What does summer smell like to you? For me, nothing comes close to matching the pungent-sweet scent of fresh alfalfa drying in the sun.

From the time I was barely tall enough to reach my Daddy's knees, I can remember helping him to "make hay." During those early years, that help amounted to no more than riding on the tractor while he raked, or bouncing along on top of a wagon piled high with bales. (I liked to think I was helping, don't you know.)

When I finally grew strong enough to heft a bale, Daddy stood me on the hay wagon with my younger brother Jim, and we did our best to catch bales as they spewed forth from the baling-monster.

After we'd stacked them as high as we could reach, Dad would station me on the tractor, tell me to "steer straight," then he'd finish stacking bales, filling the wagon as full as the barn door was high.

I could "steer straight," all right. The hard part came when the hay swath turned at the end of the field. Turning tractor, baler and wagon took a little planning. More than once, Dad had to run up and help me make the turn. But after a while, I got pretty good! I even came to look forward to those turns. (It made for a little more excitement in the job.)

But baling hay is a sticky, dusty business, since you're out there in the sweltering afternoon sun. It's a scratchy job, too, so you don't dare wear shorts -- definitely long jeans to keep the jagged stems from shredding your legs raw.

And after spending an afternoon in the hay field till you could spit dust balls, a long, cool pull from a frosty jar of iced tea or lemonade seemed like one of life's most satisfying pleasures. ‘Course Dad said nothing cut the hay dust better than a nice, cold beer did at haying time, but Mom wouldn’t even hear of letting us touch the stuff.

When we finished up, and I stood covered with hay dust from head to toe, nothing felt better than a dip in the pond. I'd jump off the dock -- clothes and all -- and revel in the sheer pleasure of splashing around in that cold spring water after a sticky afternoon of makin' hay.

I haven't helped anyone bale hay in years, but whenever I smell freshly cut alfalfa, it seems like only yesterday that I bounced along, trying to keep my balance on the bumpy hay wagon. (It's all in the knees -- feels a little bit like gaining your "sea legs" only without the water.)

With Father's Day fast approaching, I take this opportunity to say thank you to my Dad, for giving me so many happy, farm-kid memories -- and yes, even for those disgusting jobs he made me do.

Thanks for teaching me that you can't put off some jobs until you feel like doing them, after all, a body does have to "make hay while the sun shines!" I'd never have learned the value of life's simplest pleasures without experiencing some of those nasty farm jobs you gave us.

And thanks, too, Dad, for helping me learn to "navigate the curves." God knows, we've already made it around some doosies without losing too much of the load -- although these days some folks swear I still run a few bales short of a wagonload.

Guess I just take after my Dad.

Happy Father's Day, Pa. I love you.

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