THE WORK

the enterprising farmer 

By Quincy Gray McMichael
Illustrations by Yuanyuan Zhou

I stand back and watch as the forklift nudges a bulging one-ton tote of pig feed forward, six inches at a time, held gingerly aloft by the machine’s thick steel tines. When I see the tote find balance near the front of my pickup bed, I give the signal. Gently, the forklift operator lowers the tote—woven from white poly, fat with GMO-free corn, peas, oats, and kelp, cinched at the top with thick cord—until my truck’s bed creaks to its extremity, nearly brushing the tires.

Really, the truck is only mine for today as I make my trek to Virginia to pick up supplies. I would never put my own vehicle through such an ordeal. My old Ford would stagger under the weight of the feed, and I still have another ton to load before this rented Ram and I hit the highway back to the farm.

I shake the drive from my mind and shade my eyes. The early October sun is bright but not hot, even now, as the late morning reaches its apex—but today could just as easily be blowing frigid cold, or thick with the stifling heat of midsummer, because I drive east for pig feed every two weeks: rain, shine, or high water. The pigs need to eat, and pasture grass alone cannot sustain them. 

The forklift operator parks his vehicle and walks back in silence to help me load the second ton—this one packed in brown paper sacks, each sewn closed with cotton thread on both ends. The pickup truck’s short bed is not long enough to bear two one-ton totes, so I always buy the second ton in fifty-pound bags, and I’m grateful to have his help as we stack in silence. First, we fill the backseat floorboards, then the backseat itself, then the front passenger seat, before loading the last dozen or so around the tote, which looms over the shiny red cab of the truck. 

After thanking the man for his help, I give the tie-downs one final pull to make sure they’re snug, and slide into the driver’s seat, feeling the warmth of work rise from my back and radiate inside my shirt. The whole truck smells sweet—comforting and rich, like fresh grain and molasses—and I drive with the windows up, enjoying the scent of security. The first massive task of this day is complete, and I have more than two hours to relax behind the wheel as I return to my farm, Vernal Vibe Rise. 

Although the drive home from my biweekly feed pickup is one of the more restful jobs I do as a farmer, hauling this two-ton load is not all ease. I will stop at least twice enroute to further cinch the wide, yellow ratchet straps that hold the towering feed tote tenuously in place, and I catch myself holding my breath as I draw closer to home, snaking up the narrow mountain road with a top-heavy burden in tow. 

At this moment, I have been farming for more than five years, but have only been farming solo for one. I work all the time, as I expected when I chose this lifestyle—and I would have it no other way. I love my work, I love the land, I love the livestock. Am I tired? Yes. Do I get enough sleep? No. Does running a farm feel like too much to handle? I try not to think about that. I need more help, but I refuse to admit anything of the sort. I push doubt from my mind and refocus on the job ahead. I am sure I can make the farm work on my own—one debilitating day at a time.

—

Earlier that same morning, as soon as my eyes snapped open at the sound of my alarm, my mind began to draw a map of the work ahead. Even before I woke, I knew the day would be a full one. I’ve tried nearly every alarm setting on my phone, searching in vain for the optimal tone, from Chimes to Slow Rise to Silk—each of which still pierces me with an adrenaline shot whenever I hear the pattern in public, as an innocent phone rings nearby. This morning, when the bells pulled me from my bed before dawn, I wasn’t attentive to their song—only their urgency. 

A tall glass of raw milk stemmed my boiling, rock-bottom blood sugar, and I rushed through chores—feed pigs, dog, poultry; move rabbits, check on sheep, water everyone—so I could reach town as Enterprise opened and make the most of my twenty-four-hour truck lease. I balanced a brimming bowl of oatmeal and cream on my lap, grasped my jar of scalding, milky tea, and maneuvered my ’83 Mercedes diesel down the mountain, over the river, and south, toward town. The tips of the roadside oaks were pitching toward yellow. It won’t be long now, I thought, reflecting on how fast the seasons tumbled, glad about my plan to stock up on hay that afternoon. 

In the airport parking lot, I spotted my truck-for-the-day, shining crimson in front of the tiny local terminal. I left my car in the overnight lot and greeted the vehicle rental agents, whom I’d come to know well, as they took my payment and handed over the truck keys. I parked the brand-new, extended-cab Dodge Ram behind my car and loaded it with everything I’d need. My empty feed tote covered the backseat floorboard, weighed down by two coils of heavy yellow ratchet straps. The passenger seat held my travel basket, stuffed with snacks—thick, fatty slices of leftover pork roast, spicy fermented pickles, a quart of sorghum milk—as well as a flannel shirt and water for the trip ahead. 

