My Thanksgiving displays consist mostly of brown grass and wilted flowers. In other words, I haven’t accomplished much. My decorations are very meager. Corn stocks from the garden have been cut and bound together. They are tied to the fence posts and barbed wire wreath displaying our address out by the road. They need some pizzazz.
I wanted a bale of straw for the decorations at the edge of the driveway. I called a local farmer. He has straw bales at a reasonable price, but he said I’d need to pick them up since they are very busy harvesting soybeans. I told him it was no problem. We have an old pickup we use for errands. All I needed to do was to convince Ray, my sweet husband, that he should help me move a bale of straw.
As Ray relaxed in his recliner last Friday, I suggested that it would be an easy task to pick up a bale of straw at our neighbor’s haybarn for our Thanksgiving driveway decorations. Ray looked at me in disbelief—or maybe it was frustration at being called on to help with one of my “hair-brained” ideas. Either way, I knew to pour on the charm.
After a brief explanation of my decoration plans, Ray decided, if he was going to move one bale, he might as well buy three more bales for winter insulation on top of the water meter. Of course, with a sweet smile, I suggested we buy at least two more for the driveway decoration so it wouldn’t look so sparse. After all, I explained, I’d use the straw for mulch in the garden next summer. And—just in case I find a use for it—we might as well purchase at least one extra bale. My sweet husband just shook his head.
Instead of one bale, we decided to purchase seven.
On Saturday morning, Ray grabbed a hay hook from the shop. During the whole adventure, I heard about his exploits as a teen working in the hayfields. Back then, it was a good summer job in our area, especially if they played football. A weight program for football players was not on anyone’s radar. After all, most of the football players on the home team were out bucking seventy-pound bales several hours a day.
As Ray unloaded the first bale, he looked at me and said, “Seventy and a half years old and I’m bucking bales for my wife.”
Now that is love.