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Books About Life on a Farm Written Especially for People Who Like to Read! "Highly recommended reading." The Midwest Book Review Reviews & Readers' Comments |
LeAnn R. Ralph Rural Route 2 Author E6689 970th Ave. Colfax, WI 54730 (715) 308-6336 |
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One summer day while my husband and I were helping my brother do some haying, I picked up the tongue of my brother's hay wagon so I could hook it to the tractor. I glanced down, and then I almost dropped the thing on my foot. Not because it was heavy, but because of something I saw - Stripes. Red and silver stripes. Like a candy cane. 'Well, look at that,' I thought, 'the stripes are still there...' One summer morning long ago after I'd attended my last day of fifth grade, I was drawn to the machine shed on our farm by the sound of pounding. "What're you doing, Dad?" I asked. "Building a new rack," he replied. "Need to get it finished before we start haying. Wanna help?" He looked over at me from where he knelt, measuring boards. "Sure!" I said. "Tell you what, then. I need somebody to pound nails. Can you do that?" I nodded, scarcely believing that Dad had asked me to help. "Here's what we'll do. I'll draw a line where I want the nails to go. And then you can pound them in." I knew how to pound nails, of course, but I'd never built anything before. My practice, thus far, had come from pounding junk nails into old boards. I watched as Dad used a t-square and his flat carpenter's pencil to draw a line. Then he selected a nail and pounded it in. I was always fascinated with the way Dad drove nails. Grasping the hammer handle near the end, he'd give the nail three or four sound whacks and it was set. When I drove nails, I had to grasp the hammer up closer to the head so my hand could handle the weight. And I needed to hit the nail many more times, too, than Dad did. "Now watch," Dad said, selecting another nail. He laid three fingers on the board next to the first nail to measure the distance between. Then he set the second nail. He handed the hammer to me. "You try." I chose a nail. I measured the distance between Dad's nails. It was about as wide as my hand. I set the point of the nail on the board and started pounding, keeping my fingers well out of the way. Finally, about 10 or 15 strokes later, the nail was in where it belonged. "Like that?" I asked. Dad grinned. "Just like that." For the rest of the day, my father measured and sawed boards, positioned them on the rack, and drew more lines while I continued my job of pounding nails. After Dad finished the floor, he started building the back. That evening my brother must have asked Dad how the new hay rack was coming. In passing, I heard just a snippet of their conversation... "She's good help, too," Dad said. "Pounded in almost every nail herself." It took me a second to realize what they were talking about. Then it hit me. Dad said I was good help!! The next morning I ventured out to the machine shed again. This time I found Dad with a paint brush and a gallon of red paint. "Hi Dad." "Wanna help?" I'd had so much fun the day before that OF COURSE I wanted to help. Dad found a smaller paint brush that I could handle easily, and then he poured some of the red paint into a clean coffee can so I could have my own container of paint. Dad and I finished painting the floor, then while Dad worked on the back, I moved around to the tongue to starting painting it red, too. "No, wait," Dad said, setting down his brush and rummaging around on a shelf. He returned with a small can of silver paint. "You want the tongue silver?" "Better," he said. "How about stripes - like a candy cane?" I'll never know WHY my father was stricken by the notion of painting candy cane stripes on the tongue of his hay wagon. But I was delighted by the idea. Dad dabbed silver paint on the tongue while I stood on a step ladder to work on finishing the back. Then when the silver paint was dry, Dad and I painted red stripes across the tongue... Nearly 30 years later, there I stood with that red and silver tongue in my hands, the paint so worn and faded I could barely see the stripes. I'm sure the rack itself has been rebuilt several times since that summer when I helped Dad build a new one. And Dad is gone now, too, buried in the church cemetery next to my mother. But at least I can still hold onto that whimsical moment I shared with Dad so long ago - the summer we decorated a hay wagon, of all things, with candy cane stripes. |
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