Hay- on the 4th of July

So its already the Fourth of July.  My Mother used to remind us that meant the summer was half over. So yesterday, I took time for a quick look back at the first half.

That is, after taking care of the picking and washing of produce, as we held the Farmers Market in spite of the Holiday. Mid wash, Don announced that if I was ready, he would put up my washing station. So we did. Pictures and more on that later.

Our celebration was pretty common day. We went to Market, and a few customers showed up, so it wasn't a total bust. Then we got a sandwich, and drove around town to check out the activity. There wasn't any. At least outside of a few garage-grilling groups of friends and family. So we resigned ourselves to an ice cream cone treat, and went home. There we watched 2 fireworks shows on TV, (much quieter than live), and then a smaller live show courtesy of several neighbors from the front porch.

The significant entertainment came from the hay. The season of grass this year has been quiet opposite of last, thankfully. The grass was tall from all the timely rains.

Yes, it was 5 foot high and rising. So tall and thick in places it was difficult to mow, and harder to get to dry.

So it was raked into windrows, and some turned once, some twice.

How good it is to see how well it has taken hold, considering the drought of last year.

In the early afternoon, we walked out to check on the drying windrows.




It was, indeed, heavy and still slightly wet underneath, especially in the sheltered spots. We rolled some of it over, glancing again at the sky. We escaped the serious rain of earlier this week, and were not looking to welcome more.

While Don continued rolling over the grass, I was checking out the Mulberries.  There are several trees along the north fork of the creek, but the winds have not been kind to the 'berry lover. There were some left, and of course I sampled them all, but found none good enough to inspire me to retrieve the buckets and stained sheets.  Sigh. Maybe next year.

Today, the baler came back, and now 12 more rolls dot the hillside.

With 8 from the smaller field, and the 20 bought en ones in the yard, and a possible 2 yet to dry, that makes a total of 42, plus the 100 small squares of alfalfa in the barn, even the prospect of an early frost doesn't seem threatening.

Just to be sure, I checked last Julys posts before I started this one. How bleak it seemed, compared to now.  Still rain chances for the days ahead. But, then, the garden has begun to beg for water. Only time will tell. The days of July and August have proved to be cruel.

But other things are progressing. The older ewes have been sorted off, and may soon be looking for a new home, and possibly a few more productive years in other folds. Today, we sorted the lambs, now divided into Keepers and Feeders. I winced when I counted the Keepers. Can we really support that many sheep?  Well, we'll figure it out as we go. We made it through the last year.

The old timers had a saying they used to apply to the aged, weak, or run down livestock during the cold last of winter. "Gotta be tough, and hang in there. You'll be ok if you can make it to grass."

It's been a tough year on all of us. But here in the hollow surrounded by fields of corn ever taller, I hold on to the hope that we've made it to grass.

Keep thinking green everyone. And make hay while the sun shines - even on the Fourth of July.

And then.......

So it's now late October. The golden sun and leaves of my last post are gone. Literally - in the 50 mph wind we had last week. But other colors paint the landscape.

We cleared off the garden. Then we cleaned out the garage. The last of the green was gone from the creek, and the garden as well. The ewes relished the last seasonal treats of the immature squash and gourds. The broccoli plants were crunched with great enthusiasm, and the red and green tomatoes eagerly gobbled. We sighed a bit, and unwrapped yet another of the precious few bales.

And then...... it rained.

With a soft distant rumble of thunder, it began with a gentle patter on the window. It continued for much of the morning, each drop disappearing as soon as it hit the ground. It didn't seem like much, so I was surprised when the telltale sign of the glistening puddle appeared at the end of the drive - had it really reached the half inch mark?  Yes, indeed.

By then, the faint rhythmic pulse of the rain was accompaniment to the chorus of the green. If you listened carefully, you could almost hear the turnips singing. Maybe it was just my imagination, but  I think the trees were humming along.

To witness and be moved by such a simple act of nature is a wonder-ous and humbling thing. It brought back memories. Of my Dad, leaning against the frame of the porch screen door, watching the water pouring out of the bent downspout, covering  the lawn in a miniature flood plain, his face almost aglow in a grin. My mother's retelling of a neighbors claim "'Makes me want to break out a chorus of the Doxology when it rains like this', according to  Edith Stone". Was that the refrain I heard?

The 3/4 in we got that day was welcome beyond words. And there were still showers predicted that night. Sleep came easily for the first time in weeks. Brief pelting of drops off and on during the night were but more music to my ears.

