The bale wagon was a very curious contraption. It's cubic shape followed the tractor, greedily slurping the bales onto a table, and when the table was full, it would raise the bales back into a lovely stacked column. Five columns of hay could be loaded onto this bale wagon, making the chore of hauling hay a much faster one, indeed.
When the columns of hay edged closer and closer to the back of the wagon, the children would jump off and run alongside the tractor or scramble onto the crowded four wheeler with the older children and my father. Today, as we prepared to pick up the last remaining bales that would complete the five columns on the bale wagon, two of my siblings appeared, running alongside the tractor. The thought of where the youngest child was entered my mind, but I supposed him to be on the other side. The tractor kept moving, the bale wagon kept eating, and the final row was pushed up into place.
The shrill screams of my youngest sister suddenly pierced the air, noticeably louder than the roar over the tractor.
“Mom, stop! Stop the tractor!”
The words were like a gun at the beginning of a race; my dad and the eldest of us shot from the four wheeler and my mom shot from the seat of the tractor, racing toward the back end of the bale wagon.
Nathan, the youngest of the children and only five years of age, hadn't been able to get off the bale wagon quick enough. The bales had been loaded and the last column of bales had been pushed to its extent, trapping the little boy's neck. Nathan hung there, screaming.
Dad was the quickest to react. Rushing to his son, he relieved the pressure from Nathan's neck by letting him rest on his knee. Siblings all around me were crying, offering prayers with worry on their faces.
“Can we turn off the tractor?” someone asked, fear apparent in their voice.
Mom's worry was obvious as she put her fingers to her temples and muttered, “Um... uh... yeah...” She rushed out of sight toward the tractor and soon all fell silent except for my brother's screaming and the whimpers of my siblings.
Mom and one of my brother's jumped onto the bale wagon and began throwing bales of hay to the ground. I climbed to help them, but was soon beckoned by my father.
“Jessica, comfort him, hold him up,” he commanded, as I drew near, “and keep the pressure off his neck.” Dad made sure I had Nathan steady, and then disappeared from sight as he hoisted himself onto the bale wagon to help throw bales off.
“How ya' feelin', little man?” I asked Nathan as I leaned down to look into his face. My siblings looked at their brother, awaiting an answer. “Is it squeezing you at all?”
Nathan sniffled. “A little bit.”
“Yeah, you'll probably have a bruise there,” I said. “But don't worry. We'll figure a way to get you out of there, 'kay?”
As I stood there, keeping Nathan from hanging himself, one of my brothers, who had been part of the teary-eyed mosaic surrounding the bale wagon finally spoke. “Can you lift him over the bars?”
I followed with my eyes the path where Nathan's neck was stuck. Yes, I could lift him up and over if I was two or three feet taller.
It was at that moment that the bale of hay appeared right beside me. I don't know if it was there before or not, but I sure hadn't noticed it in the past. It was just the added amount of height I needed, and I was able to lift my little brother up and over the bars of the machine.
The cheers of my siblings brought my brother and parents down from the stack of bales, and everyone crowded around little Nathan, making sure he was okay physically as well as mentally. Of course, after that incident my parents set in stone the rule that no one would ride on the back of the bale wagon again.
No comments:
Post a Comment