Farming: “Tricks of the Trade” ~ February 28, 1985

David Heiller

A lot of thoughts come to mind when I try to pin down my favorite farm story. There was the time my cousin, Donise, sat on a bumblebee. It stung her in a rather awkward spot, and swelled up like a plum. Once the pain stopped and the tears dried, she proudly showed her badge of courage to everyone around. She was about 10 years old at the time.

Haying in North Dakota. A Schnick family photo.

Another memory is when my Uncle Donny tricked me. (I should say one of the many times when he tricked me.) We were pulling a hay wagon down from a hay field on the ridge above his valley farm. Donny had two iron wedges that he would put in front of the steel-rimmed wagon wheels. This would help slow the wagon as we crawled down the steep hill, tractor in low gear and me hanging for dear life on top of five layers of hay bales.

0ne time, when we got to the bottom of the hill safely, Donny backed the wagon off the wedges, and ran his hand over the smooth wedge, “Gee `this is the smoothest thing you can imagine, he said, looking at me with a smile.

Oh, pinball.

“Yeah, lemme see,” I said, and ran my hand over the steel. Ouch! That steel wasn’t only smooth; it was red hot, after grinding against a steel rim for a mile. Donny laughed. His hand had stroked air, not steel. Eleven-year-old boys don’t notice such details.

Still another story took place over the course of an entire summer. I was helping my brother with haying on Donny’s farm. My brother wasn’t exactly overpaid, but he said he would pay me for my help. At age 10, I may have been more hindrance than help. But still I packed bales in the barn loft, probably the hottest and most miserable summer job you can ask for. Dust cakes, your face and neck. Bales scratch your forearms if you’re stupid enough to wear short-sleeved shirts.

Gloveless hands sprout blisters.

At the end of the summer, I timidly asked my brother for my wages. He gave me a 50-cent piece. My brother made the pharaohs of Egypt look like liberal Democrats. Still, I accepted the money, and announced that I would spend it carefully in the pinball machines at K-Mart in LaCrosse the following Saturday, when we all went to town.

That was too much for my brother. “If that’s the way you spend your summer money, forget it,” he said, and took back the half dollar. I cried. But I learned an important lesson: Don’t tell anyone, not even your brother, how you plan to invest your money.