Late June in Ontario, Dad’s station wagon pack and pointed northward. It was hayin’ season on my Uncle’s farm and for the next week it was all hands on deck.
Riding the fields, we’d watch our fathers, row upon row, hooking the rectangular blocks emerging from the contraption sandwiched between tractor and trailer, neatly stacking the bales, back to front.
Somewhere in the middle we’d play in the hayblock forts fashioned for us while they toiled in the midday sun.
As always, the harvest would come to an end but we wished we could live on the farm forever.
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