It was a magical night, “Hayride Night,” in June 1962. School had just let out for the summer, I had completed my sophomore year in high school and I had turned 16 a few months before. The night smelled of growing things, of freshly turned soil, of possibilities. It was an intoxicating mix.
We had been talking about the hayride for a couple of weeks. A high school friend’s older brother was organizing it, so all his friends and acquaintances — college boys! — would be there, as well as many other people closer to our age. It promised to be a fabulous night, we all agreed.
I had a midnight curfew at the time, and I had to negotiate with my parents for a long time to be able to even go on the hayride, which wouldn’t start until close to nine o’clock (after dark) and would feature a hot dog roast afterwards, probably after midnight. My folks finally agreed I could stay out until 1 a.m., but that I would have to call Dad to come pick me up; I could not ride home with anyone else. That was fine with me.
We all started gathering at the host’s house around 8 p.m. or so. Eventually two wagons filled with hay and straw bales pulled into the driveway. We somehow organized ourselves into two groups and climbed aboard. Coolers with beer and soda were situated at the front of each wagon. My two best girlfriends and I sat on a hay bale on the side of the wagon, and away we went.
I took a soda because I really didn’t like beer.
Rock music poured out of someone’s transistor radio. We sang along to the music and rode down the country roads out of town. My friends had another beer, then another. We were only 16, and a couple of beers hit them hard. I remained totally sober, though I was perhaps high on excitement. There were cute boys all around us — or maybe just the excitement turned them cuter than they really were — and everyone was singing along and having a good time. We snuggled up to a couple of the boys and sighed with pleasure.
We stopped a couple of times for bathroom breaks out in the fields — all that soda and beer, you know — with boys going left and girls going right. We walked through the growing corn to a quiet corner, I remember, to take our breaks. My one girlfriend, a little worse for wear after those beers, was wearing a girdle (a girdle? on a hayride? what can I say?), and she was having a terrible time with it. Getting it pulled down was no problem, but getting it back up again? With two people helping her, she finally got it pulled back up. It was like stuffing a reluctant cat into a tight sack.
A little later, the other girlfriend managed to almost fall off the wagon, but I grabbed hold of her ankle as she went over and others helped pull her back on board. No injuries. We got back to the host’s house with no more mishaps. By then, we were hungry and looking forward to the hot dogs.
I somehow separated from my friends and was walking through the dark yard to find a quiet place to eat my hot dog and chips and think over the night’s events, when the cutest boy in the world walked up to me and said, “I’ve been looking for you all evening.”
Oh. My. Goodness. He must have been on the other wagon, because I had never seen him before. He had seen me, however.
We talked and kissed in the dark and I felt like Cinderella. All too soon it was 1 a.m., and I needed to call my dad. The cute boy stood beside me as I called, waited with me for Dad to come by and kissed me softly goodbye. I was in heaven.
The cute boy and I dated for the rest of the summer, then he went off to college and I never heard from him again. The summer romance was over. I suffered over it for a while, then moved on.
One other result of the hayride? It turned out I was allergic to hay. In a few days, I had a maddening, itchy rash all over my body. A trip to the doctor and some cortisone pills soon got things under control, but this would be my last hayride, ever. And my last encounter with hay. I was not destined to be a farmer’s wife; I would have to plan for a life in the city.
But the memories lingered long in my mind. It was the most magical night I had ever experienced, and, in terms of impact on my psyche, it has not been duplicated. The night opened up my awareness of sexual power, of anticipation and experience, of life beginning and the world opening up its mysteries.
Many years later, as I was walking outside one June evening, I suddenly caught a whiff of evening scents — growing things, freshly turned soil, possibilities. It was an intoxicating mix. Instantly I was 16 again, waiting for the hayride to start. Ah, memories.
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