As a small kid on a dairy and crop farm, there was so much to do, some of it work, but a whole lot of it the best kind of play.
As we grew a little older, bikes gave us even more freedom to explore, but boundaries were enforced by parents who seemed to have eyes everywhere. We knew not to dare one another, because we all would be grounded if even one broke the rules. We were ordered to look out for each other, a sure way to keep us all on the straight and narrow.
We were also locked into time boundaries. We could play in between milking times, but lunch was at 12-noon sharp, and we were expected to help with prep and clean up, hand washing and drying dishes a constant, dreaded chore. We knew not to bellyache about it. The faster we got started, the sooner we could bolt free.
If the weather was just right for baling hay or straw, we knew to watch for the first load and be there to help put bales on the elevator while big sisters and hired hands stacked the mow tight. The barn was hotter than blue blazes on those days, but complaining about it didn’t change a thing. We learned to try to make it fun, setting contests to break random records.
Popsicles and ice cream bars were our payment, a treat brought to us by our mom, who served the frozen treats to us on the barn floor between loads. The water jug was refilled with ice cubes and fresh water several times throughout those long, blazing hot summer days.
Dad was running the baler, a couple of guys hired to stack the flatbed wagons. One of those guys would drive the full wagon to us in the barn, and Mom would hand off enough treats for each of them in the field.
I’ve come to realize we each were a cog in a well-oiled wheel. Dad stressed safety, being prepared for everything, watching out for one another. Mom cooked enough for threshers, three meals a day, and in between all of it, she ran ice water and treats to us, along with all the other work of mowing the lawn, watering and weeding flowers and a garden and keeping us in clean clothes.
When the day was done, most summer nights were spent swimming in the farm pond, Mom cooking burgers on a large charcoal grill or letting us roast hot dogs over a small fire that would later be just right for marshmallow toasting.
Did we get paid for our hard work? Only in ways that money cannot buy.
