Haying With Rich
"The doctors said my heart literally fell apart in their hands."
I'm not exactly sure when I heard those words, but I certainly have never forgotten them. They were spoken by my first employer, Rich Nelson. I was reminded of him - and the summer job he gave me - on a drive across western Wisconsin yesterday.
Almost entirely rural, western Wisconsin is covered with rolling hills and farmland. During my three-hour drive I saw field after field of freshly cut and baled hay. Not the same hay bales I could recall from my youth - these bales were large rolls that could only be loaded onto trailers with modern machinery, not a teenager equipped with two simple hay hooks.
Still, those large bales made me think of Rich. Retired from the U.S. Air Force, he and his family relocated to a small farm in rural Carlton County, 20 miles south of Duluth, Minnesota in the early 80's. A short, wiry man - Rich was obstinate and opinionated - a real barker - and altogether intimidating to a 16 year-old boy.
Unfortunately, my first introduction to Rich was not a positive one. His daughter and I became friends in the fall of '83 and briefly dated the following spring - which, following an "incident" - is when Rich's first impression of me was undoubtedly formed.
Rich's daughter was not allowed to have any friends over when he and is wife were out of this house. A sound rule. But, being a typical teen, she decided - at least in my case - to completely ignore this. Either way, we were both flabbergasted when we saw Rich's truck pull into the driveway hours before they were supposed to be home. Apparently, "trust but confirm" is not a new adage.
Straight from the script of a bad sit-com, I was immediately (and ridiculously) stuffed into a coat closet. In hindsight it's hilarious - at the time I was terrified. This guy had served a tour in Vietnam for chrissakes! Physical violence was on my mind. But to my surprise and relief Rich simply said, "You can come out now, Eric." We didn't linger. He ordered his daughter to drive me home. We half-heartedly dated for another month, but it was all downhill after I came out of the closet. Literally.
To my great relief, Rich's daughter and I seamlessly returned to the friendship we had started with - and continue (albeit long distance) - to this day. Rich was another story. At the time, I simply chalked the whole thing up to a dad who would forever have a low opinion of me. Eh, I was 16 - what did I care?
Whether it was desperation, or his daughter had worked on him, Rich gave me a call three months later. "Am I in more trouble?" I wondered. "Maybe he's not through with me?" Turns out, neither.
"How would you like to make a little money?" he pointedly asked. I hesitantly replied that I would. "Good, I'll be right over."
Farm fields that go unplanted grow grass - hay. That hay is harvested once or twice a summer and fed to cows and horses throughout the following winter. So, "haying" - the cutting and bundling of field grass - is performed in the high heat of summer by cheap labor. That's where I came into the picture. Rich would drive the tractor, pulling the baler and hay wagon which I would man, retrieving and stacking hay bales. Sounded simple enough.
"Oh, by the way," Rich directed me, "make sure to wear jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. These bales can really tear up your arms. And bring water, lots of water." Okay, I thought. Sounds like a good workout, but I've never been afraid of a little sweat.
To this day, I don't think I've ever worked so hard. 90+ degrees, fully clothed, manning a hay wagon alone. I had no idea what I was in for, but I'm pretty sure Rich did. Payback? Maybe at first.
Within 30 minutes, I was on the verge of losing a lunch I hadn't eaten yet. I couldn't catch my breathe but I couldn't stop either. Bundled bales continued to emerge onto the wagon bed in front of me. Rich didn't slow down or look back to see how I was managing. He didn't think much of me and we both knew it. Test or not, I fought through a few rounds of dry heaves and continued to slap hay hooks into bale after bale until the wagon was loaded front to back, six high. Finally, he glanced back and gave me a smirk, but a nod of the head as well. I had turned a corner with Rich Nelson that - until that moment - I hadn't realized I wanted to turn. Sure, I wanted a little bit of his money, but I wanted his respect more.
And so it went for the next two weeks - Rich on the tractor, me back on the wagon huffing and puffing, but growing stronger each day. After each full load, he would back the wagon into the barn where we would unload the bales together. Conversations became easier, though Rich would frequently slip into monologue mode, pontificating on whatever subject he had an opinion on, which were many. Still, I appreciated that he thought enough of me to share them out loud, whether I agreed with him or not. Something told me Rich missed (and loved) having an audience.
Hovering, however, over all of our hard and taxing work was my very real fear that Rich Nelson might drop dead in front of me at any moment. Oh, did I forget to mention Rich's rapidly failing heart?
