Life Sketches

Vivid memories were
made working on the farm

Of all the farms I worked on as a boy, the most memorable was the old Borden Farm, which was on the east side of Canadarago Lake outside of Richfield Springs.

By the time I came along, it had recently been sold to Bill and Shirley Weingates. Back then, they were milking about 200 cows on one of the biggest operations in the area. The first job I had was leveling chopped grass as it was being blown into a silo. I foolishly knocked myself out trying to level it as fast as it was coming in, so that when I climbed out of the silo I was so dehydrated that I must have drunk a gallon of water from a spigot in the milk house. I would later clean the barn and when the spreader was full, I mounted a tractor for the first time and gloriously towed it up Rocky’s Road to give nourishment to the land—not without some mishaps that let the manure to hit the fan.

I enjoyed all kinds of jobs, even cleaning calf pens, because at the time, I was kind of standing outside of myself, watching this kid from Brooklyn doing these country boy things. I had recently read Thomas Hardy and at times I was seeing all that I was doing through the great writer’s eyes. I never enjoyed the country more than at that time of very hard work.

Mostly I pitched hay, and of all the days over the several summers I worked there, one particular day stands out above the rest. We were hauling bales in high-racked trucks from a large field several miles east of the farm. A lot of hay had been cut. The baler dropped the 60-lb. squares on the ground and we’d walk along loading them onto a truck. A large crew had been hired for the big day to save time and make up for the long haul to the barn. There was chesty Andy Hugick, hefty Eddie Morgan, smilin’ Rod Sullivan, muscular Jerry Smith, big Bob Bernhardt, me and this little guy Winnie who chewed tobacco and used a pitchfork to lift the bales up when the load was high. Bill Weingates drove the tractor with his young red-headed son Gary seated on the fender next to him. Frank Kasprowicz drove one of the trucks. I’m sure I’m forgetting somebody but it was a long time ago, back in the late 50s.

Most of the crew was working in the hay mow. I was out in the field with big Bob Bernhardt, who could pitch a bale as though it were a basketball. Sometimes he’d spin around like a shotputter and let the bale fly over the high side-rack of the truck. I was the youngest of the crew and in awe of Bob, but I made sure I held my own, lifting my share of the bales onto the truck, without any of the fancy moves.

At noon, we rode back to the farm to join the rest of the crew around a bountiful dinner table. I washed up at the kitchen sink and when it was time to dry my hands, I was careful not to grab the towel before Bill Weingates

was finished with it. That was one of his pet peeves.

Another pet peeve of his was leaving a bale on the ground, so that the truck would have to waste time making another pass. If you complained, Bill would close one eye, cock his head and quietly say, “The road goes both ways.” For lunch, there was a mountain of mashed potatoes, platters full of pork chops, fresh string beans, delicious hot apple pie and whole milk from the barn. Because of the hard work and gentle Shirley’s good cooking, I don’t think I ever enjoyed food more.
We worked late, chaff stuck to the sweat on our arms, and dog-tired, triumphantly cleaned every bale off of that seemingly endless field before the evening dew set in. It may have been one of the hardest work days of my life but it was also one of the best. This all happened more than five decades
ago. Since then, I’ve been to many places
and done different kinds of work but I never felt more of a sense of accomplishment than being the youngest of the hard working crew on that 1,600 bale day.
Several years ago, I took my roadster for a drive around Canadarago Lake. As I passed the farm I tooted to old, bearded Bill who was crossing the road to the barn for about the 60,000th time.
Standing on the other side was little Gary, all grown up, a middle-aged man and himself a father.

Hard workers. I admire their ability to keep on keeping on. They are living monuments to the pastoral writings of Thomas Hardy. In my mind, I grip my calloused hands around the twine of a square bale, walk it to the truck, lift and kick with my knee. The bale falls onto the truck and silently slides across the bed, like the leaf of paper this finished story is written on whispers across my writing table.