Glorious Failures

My boot on the ramp of the tractor, yarning about cows and pigs and hay. This is what I was missing. Yarning. 

The hay man was here, with his dad and his sons. All with an opinion about the state of the hay  – each opinion was considered – chewed  and nodded over.  There was time. Too wet. Rain coming. Too humid. Wet earth.  Ran a few bales. Too heavy.  Quit.

I gave them bags of pasture raised chickens and bacon from my pigs for their time. Grandpa sliding the bacon aside  and under his jacket in the back seat – to take to his own  house.  He loves him some good bacon he said, grinning.  His unhinged teeth clacking gently up and down.

We watched the cows, while the hay dried a little more, giving it time to decide if it was going to dry out the moisture or suck it back in and it was concluded that Daisy may not be pregnant after all. Which is not good news.

Poppy smashed her way through a gate. In a high state of HEAT. Sick of herself and everyone else and off out looking for a belly rub or a boar, not necessarily in that order. She found a belly rub.

I found  MOSS in the hay paddock – reached down to hook it out with my finger.  ” I guess it could be worse” said the straight faced handsome hay man. “There could be ducks floating in the paddock.” His father choked a little, pulling on the bib overalls he wore that were older than his son, his teeth moving about some more.” Happened to me.” said the son. “Snort.” said the Dad.  Obviously a much loved story. Told a dozen times. A pantomime. A life.

You have to get to know these two. Words are not squandered. Sentences are foreshortened. The essence of a conversation is condensed to a couple of words. A grin. A nod. This is my third season with these men and their flock of children. I am getting to understand their language. Their ability to sit and wait for the hay to dry. To just be still.  Though the hay didn’t dry. So then they went home. Wth their chickens. Stuff them with lemons and onions and apples and a bit of thyme,  I  called.  I love feeding children and their  Mums and Dads.

Before they left, the sons and I loaded the few bales of  green baled hay up into the loft, and salted it. Then one of the children, forgetting that he was working like a man, squealed in delight when  he flushed out one of the old hens with her previously undiscovered chicks.  Eight of them we counted. We watched them for a while – in the gloom up there. We shepherded them into the Peacock Palace so they had a better chance of surviving, it is safer in there.  Dad and Grandad leaning on the gates down below, waiting, without a breath of impatience, while we gently herded chicks.

The hay has time to dry now.  Hay teaches us patience and the ability to fail.  Failing takes practise. And the rain never came, so it might dry after all.

I hope you all have a lovely day

Your friend on the farm,

celi