In his short time in my hometown, Rich had quickly become a minor celebrity because he was on a donor list to receive someone else's heart. Not a very common occurrence more than 30 years ago (or now for that matter). So, from the first day on that hay wagon I was silently reviewing the CPR instructions I had learned in 9th grade health class. Fifteen compressions, two breaths, fifteen compressions, two breaths. Every time Rich bent over to catch his breathe, stuck his head under the baler to clear a jam, or caught the bales I was tossing to him in the barn, I tensed with fearful anticipation. I thought he was crazy to push himself so hard. I really didn't expect he would finish out that first week still alive. No kidding. And I innately knew I shouldn't bring up the subject of his health. The only time I asked him if he was okay (after he had leapt off the tractor and was yanking on the baler) he stood up, wiped his brow and curtly said, "I'm fine. Worry about your own damn self. You think I didn't see you practically throwing up the other day." I laughed despite his seriousness.
But he lived. And kept on living right through the next summer as well. I looked forward to haying with Rich the second time around. The work didn't scare me any longer and Rich always paid more than he promised. And he was good company. On the last day of haying that second summer, Rich told his wife to put steaks on the grill and asked me if I wanted a beer. It was shitty beer - Blatz. Few beers are worse. But to this day I honestly haven't tasted a better one. After six hours hooking hay on the back end of a hot July afternoon, that beer was perfection. The memory is still crystal clear.
Rich made a point of checking up on me from time to time after I went off to college and would throw a little bit of work my way now and then when I was home on breaks. I was even in his daughter's wedding in 1988, and treated like family. Rich even paid for my tux.
Eventually though, Rich's borrowed time was up. His own ailing heart couldn't wait any longer. Although I'm not sure of the year), I visited Rich and his family at the University of Minnesota Hospital one day in the early 90's after he had received a new, healthy heart. Lying prone, but fully conscious on the bed he said to me matter-of-factly . . .
"Eric, the doctors said my heart literally fell apart in their hands." Those words chill me even today.
Rich Nelson's family (hell, even Rich himself) would be the first to say that he could be a real son-of-a-bitch at times. He even knew himself well enough to command that his own tombstone be inscribed with one word Unyielding. Truer words were never spoken.
Unyielding can mean a multitude of things, both positive and negative. But I only knew Rich one way, so my memories are tainted. And I'm okay with that. To me, he was unyielding in the face of pity and death - day after day after day after day. He never seemed to feel sorry for himself and must have woken up each morning resolving to live life the way he wanted to - whether it was his last day or not.
I wish I could remember the last time I saw Rich, but I can't. He eventually died in 2009, living nearly 20 years with a different heart than the one he had started his life with. This heart enabled him to see grandchildren born, as well as return him and his wife to live his final years among family and friends among the farm fields of Nebraska (undoubtedly where he held court until the very end). Remarkable and Unyielding.
Unfortunately, my first introduction to Rich was not a positive one. His daughter and I became friends in the fall of '83 and briefly dated the following spring - which, following an "incident" - is when Rich's first impression of me was undoubtedly formed.
Rich's daughter was not allowed to have any friends over when he and is wife were out of this house. A sound rule. But, being a typical teen, she decided - at least in my case - to completely ignore this. Either way, we were both flabbergasted when we saw Rich's truck pull into the driveway hours before they were supposed to be home. Apparently, "trust but confirm" is not a new adage.
Straight from the script of a bad sit-com, I was immediately (and ridiculously) stuffed into a coat closet. In hindsight it's hilarious - at the time I was terrified. This guy had served a tour in Vietnam for chrissakes! Physical violence was on my mind. But to my surprise and relief Rich simply said, "You can come out now, Eric." We didn't linger. He ordered his daughter to drive me home. We half-heartedly dated for another month, but it was all downhill after I came out of the closet. Literally.
To my great relief, Rich's daughter and I seamlessly returned to the friendship we had started with - and continue (albeit long distance) - to this day. Rich was another story. At the time, I simply chalked the whole thing up to a dad who would forever have a low opinion of me. Eh, I was 16 - what did I care?
Whether it was desperation, or his daughter had worked on him, Rich gave me a call three months later. "Am I in more trouble?" I wondered. "Maybe he's not through with me?" Turns out, neither.
"How would you like to make a little money?" he pointedly asked. I hesitantly replied that I would. "Good, I'll be right over."
Farm fields that go unplanted grow grass - hay. That hay is harvested once or twice a summer and fed to cows and horses throughout the following winter. So, "haying" - the cutting and bundling of field grass - is performed in the high heat of summer by cheap labor. That's where I came into the picture. Rich would drive the tractor, pulling the baler and hay wagon which I would man, retrieving and stacking hay bales. Sounded simple enough.
