It has rained all summer and we've had the most wonderful wild flowers. This would have also been the perfect year to plant trees -who knew. The valleys are lush and green. The farmers are making hay. The horses and cattle are fat and sleek. Everyone's happy.
Hay bales in the neighbor's far pasture |
Love my grasses! |
A couple of months ago my neighbor charged up on the local vehicle of choice- a dusty all-terrain vehicle, and bellowed, "When are you gonna cut that grass?" Add all the colorful expletives you can imagine and that's my neighbor, Wild Bill. It isn't lost on me that my husband's nickname in college was Wild Bill, but compared to this man, he was a very introverted (and clean-mouthed) wild man. But my current Wild Bill is a good neighbor and laughed when I indignantly informed him I had moved west to avoid grass cutting.
Well, this year with all the rain, the grass grew and grew and now it's a fire hazard. Firemen here only defend houses that are defensible. No trees brushing the roof, no piles of firewood on the porch- oops and certainly, no three foot sea of dry grass around the house.
So I started up my sturdy, little second-hand tractor and made hay.
I hit a few rocks- don't tell my brother, we share the tractor and he already thinks I've a few bolts loose. I did buy new blades.... we're going to need them.
Rocks hiding in tall grass... |
I cut a path and tried to avoid rocks! |
I
pulled out rocks- this is clearly land that does NOT want to be cut into lawn
....
And
I mowed grass.....over and over in small bites since my tractor is really
a LAWN tractor, not a FIELD tractor.
This is HAY! |
These are the rocks I removed and tossed out of the grass. |
These rocks? I'll mow around them. |
And as I bumped along with my lousy attitude, eyes on the ground looking for rocks, I slowly relaxed. That amazing, just cut grass smell mingled with the older scent of cut hay. My grass is drying and the pungent green of lawn clippings gave way to the warm fragrance of golden brome grass. I grew up on a farm. The autumns of my childhood smelled of hay cut and drying in windrows for baling. My dad fed hay and silage to the cows and there was plenty of fields to mow before it snowed. But even in the flurry of harvest, he cut carefully around the pheasant nests- not for hunting but just to share the land with them.
So today, I made my own hay but for a sweet moment, I was a little girl back in Alaska on my dad's lap, steering his big red International Harvester tractor.
As I rode, I thought of my dad and the hours he spent cutting, raking, baling- harvesting hay. I turned the corners and the cut grass blew around me and littered my hair green and brown. My arms prickled with the dry chaff. My hands gripped the steering wheel and buzzed from the tractor's motor. The sweat dripped down my back under the hot afternoon sun. I breathed deep the familiar scents and missed my dad. I wanted him here to tell me I was doing a good job, to tell me to watch out for that rock ahead.
But all I have are the memories of him- the memories of a outstanding farmer, a good man and my loving father. And under the bright blue western sky making hay on my little red tractor, it was enough.
More grass to mow.... another day. |
http://www.livinghistoryfarm.org/index.html
Loved it !! You made me go back in time too !! I have submitted my email to follow your blog. Still in Alaska. I will message you on FB diana
ReplyDeleteWhat a lovely story. And beautiful pictures
ReplyDelete