I folded the middle seat down into a console, which became my breakfast table, tea holster, and phone charging station. I tucked a fresh Grimes Golden apple into the extra cupholder, thankful to have pulled the fruit from my tree that morning during chores. Leaning into the relative luxury of this late-model vehicle, I connected my phone to the stereo and drove down the road toward Virginia and Sunrise Farms, the second stop of my busy day.

—

Years ago, the first pig feed I ever purchased was from a local feed store, just a short drive up the road from that first piece of land where my former husband and I lived and farmed. That feed was plain—conventional, mostly yellow corn, ground nearly to powder—packed in fifty-pound woven sacks that puffed plentiful dust when I plopped them into the trunk of my car. After a few months, the idea of eating—or selling—heritage pork fed on genetically engineered corn treated with chemicals so bothered my conscience that I convinced my husband that we should switch suppliers.

We then began driving east, into Virginia, every couple of months and loading the back of his father’s Chevy truck with sacks of GMO-free pig feed, enough to tower high in our woodshed, the stacks leaning like Pisa. This feed looked better: the grains were cracked but not pulverized, and the variety spoke to the breadth of nutrition it offered—oats, beans, and flakes of kelp supplemented the hard, yellow flecks of corn. I no longer had to worry that the pigs were inhaling more than they were eating, nor as much about the ethics of feeding newfangled cereals to the scrupulously oldfangled breeds we were raising.

After the divorce, when I no longer had to answer to a farming partner—only to my own impossible standards—I planned to transition to certified organic feed (necessarily GMO-free—or at least as GMO-free as modern grain can be). Yet, when I calculated the cost: how much feed my pigs ate per week, what I could sell them for—breeding stock, feeder pigs, pork—plus the cost of driving even farther into Virginia for biweekly pickups, my countenance crashed. I would have to hike the cost of every pig sold live and double my price-per-pound for pork to even consider breaking even after feeding the pigs organic grain. 

I was already spending an enormous amount of conversational energy educating potential farmers’ market customers about the benefits of spending a bit more for my pasture-raised, GMO-free pork. In my rural community, many just do not have those discretionary dollars to spend; they would smile and nod before walking across the aisle for “happy” but conventional meat at a cheaper price. They didn’t see the differences I did—the joyful way my pigs galloped across the pasture, how grasses emerged brilliant green in the paddocks they left behind, flagging the carbon the pigs helped sequester. These customers just wanted to grill some pork chops at the crossroads of local and affordable, not ponder the impacts of persistent pesticides and muddy pig pens. And despite my own deeply-held beliefs, I could not afford to spring for organic feed if my customers were unwilling—or unable—to bear the increase in cost. 

—

I hear the familiar crunch of gravel as my truck tires turn onto Old Civil War Trail. The fat tote fills my rear view and, as reflected in my side mirror, appears to be listing to the left, with the tie-down straps taut on one flank and loose and flapping on the other. Good thing it’s just a mile to the farm, I think, as I ease my heavy load toward the tunnel of forest ahead. Once home, I nose the truck up to the wide double gate and leave the engine running as I swing each long, green partition aside to make room for passage. Back in the truck, I keep one eye on the hill in case Cleonice, my livestock guardian dog, decides to make a break for freedom while the gate hangs agape. I pop the truck into park and jump into grasses that stand to my waist.

Great Pyrenees dogs are phenomenal guardians. They are also extraordinarily independent, especially about what constitutes their area of protection. Cleonice has shown herself to be a true Pyrenees—fearless, determined, loyal, and ever-eager to dash through an open gate, ready to claim neighboring land as her own. With the gate secured, and Cleonice showing her snowy head at the top of the hill, I drop the truck into four-wheel drive and hope my tires grip the grass as I climb the green hill toward my barn.

Here, in the barn, the real work of the day begins. Each pound of feed—all four thousand—needs to be unloaded and stored away to feed hungry pigs on future mornings. The one-ton tote is nearly as tall as I am and was constructed with a tractor forklift in mind: the wide poly straps at the top will slip easily over strong, wide tines. The giant bag is designed with up-down symmetry: the same pull-cord mechanism underneath cinches the sack closed at the top. With the tote held high above a feed bin, all the farmer needs to do is loosen the lower tie, and two thousand pounds of feed will flow easily into the waiting container. Easily, that is, for the farmer with access to a tractor.

