Heuernte im Sommer - Geschichten_en_v3

Haymaking in the Summer

Haymaking time was always a special treat. The days before the first cutting were somehow exciting. The radio was constantly tuned to the weather report, and my father scanned the skies especailly at surnrise and sunset. Sometime in May, it was eventually time. ''Let's mow! The radio forecasts good weather and so does the sky. Look outside, the clouds are dispersing. Now it'll be nice. You'll see! Baumoasta and Wonga are already busy. They are going to mow too."

Now we sharpened the scythe, swept the barn and sharpened the blades of the Bulldog mower Cutter bar, attached to the side of a tractor
with the whetstone. During that time, my father also exchanged shifts with Isal, his co-worker at the dairy. Isal didn't have a farm but they helped each other out. For the long holidays, Isal often drove to his home in Italy. Therefore, he took extra-long holidays by trading shifts with my father in order to get some extra vacation days. My father was also happy, because he could mow the meadows early in the morning. In the afternoon, the hay was turned over for the first time, and then at least three more times with the tedder and a rake. Since the tedder wouldn't reach the corners, we turned and fluffed the hay in the corners by hand.

As a child, it was my job to take the afternoon snack to the field on my bike. We always looked for a shady spot, even if it was only in the shadow of the hay wagon. There was always somewhere to find a spot to rest. Together, we had a palatable 'Brotzeit'. I loved walking around barefoot in the fresh hay that tickled and poked. As children, we were accustomed to that. After three or four days, the hay was ready. Extensions were fitted to the platform panels to the front and rear of the hay wagon so that the hay could be stacked higher. The hay was raked and loaded, and of course, to not miss a single stalk, everyone helped along by hand.

Nothing could be wasted. The hay was precious for the animals in the winter. My father took the big pitchfork and pitched it, fork by fork, onto the hay wagon. My job, as for every farmers kid, was to rake behind. It is called ''Nocherechan'', which means ''rake behind''. My mother or my brother stowed and stacked the hay on the wagon, so it was evenenly stowed and the growing pile didn't fall apart. Uncle Xavier helped. He was a good hay bucker, which he was also very proud about. Such a hay wagon was loaded with three to four layers and we sat up on top for the homecoming journey through the village.

It was the pride of every family to have a well-stacked hay wagon. It was unimaginable to have a sloppily loaded wagon, which might lose its load. The farmers in the village highly regarded well-stacked wagons. Both the owner of the local tavern (our landlord) and the Baumoasta's were known for having accurate and highly stacked wagons. Large farmers drove two trailers out to the fields and   simply hitched the second to end of  the first wagon . All of the farmers mowed at about the same time. The air was filled with the smell of freshly cut and dried grass. It was a special time of the year. Although we could not go swimming like other kids who didn't live on a farm, we had the pleasure and burden of making hay.

Load by load was driven home this way and put up in the barn by hand. The barn was an extension of our house and took up virtually the second and third floors. Eventually, we got a hay blower that made a hellish noise and was not without its dangers. My brother and I had to climb to the top of the haystack. We had to pack down the hay in the barn and spread it out, so that every corner was used and the maximum amount of hay could be stored. Packing the hay down was very important. It was extremely dusty under the heated roof. We tied old cotton scarves or old diapers around our mouths and noses to get better air. Regardless, our noses were full of seeds and dust after completing that job. After such a hard working day, we all fell, stone tired, into bed in the evening. The air smelled of hay, as did the house. We slept like rocks in a summer, four-poster bed. I think that was the best sleep I ever had. The people in my area rarely complained about sleep. After a day of hard work in the fileds, they slept soundly!


Written down on Sept. 17, 2012 by Eleonore Hartl-Gröstch, born Hartl ('1960), Munich
Translation by Maximilian Grötsch and Peggy Chong

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