The ground seemed unusually wet the next morning when I fetched Dolly from the kennel. Even a hint of mud. But it wasn't until later that day I understood why. "Did you empty the gauge last night?" I asked when Don came home. He went out  to check it, neither of us not sure if we could believe it. An inch .6 total.

And it didn't stop then. Again, today, it rained. Another inch. We can't explain why we continue to get considerably more than our neighbors (well, except in Omaha). Not going to question it.

So the ewes got a few days grazing on the last grass on the west fork. The mixed greens patch is fluffing up, but still not enough to graze. If the weather holds up, and its above normal temps as predicted, there may be some greens of a different sort come Christmas.

Meanwhile, the days pass by, and the usual seasonal activity with them. The girls were sorted by  familial groups, and the bucks turned out. New lambs will be the next crop hoped for. The cycles and circles of life spiral on. I noticed the other day, that the colors of the landscape had shifted. Before, the trees provided a backdrop of dry green over the tanning of the grass. Today, the gray-brown bare branches reach up from pools of green. The world once more has been turned up-side-down. Or has it been righted by rain? It matters not, I suppose.

Oh - it rained all right. But the drought is far from over. There will be many nights spent pondering copeing methods of dry, hopeful minds  emotionally enlightened and physically warmed by the orange glow of a friendly fire. There's one burning now.

And I hear it calling. Or maybe its speaking softly to the still alive trees outside, joining them in the soft melody of an ancient song. I think I'll join them. I'm sorry you can't hear us via blog. I'm humming the old hymn along with them.  It goes "Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below."

Promises, promises

The forecasters are trying to be hopeful. They try to make rain chances of 20 and 30% sound good. But I'm good enough at math to understand that even a 30% chance of rain - showers rather- means its a 70% chance of nothing. Still, when the sky appears like this, you have to hold out hope.

Pretty huh.   Makes me remember things.

The last couple of weeks have been full of remembering. 

Shortly after my last post, (and possibly partly because of it) I had a visit from Grant, from NPR. They are doing a series on 'My Farming Roots' in conjuncture with Harvest Public Media, and wanted an interview. Of course I said yes. As it often turns out, I was the party that benefited the most.

Grant was a likeable young man, and asked the appropriate questions. Of them, for me at least, the most thought provoking was a simple one.  "Do you ever think of them - your great and grandmothers - while you are going about your everyday work?" he asked.  Pause.  "Well, yeah, I guess I do."

But it was later that it hit me. I began connecting with my roots much more in the last few years. The stories of my Great-great grandmother amazed me. I remember a bit about my Great grandmother. But suddenly, I got it.  Maybe its the atmosphere. The effects of the deepening drought and my awareness of it has provided the perfect setups.

As we stood discussing the fate of the new seeded grass, and the decision to be made - to hay, to graze, or do nothing as a least harm effect - I thought of my Great-great grandmother Sarah, a widow homesteader with 15 children. I could almost feel her standing there behind me in the tall grass.

The other evening when the shadows covered the garden, I went to pick the tomatoes. At least something in the garden is doing well. I filled the first bucket, moped the sweat from my eyes, and went into the vines again. And again. And the sight of the row of 5 gallon buckets heaped with large red rounds made me remember the photo of my great grandmother seated among the heaping bushel baskets so long ago.

Last week, the buzz in the news became the drought. Record number of cattle being sold.  Record corn prices. Hay shortages. Yesterday, the neighbor came to mow the hay. You do what you think is best. Or what you have to do. This morning I walked a letter to the mailbox, and got a closer look at the sparse dry grass lying dusty and gray on the stubble along the road ditch. And I remembered the stories my Mother told of herding the family milk cows along the dusty roadsides in the 30's, because it was the only feed they had. And how one day the government came, and 'bought' the cows, including Rosie, her favorite, and took them out to the edge of a large pit they had dug, and shot them. And with them died the small cream check, their only dependable income. And I got it.  I think I finally understand why my mother never milked a cow again, and why she secretly hated being a farmers wife.

I realize now that my roots go way deeper than I ever imagined. Thanks to Peggy and HPM, and Grant and NPR. I know that even the new seeded grass holds onto the promise. On the surface, we are all dry and brown and gray. Some won't make it. We may have to re-seed come spring. We will if we have to. But some roots run deep, and they'll make it through. Its a promise.