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 Fred Gets A Hayfork Ride
by Bruce Gardner
Milking time--the best time of the day. To my two younger brothers and me, all of us under ten years of age, that meant it was time to play in the creek in warm weather and in the barn in cold weather. My siblings, Fred, Dave, and sister Carolyn lived with our extended family on a hill farm in East Tennessee. My Grandfather, Popaw to us, raised corn, Hereford cattle, and planted a large garden. Popaw kept a mule, mostly for her entertainment value, and tended a few chickens. The most scheduled event of the day was milking time and Daisy, the Jersey cow, was the first female Popaw greeted in the morning and the recipient of his attentions again at 4:00 in the afternoon.
The old barn we three brothers played in was an ancient, sorry affair. The barn consisted of a central crib of notched logs stacked on big rocks at the corners. This central core, dating back a century, served as the manger and one stall. Succeeding generations of hill farmers had added onto this log pile with wings, a covered hallway, additional stalls, and a hay loft. Of the many farmer/builders who had left their mark on this structure, none had displayed any discernible talent for building. The barn was drafty, sagging in three planes, low ceiling on the ground floor, had never seen a paint brush, and I loved it.
Suspended from the ridge pole above the hay loft ran a track along which a hayfork rode. This contraption, which was standard equipment in all hill country barns, had four slightly curved arms measuring some four feet in length which formed the hayfork. In use, the hayfork was slid along its track and beyond the barn loft, the supporting track being protected from the elements by a cobbled-up barn roof extension. The hayfork would be lowered into a hay wagon parked beneath that was piled high with loose hay. The old John Deere tractor was hitched to a pull rope on the opposite side of the barn and, by driving the tractor away from the barn, a large fork-full of hay would be hoisted from the wagon and into the barn. In the Winter this hayfork saw other, more inventive, uses.
We brothers had discovered that we could climb atop the mounds of loose hay in the loft and hitch a ride on the hayfork. The two kids not riding would grasp the trip rope, give the rope a tug, and send the lucky rider, suspended by a hand-hold from the forks, sailing down the length of the barn. The trick for the rider was to let go before gliding out over a patch of bare loft floor far below, or worse still, the manger beyond.
The manger, viewed from the barn loft, was nothing more than a square hole in the loft floor, measuring about eight feet across. Popaw would toss loose hay from the loft level through this manger opening to the manger below for the dining enjoyment of the cattle gathered there.
On this particular afternoon, the weather was cool and my brothers and I were wearing light jackets. I do not remember what Dave's jacket looked like and I don't remember mine, but Fred's jacket I can vividly describe. This jacket was bright red in color, obviously dyed that way after it was sewn together because the color was richer on the outside than on the inside. The collar was short and squared-off at the corners. A full length zipper closed the front while a single button was affixed at the cuffs.
Dave took the first ride because he was the youngest and smallest and usually received the honor of making all trial runs, whatever the escapade. Fred and I tugged the trip rope, sending the hayfork careening across the barn with Dave, small hands white-knuckled, dangling beneath. With his best impression of a Tarzan yell, Dave let out a whoop and let go, falling to the loose hay piles far below.
I took my turn without mishap and now it was Fred's turn. Fred was the lightest of the three of us, actually downright scrawny, and rather than hang below the hayfork, he leaned across the curving forks, resting his waist in the cradle of the metal forks. Dave and I grabbed the rope, gave it a heave-ho and sent Fred on his way.
During the initial leg of Fred's journey he made no sound. His eyes had a funny, propped open look to them, and his unzipped red jacket billowed out around him, caught in the air currents of his gathering speed.
Fred timed his release just about right and launched himself up and off the arms of the hayfork while still over loose hay. As Fred's skinny frame slid past the end of his sky vehicle, that little red jacket, unzipped and waving, caught on the end of the forks. Now suspended beneath, and dangling with hunched shoulders, Fred broke his self-imposed silence on this, the second leg of his journey. Screaming and kicking and squirming, Fred shot out over the open floor of the hay loft. Dave and I stood motionless and helpless as Fred retreated into the distance.
As the hayfork sailed over the hole in the loft floor for the manger, Fred's little jacket ripped from all the wriggling and he was released from the grasp of the hayfork. Fred continued his loud, high pitched chortles on this the third leg of his journey as he experienced a quite impressive free-fall past the loft floor and disappeared down into the manger.
All became quiet. Dave and I stared across the loft, straining to hear something from Fred. Even a moan would have been welcomed. No sound--no sound at all.
Dave turned to me for answers as I am the oldest and asked, "What are we going to do?"
I thought for a moment and replied, "I guess we better go tell Mother that Fred is dead."
"Shouldn't we go check on Him?"
"Naw, I'm pretty sure he's dead and we'll need some help getting him out of there."
"Boy, Mother sure is going to be mad this time. This is even worse than last time." Dave looked at his feet.
"Dave," I replied, thinking fast now, "Maybe if we get Fred's red jacket and take it to Mother to prove that we at least know where Fred is, she won't be so mad."
Dave and I slid down the hay stacks, reached the loft floor, and sprinted across the loft to Fred's tomb--the manger. Peering down into the gloom of the manger, our nervous stare was met by Fred's bug-eyed gaze.
"Get me out of here.", says Fred.
Dave and I jumped down into the manger and maneuvered Fred between the slats to freedom. By the time Dave and I joined each other outside the barn, Fred was half-way up the hill towards home, elbows pumping, and the little red jacket inflated once more, billowing behind Fred's retreating figure.
Dave and I hung around the old barn for a good hour, delaying our fate. Finally driven home by darkness and cold, we quietly slipped in the back door and headed for the bedroom we three shared. Mother intercepted us at the bedroom door and our hearts sank.
Funny thing about Mothers. She was so happy that Fred was still alive after his harrowing adventure that she completely forgot to punish the lot of us. Exacting our sacred promise to never ride the hayfork again, Mother seemed satisfied and my brothers and I escaped to live and ride another day.
I'll be seeing you out there.
September 6, 2000
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