In my unswerving dedication to ethical farming, I’ve avoided modern technology when possible, so as not to add extra waste to the whirling cesspool of planetary pollution. Still, I choose the convenience of certain technologies. For years, I used my truck to haul sheep and pigs to the slaughterhouse and, as often as twice per month, I rented a shiny new truck to transport grain home from the mill in Virginia. I rely on coal-powered grid electricity to power the pumps that push water to outdoor spigots around the farm and to chill my many freezers packed with frozen meat for sale. Although my father took to calling me “Scotch-Amish,” a nod to my purist resistance, I have never claimed to be an off-grid backwoods homesteader. Investing in a tractor, though, seemed like a step too far—like an admission of inability, or even weakness.

Farmers have been growing food—raising livestock and planting acre upon acre of row crops—for centuries, without tractors. I figured that if my ancestors were not too good for hand labor—digging and hoeing and bending and lifting—then I could employ the same methods to satisfactory effect as well. Both sides of my family had imparted a deep respect for the traditional ways of living—as my mother says: “we’ve never been first in line to try new things.” Generations of my forebears believed that old was better than new, that the tried-and-true had greater value than whatever novel technology was rushing off the presses. Tradition is in my blood. 

But did my ancestors really stand in fields, like the figures in paintings by Millet or Homer, scything sheafs of grain or plucking potatoes from the soil? No, most of them—at least on my mother’s side—were playing croquet and sipping cocktails. Other people cut their lawns, cleaned their homes, mucked the stalls, and hauled canisters of milk to their cook at the kitchen door. Maybe, because my forebears were too busy counting money to get their hands dirty with manual labor, the practical consequences of hand-labor never flowed into our epigenetic stream. So, when, generations later, I found myself getting my exercise not an hour at a time on the tennis court at the country club but by working my body to its limit for fourteen hours every day, perhaps my accumulated physical wisdom came up short. Still, no body—whether attuned to labor by reason of generational habit or inherent capacity—is built to work without cease.

And, tradition aside, I don’t really know how to use a tractor. Sure, I can start the engine, drive, and stop. I can manipulate the bucket, or the backhoe, or use a brush hog to mow, but I am not a master. I could ask someone to teach me, but I am scared I’ll fail, or look ignorant. Like every other human on this planet, I learn by doing, but I have never felt comfortable trying and failing with an audience—even if that audience is just one person who happens to love me. Like my brother Owen says: “Unless I get a chance to practice a skill on my own and master it, I don’t want to do it. I’m afraid people will think I’m a ding-dong.” This common fear has often prevented me from accessing technology that could otherwise have lightened my load.

Even if I clear that hurdle, I will never have the same familiarity with any equipment that I have with my own body. At least once every spring, I catch myself digging a weed, or several, out of the soil with my bare hands. I try not to do this because I prefer not to look down at my fingers when having lunch with a friend, or during some other off-farm soiree, and see brown-stained fingertips. No matter how well or how often I wash my hands, if I let myself pull weeds without gloves, I regret it later. Yet, at least once during every growing season, I look down to see my hands in the soil and my gloves lying, flaccid, on the ground. The body just works better without such improvements. 

When appraised with hindsight, this question—whether about a tractor, or water hoses, or gardening gloves—stands as my farming synecdoche. Not only is the micro the miniature of the macro but, in my case, resistance to receiving help is also the key cause.

Knowing what I know now, several years down the path from this typical, harried day with the rental truck, I see how my refusal to open my mind to the easier, softer way paved my route to the physical pain, bodily breakdown, and surgeries that have come since. But on that ordinary day in the barn, with my red rental truck and autumn’s noontime sun shining outside, I knew nothing of swollen sacroiliac joints, spent wrists, or gimp hips. I just needed to unload two tons of feed, without a tractor, as usual, by hand—and as quickly as possible.

—

With the sleek truck squeezed close to the dusty locust posts that hold my barn erect, I have just enough room to slide out the driver-side door. I unlatch the tailgate with one hand as I scan the barn for as many five-gallon buckets as I can find before gathering all eight—including two that are cracked but functional—as well as a smaller two-gallon bucket to use as my scoop. Leaving the collected buckets on the barn floor for now, I heft each of the twelve fifty-pound feed sacks, one by one, out of the bed, stacking them to the side for later. 

I arrange the buckets along one side of the bed’s rear edge and clamber onto the open tailgate, leaning over to loosen and remove the hefty yellow straps that served as significant a purpose as the truck itself in the morning’s endeavors. Then, I have only to untie the bow at the top of the tote before hearing the loud crinkle as I fold the synthetic material back and try to pull it down around the sides of the mammoth sack of feed. Once open to the air, freshly ground grain perfumes the barn, just as it had in the truck on my drive home.

