Nathan Benn; Woodfin Camp 
rake. The hay had to dry before it went 
into the barn. We had a horrible fear 
of fire. The hay was left to get brittle 
dry in the field before we ever brought 
it in. If it was wet, it would mildew and 
ferment. You could smell it. Gases form 
and it would blow up. The haymows 
in the barns were divided into sections, 
so if you smelled the mildew in any one 
section, you could use that up first. 
We would walk down the windrows 
folding the hay over, making folded piles 
that could be picked up with the fork 
and piled up on the hay wagon and later 
transferred iqto the barn. Not everyone 
could pick up these hay piles and load 
a wagon so no hay spilled between the 
field and the barn. Marion Martin, who 
was nearly blind, could make a really 
good wagonload of hay, doing it by the 
feel of it. Then each forkload was un- 
loaded one by one and passed up into 
the barn. They used to have a whole 
string of people like a chain up in the 
barn passing the forkload along. Already 
when I was a child they got big hay 
tongs, like huge ice tongs, that hung from 
a trolley way up in the barn. This saved 
time and a lot of work. 
Everyone helped to hay. The old people 
cooked food in the kitchen, the children 
lugged water to people in the fields. That 
hay dust gets in everywhere, in your eyes, 
down your throat. Good haying weather 
is hot and the dust sticks and stings ev- 
erywhere. 
Even today you look over next door 
in the morning and see Tommy’s got a 
lot of hay down and the sky looks threat- 
ening, big heavy clouds. All the neighbors 
come, you get as many wagons as you 
can. Everybody just goes at it. Before 
you know it, that hay is in the barn. 
We all pitched in together on a lot of 
jobs that were hard, tedious work, making 
them fun. Like husking corn. Before the 
corn went into the corn crib to dry, it 
had to be husked. All the neighbors would 
come to the barn on a Sunday afternoon, 
and we would husk and drink and sing. 
If you got a red ear you could go gather 
a kiss from the girl or boy of your choice. 
Sil sings a little song about all this: 
The hay’s all cut, 
the fodder’s in the shock, 
and the barn’s all ready 
for the winter stock. 
And the thrifty farmer, 
says, says he, 
time to be a-planning 
for a husking bee. 
But is there anything that can sub- 
stitute for standing in the midst of 
a blackberry or raspberry field, the 
hot August afternoon ripening the ber- 
ries almost quicker than you can pick 
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