You Never Know When Something Might Break Down

We have five sections of hay to cut each summer. The first four went splendidly with our new horses. When we got to the fifth section, our daughter, who was kindly helping us, yet again, said, “It's a lot nicer to hay when it cools off in the evening. Let's start at five instead of noon.”

I agreed with the first statement, but couldn't agree to the second. “You never know if something's going to break down, and the forecast might change. It could rain tomorrow.” It had not rained in weeks, but the laws of haying are firm: if it's not raining, you must hay.

My daughter groaned. My fellow and the horses groaned, as they went from the shade of the barn to the blazingly sunny field.

We figured there were four loads, so we would finish around five, in time to make supper. We got two loads in before the first hayloader broke. My fellow and our daughter spent an hour and a half trying to replace links in the chain. No luck.

“We could run it until the chain on the other side breaks,” I suggested. I was unloading the haywagon. The load of hay seemed a lot bigger when I was working by myself.

“But then we'd have two broken chains,” said my fellow, “and still might not get the hay off today.”

“Why don't we just use the other hayloader? Don't we have two for exactly this reason?”

“Yes,” answered my fellow, “but it's going to take a while to grease it up.”

“Well, I've still got a lot to unload here,” I said grumpily.

Finally we took the second hayloader up to the field. We went 100 feet before we heard the banging. One of the thing-a-ma-jigs that shuffle the hay up was broken.

My fellow balanced precariously on the back edge of the haywagon, while my daughter handed him twine. I stood in front of the horses to keep them from moving ahead in case my fellow fell off. He did not fall off. We went another 100 feet. More banging. The twine had broken.

We repeat the precarious procedure with wire. A hundred more feet. The wire breaks, or maybe this time it is more pieces of the thing-a-ma-jing.

“Looks like we're picking the rest of this hay up by hand,” says my fellow.

“We don't have enough daylight,” I moan.

“I'm calling everyone we know,” says our daughter, which translates into the handful of people who might help us in the heat. One is at work, three are in Maine, and the fifth is at work and has evening plans with his spouse. But he comes anyway.

“Are we glad to see you!” we say.

The evening comes on quickly. We have to make smaller loads, working by hand, and that takes even more time. Dusk brings out the giant flies, buzzing, landing, and biting, which means horses bucking, kicking, and wanting to run.

My fellow stands in front of the team, talking firmly and calmly, using a long whip to chase off the flies. But it is a little dicey, and maybe it's good that our friend might not fully realize that, as repeatedly he hops up on the load to stomp the hay down.

My daughter and I pitch hay for all we're worth. The dog, who's had it with being tied around my waist and having to go with me for every forkful of hay, is excited by the bucking and kicking. He wants to stand in front of the horses and bark. Instead he gets tied to a tree and barks.

Then it is dark. We can't see the hay anymore. We might have it all.

“Good enough,” I say wearily, and we all go back down the hill. “I wish we had a nice supper to offer you,” we say to our friend. “How about some cold water?”

“That sounds good,” he says.

Last load of hay in the barn and no one hurt. That sounds good too.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Sept 17 - Sept 20, 2025

The Big Hayloader Moment

Our new team of horses was going to be haying with us for the first time, and I was nervous.

On mowing day, Willow and Fern were not daunted by the strange clackety-clack of the sickle bar mower. The next day, they weren't bothered by the whir-whir of the tedder. The third day, there was no problem with the quiet rake.

But the next step was the big one: introducing the hayloader. If draft horses are going to be afraid of farm machinery, it's often the hayloader that worries them. It's a big noise coming from behind, high up, and some horses do not like that at all, which is why I was nervous.

After the raking, the horses rested in the barn with hay and water, while the farmers got the barn ready.

Ideally, this would have been done well ahead of time, but every year, it gets done the hour before the first load of hay comes in. Or, rather, the hours. We had to move out the two hayloaders, the spreader, the tools, the piles of junk accumulated over the winter. We had to move a million greenhouse tables that had been set outside in the way.

I got more and more nervous as the hours ticked by. I wanted to get the first haying over with, so I could quit imagining disasters.

Luckily our daughter was home, with a visiting friend, who wanted to help hay. The vigor of two twenty-five-year-olds got us through the hours of junk and table moving. Plus I couldn't let my nervousness turn to outright grumpiness when we had a guest. So when my fellow remembered he had to put a new pole on the hay wagon, and we needed to cart a lot of musty old hay from the barn to the compost pile, I had to grin and bear it. Or just bear it.