I stand on my tiptoes and dig in, holding my breath when practical, remembering that my father, witnessing the way I unloaded feed on an earlier visit, suggested that I wear a dust mask to protect my lungs. Not wanting to spare the time it will take to dash down the hill to the shed, I promise myself: next time, as I scoop and dump, scoop and dump, two gallons of feed at a time, until each of the eight buckets, and my little one, are brimming. Already, despite the temperate autumn weather, I feel warm, and bits of feed stick to my forearms. I jump from the tailgate, bending my knees as my feet hit the dirt. In turn, I tip every bucket into the yawning maw of a large chest freezer, long ago dead and rescued from behind Sears for a second life as a repurposed mouse-proof feed bin. Forty-two gallons of feed looks like a pitiful puddle against the bottom of the freezer, so I get back to work—scoop, dump, carry, dump, scoop—conscious of every minute that passes and whether I’ll have time to haul two loads of hay today, or just one.

Anyone would laugh to see me as I near the end of the tote: my dark brown hair powdered white from the fine grain dust, throat parched, shoulders burning from the workout. When I cannot scrape any more feed with my bucket, I jump down and roll my utility cart under the tailgate. Using all of my strength, I upend the giant tote into the cart, filling it to near-overflowing. As always, I feel surprised by the power required to heft this last bit of feed when hardly anything seems to be left in the bag. I fold the tote, still unwieldy but notably less impressive once empty, and stash it in the barn’s rafters to protect the material from curious mice. Once the cart has been emptied into the last chest freezer, I feel myself go slack for a second, grateful that this part of the day’s work is complete.

As I look down, I see the paper sacks leaning where I left them and recall that I still have forty bags of feed to unload. I stifle a groan before pulling the truck forward and starting in on the fifty-pound sacks. These I pile on a shelf made from thick, rough-sawn oak slabs—cut and milled on this very land—laid across oak supports on the opposite side of the barn from the feed freezers. I stack nine bags in the first row, with the number decreasing by one sack per row as the pyramid pile grows toward the ceiling of the barn, each new bag laid along the joint formed by the two below it. My shoulders no longer hurt, but their muscles feel impossibly loose as I boost the final bags high above my head. In a somewhat useless attempt at discouraging mice—where are those barn cats, anyway?—I cover the whole stack with a thick tarp and tuck it in with heavy scraps of oak, hoping the wind will leave the cover in place.

The truck feels barren when I climb back inside, dusting yellow meal from the front of my pants. I pull through the barn and turn, heading back down the hill. Again, I dash through the double gate, before parking in my driveway. I sit on the bare porch steps, warm from the sun, and unlace my boots. I slap more dust from my clothes before walking inside to refill my water bottle and steep another strong, creamy tea for the road.

∞

The pavement snakes around and down to the river, but I turn right, instead of left, when I reach the two-lane byway. As I head north, my phone dings—a response from Timothy, the farmer who sells me hay: Ready when you are. As I crest the first mountain, my phone service shrivels and I am on my way, checking the time and hoping for enough daylight to allow two consecutive trips. 

West Virginia’s Greenbrier Valley is well known as fertile pastureland, with the underground limestone karst and its infinite network of caves and subterranean streams offering farmers thick tufts of green on which to fatten their steers. In generations past, cattle were driven overland all the way from Baltimore to graze along the sloping valleys and wandering tributaries of the Greenbrier River. Steers are still big business here, but the great majority now find themselves loaded into tractor trailers and long-hauled to the crowded feedlots of the Midwest for their final fattening. As I drive, I see cattle stippling the hills along every road, most of them Black Angus, a historic breed that, with bigger-is-better genetic “improvements,” has doubled in size from the average Black Angus of yesteryear. The original, unimproved Angus cattle are now known as Lowline Angus, with a nod to their comparatively diminutive height. 

The cattle at Hillcrest Farm, though, are cream-colored and bulky, as Charolais have been since the breed was named more than two hundred and fifty years ago, in eastern France. They stand like massive sentries as I pull into the barnyard and park, their eyes following me, their hulking bodies unmoving but for the constant chew of their chins. Timothy waves at me from midway across the field, tractor slowly loping my way with a weighty bale held aloft on its fearsome spear, bouncing a bit with the undulation of the late-season pasture. His father, Thomas, who always seems to be working alongside despite diminishing mobility, pulls up to my truck in a small utility vehicle, branded green to indicate the farm’s strong John Deere affinity.

