Hot Summer Afternoon

Hot Summer Afternoon

By John W. Vander Velden                 

Wiping his sweat covered brow with a faded red handkerchief, the damp rag, in truth, of little benefit.  The farmer has not lost track of the hours spent beneath the summer sun; hours raking hay, cured.  Squinting, Claude examines the sky, clouds building to his west…concerning.  The crop nearly ready, the next task at hand, now not the time to rest.  His damp shirt sticking to flesh goes unnoticed; other things fill the man’s mind.  Hurrying, Claude exchanges equipment.  Rake replaced by baler.  Time passes.  The wind hot as now…thump…thump…thump the machine labors, compressing the long ribbons of green into twine bound rectangles laid in rows.  Rank after rank made…rank after rank as dust and sweat, an unpleasant mix, cover the man. The machine shakes his tractor while the roaring engine sways beneath the load of each plunger stroke. Thump…thump…thump…Claude counts, thirteen strokes to a bale.  The pace will do.  Once more he rearranges sweat and sticky green with the saturated bandana.  Though moving at a walking pace, he wrestles the steering wheel.  Little room for error.  Claude must remain constantly aware.  His ears tune to the rhythm of engine and baler while eyes watch the hay flow as devoured.  Counting strokes, hearing the needles thrust…the clinkety-clink of the knotters.  The count begins again.  Claude measures the windrows that remain against his watch and darkening sky.  Perhaps the weather will hold, on that he has no confidence.  Time seems the enemy. Thump…thump…thump…whoof… clinkety-clink…sweat pours…the hours pass.  The last bale finished, it is only six-thirty and still “hotter than….” Claude refuses to think the word, as once more he mops his brow.  A swig…the water bottle now empty…a task complete…the day certainly not ended.  For those neat rows, the hundreds of green soldiers must be lifted, stacked and put away before the old man can go at last to his rest…satisfied.  Later with steady hands Claude races across the field.  The cleverness, of this machine, never ceases to amaze.  Yet it takes nearly three hours, as alone he works, as alone he completes the task others might think impossible.  Lightning flashes across the darkening sky, as with haste Claude rushes home.  Wind shifts, the temp falls, the first large warm drops pelt the farmer bouncing along as he races toward the barn.   Tractor and load brought inside as the rain, thunderously loud, pounds the metal roof overhead.  The musty damp scent fills his nostrils, as he fights the wind and forces the large doors closed.  Claude now leaning against that stubborn door, the first time considers the day.  With closed eyes and a smile, thanking God he has beaten the rain.  The old farmer draws a breath.  In the dimness he sees the fruits of the long hours…the sweat.  But in the end Claude understands it was just another hot summer afternoon.  

(486 Words)