Finally we were ready for the big moment. I worked hard to imagine everything going smoothly instead of runaways and smash-ups and horses getting hurt and farmers getting hurt and daughters getting hurt and guests getting hurt.

First we hitched the horses to the wagon and hayloader in the driveway, and my thankfully calm, confident fellow asked the team to walk just a few steps, with the hayloader out of gear, to minimize the noise. Willow and Fern flicked their ears back, listening, but weren't alarmed.

Then came the pull up the hill, including the top of the hayloader catching on branches, and the rattle and bang over rocks in the lane. I walked briskly ahead, with a pounding heart, in case I had to try and stop stampeding horses. At least it is a steep hill, so the horses would have to work hard to run away pulling the haywagon and hayloader.

But Willow and Fern weren't even considering running away.

In the field was the last test: putting the hayloader into gear, which made more strange new noises. Willow and Fern didn't blink an eye. Then the full glory of this new team of horses was revealed. Tried and true, slow and steady, their classic funeral pace proved to be a blissful match for hayloader work.

My fellow farmer, our daughter, and this nervous farmer were all exulting. How easy! How fun! How downright relaxing to make hay with these fine and slow horses!

Our guest seemed surprised by the nervousness/borderline grumpiness turned to glee. “I guess I came on a good day to hay,” she said.

“You sure did,” we burbled. “No smash-ups, no break-downs, no runaways, not even a person falling down over and over trying to load the hay while the wagon jerks and jolts and bounces behind a trotting horse!”

“Wow,” said our sweaty, chaff-covered, worn-out guest, who was probably glad we hadn't mentioned such possibilities earlier.

“Yes!” we said. “This is heavenly haymaking! Lo, the hay angels are singing!” (Well, we didn't really say that last bit, because we didn't want our guest to think we were entirely wacky.)

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 20 - Aug 26, 2025

The Literal Learning Curve: Haying with Horses

Sometimes when we talk about the learning curve in haying with horses, we like to actually show it: our literal learning curve.

There are two curves, to be precise, one on each of the massive posts that frame the doorway of our barn.

“Come on over,” we say, “Here it is! Our learning curve!” We point out the elegant curve that has been carved out each of the posts, just at the height of the floorboards of our haywagon. Yes, indeed, it took more than a few tries to gauge the width of the haywagon, and the width of the barn door, and the width of the swing necessary with the horses from the right, and the width of the swing necessary with the horses from the left.

Of course, given that the haywagon is eight feet eight inches wide, and the doorway is nine feet one inch wide, and that the hay on a loaded wagon sticks out a good foot on either side, there's no wonder we have a literal learning curve. In fact, it is only my fellow farmer, the teamster here, who can take credit for the learning curve, as he both carved it out of the posts, and finally conquered all the widths and swings.

For our part, my farmer-daughter and I, riding on the top of the full wagon, do our best to ensure all will go well while entering the barn by hiding our heads and squeezing our eyes shut, in order to ward off the big thunk. We must be doing our part very nicely, along with the teamster and the horses, because we haven't had a big thunk and an abrupt stop in years.

We all like this very much, including the horses. The horses pull hard up the slight incline to the barn door, and they are not delighted when they come to a thumping halt, nor are they especially fond of the load becoming unexpectedly heavier as the post is being carved by the wagon floorboards.

We've also have had a few instances when it wasn't the floorboards that halted the works, but the hay itself. When the load is both big and unbalanced, the hay tends to gets stuck in the doorway. Then the horses have to hold the load steady while we riders slide down the load and race for the chucks.

We chuck the wagon to take the weight off the horses, and then we chuck off some of the hay, and ask the horses to pull again. They do, willing and strong horses that they are. Once we actually get the wagon into the barn, we unload the hay into the mow, which can be quick and easy, in a clear spot, or long and hard, if we have to stuff the hay up in the rafters. After unloading, there are the two massive posts on the exit door to navigate. Generally this is much easier, and these two posts don't show much learning curve wear.

But we do have a vivid memory of one year, when our big horse Ben was new to the haywagon, and my fellow farmer was giving Ben some practice in making small adjustments to an empty wagon that was just slightly too far to one side as it went out the exit door. This is finer work, not requiring brawn so much as precision. Backing up is already very fiddly work for a horse, and backing up a few steps, going forward at a slight angle, backing up, over and over again, was all just too much for a green horse. At one point, Benny had a complete fit in the harness, not going backwards or forwards, but somehow making his entire body into fits of frustration visible to all.

“Oh, Benny,” we said, sympathizing and laughing at the same time, and we unhitched him then and there, and brought in his wise old auntie Betsey while he had a rest in his stall.

