You guys might like this, and yet you guys might not. I am not really sure what it is; its is not an essay, nor an article, nor a short story, just musings I suppose. But perhaps you will like its meaning. You can be the judge.
More than a Hay Bale...
As I grip my wife’s hand, fingers interlaced, and walk to the top of the hill with a picnic basket clutched in the other; deep in my heart I know as a farmer, and father, I have so much to do, yet as a husband, this is the most important activity of the day.
Before us lies a sprawling field with commanding two hundred and seventy degree views of some of Waldo County’s most prominent western ridges. In the mid-ground, hardy rock walls with their sun bleached stones intersect in harsh contrast against a dark carpet of green, ankle high grass with a distant ridge lit in vibrant hues of yellow’s, oranges and reds that glow in the emerging morning sunlight. As a layer of fog rises up from the valley below us, the moisture of the morning dew is apparent from a light breeze carrying the crisp scent of damp corn slowly maturing in a field just beyond the rock wall. With only a slight breeze, the morning’s breath gently rattles the tassels of the corn as we just talk; of children, of our home, of our future; the type of conversation that is nothing, yet is everything in a marriage.
There are hundreds of hay bales to choose from, yet the choice is easy as we spread our quilt over the wet grass at the apex of the hill which affords us the best view, placing our backs against the baled up pasture that acts as both a back rest and a wind break. As deer gracefully graze at the edge of the meadow far in the distance, we begin to dine on carefully wrapped breakfast sandwich’s laden with thick pieces of bacon; fresh eggs and a layer of cheese all stemming from our farm as they are pulled from the picnic basket. Close behind are pieces of toast, smothered with butter and sweetly flavored with cinnamon. A mason jar of fresh cider is splashed into two tumblers as we greet the morning, and in turn the morning greets us.
The draw is too much, and I watch in silence as my wife delays the indulgence of her breakfast, and pries her shoes from her feet, mumbling something about wet shoes on the soft blanket, though I know there is a yearning inside her that begs to walk barefoot across the field as one last hold out of autumn before the green blanket of soft grass with nary a bramble in it, is replaced by harsh, cold snow.
It is a hard reality; the hay bale we so nonchalantly lean against is our sustenance. As farmers, everything we have is equated to the miracle of sheep being able to convert the green round rolls of grass, into delicious red meat. The picnic basket, the food within, and even the blanket we sit upon, have all been purchased from this conversion. In addition, thousands of dollars have been invested in the tractors and equipment to produce these simple geometric bundles of grass, as well as hundreds of gallons of diesel fuel that provided the energy to do so. Even more equipment, more fuel and more labor is needed to transport these hay bales from this field to the sheep’s mangers so the miracle of conversion of green grass to red meat can continue to take place.
And yet, all this escapes us as we simply enjoy the morning; basking in a simple pleasure of farming life, merely enjoying our wind break, taking pictures of the beautiful bales gracing the morning meadow in all its splendor on top of a western Waldo County hill, and posing on various hay bales for pictures and posterity.
The simple round hay bale; for us, sustenance and survival literally rolled into one.
Attached Thumbnails
More than a Hay Bale
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