“How’re you doin’ today?”

“I’m alright. How are you?” I ask. 

“Not too bad for an old guy. That’s a nice new truck you have there.”

“Oh, it’s not mine—I just rented it for the drive to Virginia to get feed for the pigs this morning. I figured I should give my old truck a break and use this one while I have it. I’m hoping to make it home and get this bale unloaded in time to come back up for another before dark.”

With a smile, he raises his eyebrows at me, questioning my timing. I know these two men think me a bit odd, given my penchant for hard, solitary work, especially as a lady farmer.

Timothy arrives on his tractor, round bale still held high, folds of spun hay hanging loosely from one side. He nudges the tractor forward as far as he can without kissing the truck’s shiny flank, and eases the bale, ever so gently, down into the bed, letting the springs slowly absorb the heft of summer’s rich offering. Once the Ram’s bed, again, nearly touches the tires, he withdraws, pulling the spike from the tight heart of the bale and climbing down from his tractor to chew the fat with his father and me. As I secure the bale with those same stalwart ratchet straps, we talk weather, livestock, fencing, cover crops, and other prescient projects. Soon, my internal clock elbows me and I ask: “Can I come back for another bale around 4:30?” 

The father and son exchange a common, smiling glance.

“That’ll be fine,” Timothy agrees. “Be careful unloading that bale—we’ll see you then.” 

And I am off—slowly down their farm lane, but faster once on the paved road. I keep one eye, always, on the second unwieldy load of the day as I weave through switchbacks framed by rocky cliffs and skirt guardrails that mark steep, wooded inclines. My return to the farm is the same—fast dash through the double gate, eye on the hill for my dog—and the pickup truck draws its load into the barn yet again. 

Unburdening the truck bed of this hay bale will not follow the repetitive scoop-and-dump process of my earlier chore. Nor is unloading a giant round bale anything like the fast-paced lift-and-stack that is possible with smaller square bales, which seem to have gone out of fashion. This task requires careful consideration, keen maneuvering, and impossible leg strength. Like the one before it, this is a job that most farmers would not dream of doing without the help of a tractor—and a hay spear, the same way the bale was loaded. Instead, I pull the truck forward so that, when the large round bale rolls off the tailgate and onto the dirt floor below, it will come to rest in a convenient spot. At least, I hope it won’t squish my dog—or one of the barn cats. 

When I have the truck situated as best I can, I look upward, scanning the rafters for a fitting position. Fortunately, one appears to be lined up well enough, so I remove my trusty yellow ratchet straps and scramble over the side of the truck bed—left boot on the tire pushing me up to land my right on the rail of the bed, and then I am in, squeezed into the slim spot between cab and bale. 

I lean back on the edge of the cab, feeling the cargo light cover press into my spine as I roll upward, pushing myself into a horizontal position, with my booted feet flat on the bale. Bracing my upper shoulders against the lower part of the rafter nearest the cab, I climb my feet toward the very top of the bale, just low enough that I can retain traction but high enough to maximize my leverage. Giving one last glance for any animals below, I flex my shoulders against the rafter and push with my feet—as hard as I can. 

The bale, all one thousand pounds of it, begins, ever so slightly, to sway forward. I push harder, feeling the sharp edge of the rafter cutting into my shoulder as I do, and the hay bale moves again, now rolling, and then—without notice—sails, bouncing, off the edge of the tailgate before coming to a heavy stop against one of the barn’s formidable locust posts. Not exactly where I wanted, I think, but at least I didn’t splat any cats. I toss the mess of ratchet straps into the dusty backseat and, with a glance at the angle of the sun, point the truck back down the hill.

—

The second bale, somehow, gets loaded crosswise. Maybe that seemed to Timothy like a safer direction, making it less likely the bale would roll out the back of the truck—or perhaps I’d parked at an odd angle in the barnyard. As I race the setting sun home on those mountain roads, the dashboard display switching from day to night to day again with every curve and hillside shadow, I rack my brain for how the hell to unload this final bale. Maybe I can just push it out, like the last one, I hope. If I can push it over onto the flat side, perhaps the impact will bounce the bale down onto the barn floor.