Now wise old Auntie Betsey is buried underneath our apple tree, right across from the barn doors, where she can keep track of things, and Ben has become much older and wiser himself, twelve or more years later.

Whether we can say the same for the farmers is another matter, since here we are, learning curves, head-hiding, eye-closing and all, still crazily making hay.

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, July 31- Aug 6, 2019

It's Too Hot to Hay

Recently we farmers decided that it would be a fine time to take a break from the Marvelous Year of Maintenance. We thought we might attend to some other minor farming matters, such as weeding, harvesting, haying, and fall planting.

However, the farming spirits seem perfectly happy to tailor maintenance issues to our every activity. Take haying, for example.

Early in July, we had a stretch of sunny haying weather. Unfortunately, it was also a stretch of 95 plus degree heat. We knew we ought to make hay, but we were feeling mighty hot. Plus we discovered we had a lot to do just to get ready to make hay.

First, as my fellow farmer was cultivating the broccoli with the horses, the team suddenly swerved out of the pathway. Crunch! Crunch! went the broccoli plants as the horses stepped merrily on them.

“Whoa, whoa!” my fellow said urgently.

“Everything all right?” I called worriedly from across the garden.

“The lines broke again,” answered my fellow. “I couldn't steer. But the horses stopped right away. I think we only lost maybe five plants. Hey, will you get the duct tape?”

Oh, geesh. Duct tape. By the time I got back with it, the teamster and the horses were at the end of the row, and the rest of the broccoli was nicely weeded and hilled. I was surprised.

“I just stuck the old tape back together,” said my fellow. “It worked! But I'll still take that roll.”

I handed him the tape, wondering what he was planning.

With a flourish, my fellow hung the roll on the hames of the harness. “There!” he said. “Just in case I need it!”

I couldn't help laughing. A roll of duct tape hanging from the harness: what a perfect symbol of the Marvelous Year of Maintenance!

It was funny, but I was worried. My fellow was planning to mow hay the next day, which is not an easy task for the horses, and involves a 6 foot long razor sharp sickle bar. I didn't relish the idea of the driving lines breaking yet again.

“Did you order the new lines yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. I keep meaning to.”

“Let's do it right away. Maybe they could be shipped today, in time to mow tomorrow.”

We ordered the lines, and then my fellow looked the mower bar over. “I guess I have to replace the pole,” he sighed. “The end of it is rotten.”

But we had used up our last home-cut pole, when we replaced the pole on the spreader earlier in the Marvelous Year of Maintenance. “Maybe I could just shift the neck yoke back a little, to a better part of the pole,” my fellow said.

“I thought you already did that last year.”

“I did, but maybe I can do it again. I looked it up, and you only need 9 feet 6 inches between the neck yoke and where the evener is attached to the pole.”

“Did you measure it? Do you have that much?”

“More or less,” he said, not very reassuringly.

Meanwhile, it was getting hotter and hotter. Even discussing the potential repair made us break into a sweat.

Then we remembered that it was going to take a morning's work to clear out the barn floor so we could get the haywagon in the barn. The hay wagon itself was loaded down too,with all the wood we bought to replace the baseboards in the greenhouse, which we hadn't yet accomplished. Plus the wagon needed a repair, as it broke on the very last load of last year, in preparation perhaps for the upcoming Marvelous Year of Maintenance.

We stood in the shade, doing nothing, wiping our brows. Our horses stood in the barn, doing nothing, wiping their brows.

“It's too hot to breathe, let alone hay,” I said.

“Let's check the weather again. Maybe now it's going to rain?”

We checked the weather again. Still very very hot, for the next three days. But there was a slight chance of thunderstorms the next day!

And there were the broken lines. And the rotting pole. And the clearing of the barn, and the unloading and repair of the hay wagon.

“And our horses are getting pretty old,” I suggested, “to work so hard in this heat.”

“And we are getting pretty old,” my fellow suggested, “to work so hard in this heat.”

My fellow farmer looked at me. I looked at him.

“Let's not mow,” he whispered. “Let's wait.”

“All right!” I whispered back, guiltily, gleefully. Of course, it is not wise to miss any haying weather, as we never know when, or if, we'll get some more. But fueled by our tremendous relief at not haying in the terrible heat, we get an enormous amount of weeding, harvesting, and fall planting done in the terrible heat. And we might even get to those haying maintenance tasks before the next stretch of sunny, yet cool and breezy, haying weather . . .

Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Aug 1- Aug7,  2018