HAYSTACKS ©Dennis LegerTowering cumulus clouds briefly shaded the valley floor as I turned from the highway tothe county road. When the shadows climbed the mountainside, brilliant sunshine emerged to

illuminate the fields of what had been my grandparents’ farm. I stopped the car and ignored my

family for the moment. In an instant more than 30 years disappeared. Almost dizzy withnostalgia I thought I could see chi

ldren running toward McGee’s field. Ahead of them were three

haystacks.

“Dad, is this where you used to live?” David looked up from the game he was playing in

the back seat of our van. My wife and I were on a summer vacation with our children. Twonational parks were a few hours away but this was my chance to show my family where theirgrandfather had farmed and where I was raised. Except for years of neglect, nothing hadchanged. The house and outbuildings, much smaller than I remembered, were still there.The fields, stream and woods where I played with my older sisters were familiar. On thenorth edge of the farm tall cottonwoods sheltered a small creek, a trickle in the summer deepenough for wading. Behind the barn there was a parade of old machinery to climb upon andpretend to drive. Astride strange metal seats, pulling rusty levers and pushing pedals, wepretended to race ahead of each other. And Grandpa had two old horses that ran away wheneverwe tried to ride them.No one told us why we had moved to the farm. We knew only that Grandpa was sick andDad was out of work. My grandparents moved to a house in town and we rented the farm. Wewere excited about moving to the country. My sisters and I had visited before, but there hadnever been such freedom to explore or so much to learn.Even before we had fully explored the farm we started over at a new school. My sistershad always been jealous of the country kids who came to school on the bus. Now we would bethe privileged children who did not have to walk to school. On the first day we waited anxiously

by the driveway for the big orange bus to make the turn from the state highway a mile away.When we climbed aboard for the first time, the bus became strangely silent. Strange facesstared back at us. We were new kids, but not for long. In a minute the bus became noisy and webegan to make friends. The bus windows were steamy. The early September air was cool, thefields golden and the pastures green. Everything was new: the bus, school, teachers and friends.For lunch we had cheese sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and a crisp apple. I wondered if there

were any memories that this view of my Grandparents’ farm could not bring back?

After school each day we were free to find our own fun. Adventure awaited in everydirection. Missy, my oldest sister was the most careful. Dora was in the middle, three years olderthan I and always in a hurry. They were obligated to take care of me. I tagged along whereverthey went, ready for any adventure but always the slow poke.

“Hurry up!” they yelled.

I followed at a run, struggling to keep up. They knew if they got too far ahead I wouldstart to cry and they would be in trouble with Mother.One afternoon that fall we met two older boys walking along the county road. We did notknow any more about them than we knew about haystacks. But we were all quick learners,

running as fast as we could across McGee’s field.

Each haystack was a challenge. It was hard to climb the steep sides at first. Once at thetop, you could nearly stand until you lost your balance in the softness. Then you slid down theother side, jumping into the soft hay without being hurt. We had hay fights, throwing fistfuls of hay at each other. Or handfuls could be tossed high into the mountain breeze just to see thepieces blow away. It was innocent fun. And when one haystack was flattened there was alwaysone more. Be the first to run to the next haystack! Be the first to climb to the top and slide to thebottom! Could a carnival thrill ride have been more fun?Then we heard a shout. A man was running toward us from across the field. We were sofrightened that we ran away as fast as we could. My sisters did not have to tell me to hurry. I hadnever run so fast in my life. Out of breath from the chase, we hid in a ditch until we were sure we

had not been followed.We did not know what we had done because we did not understand the value of haystacks. Old Mr. McGee had worked hard to put up hay, winter survival for his animals. Thehay had to be mowed, raked into rows, and then pitched onto a wagon by hand. From the rack, itwas pitched higher and higher until the stack was as big as a house. Even if he had been able toafford a baler, McGee would have put up hay the old fashioned way, as he had been taught byhis father and grandfather.

On the school bus the next day, the older children were pointing at McGee’s hayfield. “Iwonder how that happened?” they asked each other, laughing.

We rubbed at the steamy windows with our sleeves to see what was so funny. There were

the remains of McGee’s haystacks spread about his field. Missy and Dory and I exchanged

glances. We were afraid. Somehow we knew we had not heard the last of Mr. McGee.That same night, at dinnertime, we were curious when a pick-up truck came into thedriveway. Running out of the house, we were motioned back in by our father who must have

known by the look on old McGee’s face that something was wrong. When the truck drove away

my father came into the kitchen with a dark look on his face. He slowly unbuckled his belt.

“Did you tear down three haystacks yesterday after school?”

“No, we didn’t tear anything down,” we whined. “We played in the hay, that’s all.”

Whack! Whack!My sisters cried harder each time they felt the snap of the leather on their bottoms. I crieda little harder with each crack of the belt. I was terrified. My father had never done this before.Mother sat tight-lipped, staring at the table. Dinner was getting cold, but she did not interfere.

“Now you

think about this when you want to ruin property that doesn’t belong to you, thenext time you ruin someone’s hard work!”

Whack! His belt talked and his little girls screamed.As the youngest I was spared the belt. I had been an innocent follower of my big sisters.Yet I felt every blow as if it had been delivered to my own behind. I knew that I had enjoyed