The HayLoft

The HayLoft

“Grab the rope. Open the door and step out,” directed Mark.

“Heck I will. We’re at least three floors up. You open the door and step out.”

Mark and I stood in the hayloft, up above the cows and horses, in the upper reaches of the barn.

“Just grab the rope! Once the door is open you can swing out, then let go and fall into that big pile of hay on the ground. Fun!”

I timidly inched over to the door, pushed it a bit, and looked out. The hay pile was there, just as Mark had said. But so far below.

“Janine! Grab the rope, you chicken. You’ve done it before at the river.”

I dropped to my knees, crawled back to the center of the loft.

“NO, no, no. You first, Tarzan.”

So Mark grabbed that rope, swung out, kicked open the door, then once centered over the hay pile, “Hey Janine! Watch this! Yippee Yay-yayyy…!”, he dropped out of sight.

Then nothing. No sound. I crawled to the open door. In the hay mound far below lay Mark. His eyes were closed. He wasn’t moving.

Creeping slowly down the ladder, I then made my way through the barn. Past the horses, past the cows, out to the hay mound. Mark still laid in the middle. He hadn’t moved.

I scrambled up to him. He was breathing, but those eyes were still closed. I poked him.

“Aarrghhh!” Mark sat straight up. “Hee haw! What’d I hit?” He felt around, produced a half-used salt block which he threw over the corral fence. “Darn goats!”

“I thought you were a goner. You okay?”

“You bet! Let’s do it again George!”


W/C 284