"Oh, by the way," Rich directed me, "make sure to wear jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. These bales can really tear up your arms. And bring water, lots of water." Okay, I thought. Sounds like a good workout, but I've never been afraid of a little sweat.
To this day, I don't think I've ever worked so hard. 90+ degrees, fully clothed, manning a hay wagon alone. I had no idea what I was in for, but I'm pretty sure Rich did. Payback? Maybe at first.
Within 30 minutes, I was on the verge of losing a lunch I hadn't eaten yet. I couldn't catch my breathe but I couldn't stop either. Bundled bales continued to emerge onto the wagon bed in front of me. Rich didn't slow down or look back to see how I was managing. He didn't think much of me and we both knew it. Test or not, I fought through a few rounds of dry heaves and continued to slap hay hooks into bale after bale until the wagon was loaded front to back, six high. Finally, he glanced back and gave me a smirk, but a nod of the head as well. I had turned a corner with Rich Nelson that - until that moment - I hadn't realized I wanted to turn. Sure, I wanted a little bit of his money, but I wanted his respect more.
And so it went for the next two weeks - Rich on the tractor, me back on the wagon huffing and puffing, but growing stronger each day. After each full load, he would back the wagon into the barn where we would unload the bales together. Conversations became easier, though Rich would frequently slip into monologue mode, pontificating on whatever subject he had an opinion on, which were many. Still, I appreciated that he thought enough of me to share them out loud, whether I agreed with him or not. Something told me Rich missed (and loved) having an audience.
Hovering, however, over all of our hard and taxing work was my very real fear that Rich Nelson might drop dead in front of me at any moment. Oh, did I forget to mention Rich's rapidly failing heart?
In his short time in my hometown, Rich had quickly become a minor celebrity because he was on a donor list to receive someone else's heart. Not a very common occurrence more than 30 years ago (or now for that matter). So, from the first day on that hay wagon I was silently reviewing the CPR instructions I had learned in 9th grade health class. Fifteen compressions, two breaths, fifteen compressions, two breaths. Every time Rich bent over to catch his breathe, stuck his head under the baler to clear a jam, or caught the bales I was tossing to him in the barn, I tensed with fearful anticipation. I thought he was crazy to push himself so hard. I really didn't expect he would finish out that first week still alive. No kidding. And I innately knew I shouldn't bring up the subject of his health. The only time I asked him if he was okay (after he had leapt off the tractor and was yanking on the baler) he stood up, wiped his brow and curtly said, "I'm fine. Worry about your own damn self. You think I didn't see you practically throwing up the other day." I laughed despite his seriousness.
But he lived. And kept on living right through the next summer as well. I looked forward to haying with Rich the second time around. The work didn't scare me any longer and Rich always paid more than he promised. And he was good company. On the last day of haying that second summer, Rich told his wife to put steaks on the grill and asked me if I wanted a beer. It was shitty beer - Blatz. Few beers are worse. But to this day I honestly haven't tasted a better one. After six hours hooking hay on the back end of a hot July afternoon, that beer was perfection. The memory is still crystal clear.
Rich made a point of checking up on me from time to time after I went off to college and would throw a little bit of work my way now and then when I was home on breaks. I was even in his daughter's wedding in 1988, and treated like family. Rich even paid for my tux.
Eventually though, Rich's borrowed time was up. His own ailing heart couldn't wait any longer. Although I'm not sure of the year), I visited Rich and his family at the University of Minnesota Hospital one day in the early 90's after he had received a new, healthy heart. Lying prone, but fully conscious on the bed he said to me matter-of-factly . . .
"Eric, the doctors said my heart literally fell apart in their hands." Those words chill me even today.
Rich Nelson's family (hell, even Rich himself) would be the first to say that he could be a real son-of-a-bitch at times. He even knew himself well enough to command that his own tombstone be inscribed with one word Unyielding. Truer words were never spoken.
Unyielding can mean a multitude of things, both positive and negative. But I only knew Rich one way, so my memories are tainted. And I'm okay with that. To me, he was unyielding in the face of pity and death - day after day after day after day. He never seemed to feel sorry for himself and must have woken up each morning resolving to live life the way he wanted to - whether it was his last day or not.
I wish I could remember the last time I saw Rich, but I can't. He eventually died in 2009, living nearly 20 years with a different heart than the one he had started his life with. This heart enabled him to see grandchildren born, as well as return him and his wife to live his final years among family and friends among the farm fields of Nebraska (undoubtedly where he held court until the very end). Remarkable and Unyielding.
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