They don't make them like they used to

I live in the middle of Newton, on Main Street. Right next to us is a hay field. A hay field on Main Street? It’s not that uncommon for rural Cache Valley. There are several areas inside the town limits where hay or grain is raised every year. They are becoming fewer as the years pass because of children growing up and wanting to build and live in Newton. The family owned ground inside the town limits is the logical place to plant those homes, but some interior fields still exist.

The gentleman who lives next to us is a relic. He's 94 or 95 years old this year (an estimate, but pretty close) and still gets out and takes care of his hay fields that surround his home. He's a very private person. He has a sister who is in a care facility in Logan and I don't know of any other family living.

I remember a day a long time back when one of our cows got its head under the corral fence. He alerted my mother to the problem - dad was at work - and my mother didn't feel she was up to the task. She asked him for help and he came back with a saw and cut out a section of the fence to free the cow’s head.

Last year we were fixing the corral in an area that borders his property and had some conversations with him. He offered me some grass hay from around his barns, and we helped him cut down part of a tree.

I know that he likes to watch baseball, and back in the day when a thriving competition existed between all of the small communities (carried on today by the Blue Sox and other local teams), I believe he was involved on the teams Newton sponsored.

On his property is the finest replica of an old farm barn that I have seen in Cache County. I know of others in other communities, but because it's in such good shape for its age, and because it was in the background watching over the childhood memories of my backyard, it is my favorite.

 

In a way, it's a representation of the man who owns it - strong and silent, surviving through the ages, holding years and years of memories inside. Since I was a youngster I had wondered what was inside, but never had the courage to ask to look inside it.

That changed last year, when we were helping him with his tree and he agreed to show me the barn. Mostly it wasn't anything spectacular, just the kinds of things you would expect in an old farm barn. There were some ancient tractors inside, but that wasn't news because I have seen them year after year when he cuts and rakes the hay around his home and barns.

The one treasure that I didn't know about was an old 1916 Hudson farm truck that he reports still runs, and he occasionally starts it up to make sure of that.

Another spring has come and almost gone, and it's hay cutting time all around the valley, including the lot just next to us in Newton. Every day and into the night there are tractors criss-crossing Newton to the fields that surround us. It's a parade of all makes and models of farm equipment.

I watch these tractors and trucks driving by all day, but seldom is there a time when I stop and watch one of these farm implements at work. What is really special is the day that my neighbor brings out his hay cutting tractor.

A larger photo would be better, but I hope you can get a feel for the history at work in this little field next to our house. I have watched him use this same tractor and hay knife setup since I was knee high, and still love to pause and watch when he cuts his hay once or twice a summer.

If you take a look at the area where a steering wheel would be - and notice that it doesn't have a steering wheel, then you'll get a sense of the age of this little tractor. What it does have is a set of reins. They attach to levers on the sides of the frame and operate the steering mechanism. A museum piece in operation, I love it!

Lately I have been wishing that I had taken the time to find out about things that my dad and grandparents could have told me about their lives. Except for the few things that we have recorded or remember, those stories are gone from this earth. I hope I can avoid that mistake by taking time to learn and record the memories of friends and family that are still with us.