little breath. I was vaguely aware of my dad shouting, the brakes of the truck screeching, and the sound of doors opening and feet rushing. Then the bales were being tossed aside and my dad was extracting my vice like fingers from the bale.
"What in the world, Brook. What were you thinking? Are you alright?"
As my senses began to collect and my breath painfully crept back into my lungs, I became aware of my brothers watching me, trying hard not to laugh. How dare they? Well, as much as the panic and adrenaline demanded I cry, I was not going to let them see it. So I struggled to my feet, hitched my nose into the air and told my dad, "You s-s-said that if th-the bales came d-down I had better c-c-c-come down with them!" The last word was spoken with a note of defiance, daring anyone to pity or laugh at me.
An incredulous look crossed my dad's face and then one of annoyance. "You doggone knucklehead," he said. "You know I didn't mean that. Brush yourself off and let's finish this."
He strode away and my brothers followed, howling with laughter. As their laughter faded out, and they walked off, I discreetly brushed a tear of pain and embarrassment away with one hand, and rubbed my very sore back with the other. No matter. Laughter was better than pity any day. Even the annoyance at my ridiculousness that crossed my dad's face was better than pity. Back to work.
