You don't know how lucky you are
You don’t know how lucky you are
The humungous tractor rolled in with the nine-disc mower
sticking up like Auckland’s Sky Tower.
''Now tell me where
to go, Elaine,” said the contractor. “I'll have this bowled over before
afternoon smoko. Hop in and I’ll take you around the paddocks.''
I climbed into the blissfully cool airconditioned cab,
hitting my head on the roof.
''Whoa! Watch out, there's a stream over to the right hidden
under the tall ryegrass.''
The flat hay paddocks were cunningly fenced so each has at
least 10 metres of fresh water flowing through them.
''Watch out for those hens nesting in the paddock.”
Pop, my father-in- law, used to mow these same paddocks with
his David Brown petrol tractor and sickle bar mower. Nesting turkeys,
pheasants, pukeko and other feral fowl would fly up squawking and screeching.
If they weren’t quick enough they ended up receiving a tonsillectomy,
appendectomy, or a vasectomy, then went on to someone’s plate or in the heneke
(eel trap).
I thought back to when we were kids and used to go with Mum
during the summer holidays to help harvest about two acres of hay for an
elderly Swiss couple. Mum spoke their language fluently AND was a welcome guest
for both a chat and to help with the hay.
For afternoon tea, and our only reward, we would be given
cocoa made from goats’ milk which always seemed to get a skin on the top. The
farmer would strain his cocoa through his wide waxed moustache leaving a
cobweb-like look on his upper lip. This, plus the adults talking in another
language, sent my brother and I into peals of laughter and we would be sent
outside.
If that couple were alive today, they would be amazed at the
machinery used for modern harvesting.
We got our 1000 bales
of hay in on December 23 amid showers of rain, with friends, neighbours and
relatives all rallying to help before the skies opened up.
Big burn
The following year, in early spring, a friend and I were
driving home late in the afternoon when she looked up and said: “Wow! Someone
sure has a big fire up by your runoff.''
''Probably someone cleaning up before the fire restrictions
come in next month,” I replied.
I arrived home to see the message light flickering on my
answerphone and pressed play. A distraught voice said: ''Elaine, get up here
quickly – your hay barn is on fire.” Ten minutes later I was confronted with
three fire engines, a massive pile of burning haybales, cinders everywhere and
firemen pumping water from the creek. A neighbouring farmer was on his tractor
pushing bales through the back of the barn and over the bank where they
smouldered for four days.
Most of our local voluntary firemen are dairy farmers and
offers of replacement hay were made there and then, while another hobby farmer
insisted on donating me 40 conventional bales. The next day, a stock agent
found me 600 bales.
That evening, as I was on the phone to the police, I got a
crushing pain in my chest and told the policewoman I wanted to hang up as I
felt faint. No way would she let me put down the phone and she ordered an ambulance.
Trussed
Forty minutes later it arrived and I was bundled in,
pricked, prodded and trussed up like a Christmas turkey.
Five minutes down the road the driver said: ''Elaine, are we
going the right way?''
I replied: “I'm going backwards, it's dark outside, I'm up
to the eyeballs with morphine, there’s a lure in my arm, something shoved up my
nose – what’s the problem?''
“My GPS system says go right,'' he said.
''No that’s the scenic route and 10 minutes longer,” I
replied.
Twenty hours later, I was allowed home with a still painful
attack of reflux – what a relief.
Some children had found a cigarette lighter and were playing
with it in the barn. Luckily I was insured and so grateful that no one was
hurt.
I’m still very humbled by all the help I received, realising if you've got friends and
neighbours you're the richest one in town.
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