He's Quick!

I needed a new bale of hay brought into the barn. These aren't just your ordinary, toss-'em-in-the-back-of-the-truck bales—no, sir. These are the big round bales, wrapped in white plastic so they look like giant marshmallows that could take down a small car. They weigh approximately a bazillion pounds, give or take a hernia, and require a tractor, a chain, and a man who’s feeling strong and helpful. Or at least present.

So yesterday, I reminded GS (that’s Grandson for those of you not fluent in Farm Family Hierarchy) that I needed a bale moved into the barn. Nothing urgent—I had enough hay to get through the night—but I gently suggested he do it during daylight, while the tractor was thawed and his conscience was still awake.

He, of course, insisted that he’d handle it in the morning. I should have known right then and there that I’d be feeding a horse off a snow-dusted marshmallow in the dark while muttering unkind things under my breath.

Morning came. As mornings do.

He strolled in, still in snowboard-mode, and casually informed me that he would have moved the bale but was having “tractor issues.” Turns out, one of the front wheels has this cute little habit of freezing up overnight and not turning until it decides it's ready. Like a diva with seasonal depression. According to him, this has happened before, so you’d think it wouldn’t be a surprise. And yet… here we are.

Then came the brilliant solution:
“Why don’t you just open the bale outside, take hay off it as you need it, cover it with a tarp, and move it into the barn later?”

Ah yes. The ol' "You do it" plan. Always a crowd favorite.

I gave him the look—you know the one—and reminded him that perhaps this is exactly why I’d asked him to move it yesterday when the tractor still worked and the snowboarding trip wasn’t yet breathing down his neck.

I also made it clear that I was not about to unroll a bazillion-pound bale out in the snow and try to hand-feed it like a giant hay sushi roll. Nor was I about to wrangle the tractor with a frozen wheel just because he had other plans. I pointed out that with two grown men in the house, there were certain jobs that I should never have to concern myself with.

#1: Tractor problems.
#2: Wrestling a giant bale of hay by myself.

Then I asked—very calmly and reasonably, mind you—
“If I have to do it myself, then why do I keep menfolk around?”

Without missing a beat, this smart-mouthed teenager, who is clearly learning how to survive life on this farm, said:

“To blame things on when they go wrong.”

Well. I can’t even be mad. That’s solid reasoning. He’s learning. I may still be feeding the horse myself, but at least the comedy is free.

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