(The following was written by Yvette L. Maurey, and is reprinted from “Reflections”, a collection of local stories available at the Grove City Welcome Center and Museum. Any opinions made in the article are from the author.)
Sis and I pulled out the tractor
and the hay rake from the barn.
The hay was dry and ready
to take in from the field on our farm.
We hitched the tractor to the rake;
Annie, the driver, was only nine.
I was eleven. The job of working
the rake lever was mine.
‘Round and ’round the field we worked–
The dust and smell of hay in my nose;
the sun shone brown upon my back–
I raked the hay in neat, long rows.
When the rows were piled long and high,
we unhooked the rake from the Farmall Cub.
Brother Russ got the pitchforks out,
and hitched the trailer up.
Annie, still in the driver’s seat;
Russ and I pitched the twisted clover
under the trailer until we cleaned
up the hey the field over.
Russ and I rode back to the barn,
and there we both jumped down.
Dad was there to help Russ toss
the stuff up to the hay-mow.
At times we did sneak up to that mow
and hide ‘til someone poked with a pitch.
Mom guessed our secret hiding place,
‘cause we’d acquire an awful itch!