Ahmonmelchu

Growing up I was a "city kid."  That's how I thought of myself back then because I lived in town, and a lot of the kids I went to school and church with lived on farms or ranches or otherwise out in the country.  Looking back I don't know how anybody who lives in a town of 10,000 could be a "city kid." 

I was tall and skinny at fourteen, and hard physical labor just wasn't part of my life.  Nevertheless, an aura of toughness was required at that age, of course, so I played some sports and lifted some weights sometimes.  I just didn't do the kind of daily chores that made a hardened body.

One of the ranchers that went to our church needed help baling hay one Saturday in August, so he hired me to augment his regular crew. (Everybody called him Little Woody, but he wasn't little; he was the firstborn son of Woodrow.)  He picked me up that morning on the way out to Hollister where we would be throwing the hay bales. 

Soon after I got in the truck he looked over at me and said, "Ahmonmelchu," which, translated from Southern drawl into standard English, was, "I'm going to melt you." I knew exactly what he meant--I would be earning every dime of my pay.  I had thrown hay bales before, but never the number I would handle that Saturday. 

When everybody arrived at Osteen's hay fields in Hollister we started loading the trucks and horse trailers with all the bales that could be stuffed in or on them. The driver would follow the path of the baler while the crew walked along behind throwing the bales on the truck or trailer.

A good dry bale of hay might weigh 40-50 pounds. Ideally, they get that light because the cut hay has lain in the field and dried out several days before baling.  If rain is threatening, you might not have the luxury of letting it dry that long.  That day we were throwing fairly wet hay, and the bales were probably 60-70 pounds each.  It was a long, hot day.

I must have done satisfactory work, because Little Woody put me on his crew throwing hay after school each day until the end of the season.  There were five or six boys on the crew, and we had a grand time throwing the bales on the truck and then stacking them in the barn.

Anyway, by the time we finished work that first Saturday it was near dark.  Heading back through town on Highway 17 I told Little Woody he could just stop at 8th Street, and I would walk the three blocks to home.  He said he'd be happy to take me home, but I insisted so he dropped me off there on the corner.  I suppose I wanted to prove to him that I had some strength left in me.

He paid me in cash for the day's labor ($2 an hour), and I started walking. I began to realize on that short walk home that I was seriously exhausted. I don't know whether Little Woody was a master motivator, or if he really believed what he said to me to start the day, but I do know he got his money's worth out of me.

When I walked in the front door at home, I was too tired to climb the stairs to my room, and I lay down on the carpet to rest for a few minutes. That's where I woke up Sunday morning.  Little Woody had melted me that day, but I wasn't going to let him know it.