Once in the barn, truck in place, sore shoulders against oak, knees bent, boots on bale, I push. Nothing. Not an inch of slide, nor a whisper of tip. Hmm. Lesser senses prevailing, I try again. In the waning light, the only movement I see is my soles sinking into the flat surface of the tightly coiled hay. My defeat is so clear that even I, as stubborn a woman as you will ever meet, can see only vanity in continuing to push. The autumn night is rushing in, cooling my skin as the last light drops behind the trees framing the western pasture. I sit on the bed-side to ponder futility, but what comes to mind instead is solitude.

I do not often wrestle with the difficulty of farming, or farming solo, or farming solo without the machinery that many farmers use. I relish the challenge of work, the necessity to push my body to its physical limit, the eager way my mind jumps to tackle a complex situation. Farming has honed my creativity, my critical thinking, my mind. Socially, when I introduce myself as a farmer, I catch a glimmer of assumption on the face in front of me, before the smile comes and they say, “How interesting! I’ve always dreamed of finding a little farm somewhere…” People inquire about what I grow, but never about whether the never-ending, solitary work forces me to rise to increasing heights of creative capacity. Or how my mind rejoices after solving a practical riddle of the highest order. 

In the decade before I was born, radio broadcaster Paul Harvey honored the farmer as “somebody who can shape an ax handle from a persimmon sprout, shoe a horse with a hunk of car tire, who can make harness out of haywire, feed sacks and shoe scraps.” I know that, given a little time and elbow grease, I can puzzle this bale of hay out of the truck. Still, the weight of the problem rests on my shoulders alone. 

I hear Cleonice bark, from somewhere out in the pasture. At least I’m not the only one pulling her weight around here, I think, but if I want to get this hay bale out of the truck, I’ll need to make that happen on my own.

I close my eyes, relax my neck, and let my head drop while I think, stretching the tight muscles in my shoulders and upper back. When I open them again, I spot the flat yellow rope of my ratchet strap coiled in the loose hay at my feet. Seeing the strap sparks the barest memory of a suggestion my father, always the problem solver, offered (unbidden, of course) during a visit: “Why not use a come-along, a winch, or some type of block-and-tackle to draw each bale out of the back of the truck?” 

Because I would rather stab at the task with brute force until I break something, likely myself, I think sardonically, my resistance already beginning to soften. Smarter, not harder, right, Dad? I lift my limp legs over the side of the truck bed and drop to the ground before turning to gather the sturdy strap. I maneuver the truck until its tailgate is nearly touching one of the thickest locust posts, and wrap the extended strap around post and bale, tightening the ratchet until the woven tape cinches the waist of the roll.

Next, cross your fingers, I grouse, scanning the barn for creatures afoot before pulling my tired body into the driver’s seat. Owen would kill me if he saw me doing this, I think, reflecting on my brother, the barn’s architect and chief builder. But I can see no other way ahead. I hope I don’t bring this barn down on top of me, I worry, though nothing short of a bomb could level the oak-and-locust structure. With my window open—so I can hear the tailgate rip from its hinges? To better experience the collapse of the barn?—I shift into gear and nudge the truck ahead. Like soft butter on warm bread, the bale slides from the back of the truck and plops onto the barn floor, bouncing once before falling with its face flat on the dirt. The perfect dismount. 

In my adrenaline-spun state, eager for the long day to end, I do not reflect on what could have happened instead—in many cases, what did happen, two weeks before or three months after. The ratchet strap did not break and come flying, at high velocity, through the truck’s back windshield. At no point did my rented pickup become so mired in mud that the transfer case failed, nor did one of the large round bales come loose while I drove home through twisting hills and valleys. Other days were hard enough, and would be again. 

Only years later would I begin to consider changing my habits, urged along by my breaking body. Until then, I’d keep working. First, I’d ignore the creamy spread of basal cell carcinoma over the tender skin on my nose; I’d curse my failing back, wracked by the clench and scream of bend and lift; I’d keep knocking ice from water buckets and kicking my shovel into clay; I’d unload tons and tons of feed as painful ganglions bulged from both wrists. 

In less than a minute, I shimmy the flat yellow strap from under the heavy bale, where it was pinned a moment before. I retrieve the other from the bed of the truck and lay them both in abstract loops on the flat top of a feed freezer, giving myself permission to tidy them tomorrow, a small allowance after this long day of work. The truck slips forward with ease, into the darkness that has fallen all around the barn, as night drapes quiet across the pastures. The pigs, sleeping near the far forest edge, adjust their positions in the pile. Early morning will witness a fast dash to town in a truck that feels like it can fly, unburdened by all it carried the day before. Then, a slow return to the farm—chugging over dirt road potholes, roadside trees tipping further toward goldenrod—for another full day of work.