It is against the backdrop of unpredictable, terrible acts of violence in different parts of the world that I appreciate anew the peacefulness and splendor of haying in June.
The two have nothing to do with one another, of course, and that’s just the point.
Over the past half a century, a whole lot has changed—the way we live, the way we communicate with one another and also sometimes isolate ourselves, and the threats we either experience or imagine someone else experiencing. In addition, as I heard on the radio this morning, it’s not exactly true that acts of terror happen with greater frequency; but it’s definitely true that, since 9/11 altered everything, we exist much more in a heightened sense of alert, of anxiety. And the ongoing random loss of life, whenever and wherever it happens, is so troubling, so incomprehensible that it can put a kind of shroud over our days.
We are the lucky ones, the ones who get to keep using our five senses, and, if we live in certain places where fields need to be mowed in June, we might get to reap the benefits.
Recently, I had the chance to notice that the haying that goes on in this particular year is really not all that far removed from the haying that went on more than 50 years ago.
Since I grew up in a family that got in hay with a trusted Farmall tractor, a rusty hay rake with a wobbly seat, and a big old wagon each summer, I know a bit about this.
Here are a few pictures from even before I was born, taken by my grandfather, of the crew. It was, above all, an everybody-is-welcome thing. And, not to be too over the top here, the kind of communal activity that stays in the memory just about forever. On this day, perhaps, my oldest brother can rightly claim he worked hardest. The guys peering out are other brothers, cousins, friends.
Here’s another, showing my father taking a well-earned rest:
And one of my mother, watching over an emptied wagon:
Once I was old enough to participate, almost always my job was to be on top of the growing load as it went round the field, packing down the hay. I can still recall the itchy feeling on the legs, and the sense of togetherness — even if I was just the little sister who couldn’t do a whole lot. We were all in the same place.
A couple of weekends ago, I could hardly believe my good fortune when a friend let us know that a group of people would be getting bales into their barn that afternoon, and did we have any kids at home who might be able to help out?
It just so happened that I was trying to come up with a good outdoor activity for the 12 year old girl whom I mentor. All those dance classes had culminated in a huge performance earlier in the month. It was wonderful, well worth doing, except for one thing: the weather was practically shouting, “What? You’re going inside on a day like this?” At least it was to me, and I was just the person picking her up from the arts center, where I saw hoards of (mostly) little girls with hair buns amusing themselves with hand-held video games while they waited their turn to go on stage.
So on a fine Saturday morning, I picked up one particular hip-hop dancer, and her younger brother who was game for something to do away from an apartment, and we headed over to join a haying crew.
Our friends, who have grandchildren about the same age as the kids I brought over, were accustomed to making this an inter-generational neighborhood event. There were a bunch of people there I’d never met, but by later in the afternoon, partly over a picnic table full of food and drinks, we’d all gotten acquainted. I now know where to turn if I have any canning questions, for instance. What was different from my haying experience in days of yore? Well, aside from the fact that I was no longer the youngest one, this time laborers were not required out in the fields at all, because the neighbor man made a series of trips back and forth to collect the bales. But we were still needed to unload and stack, working together for short bursts.
And there was an elevator, too, making a wonderful calm and steady sound:
The kids had as much fun climbing around and inventing games in the barn in between times of work as they did when they were up high in the wagon. At one point, I heard, “This is really FUN!” Of course, for the ones I brought over at least, everything was brand new. They even got to see some newborn calves out in the paddock as well as a – YUK—afterbirth. “What’s an afterbirth?”
I don’t mean to get carried away here; nothing’s perfect, not even haying in June. There is, however, a kind of rightness, a kind of constancy– also found in many other activities that are tied to natural rhythms. A something, anyway, that allows us to keep believing that the core of life, and even of human nature, is goodness.