Haymaking

Maybe it was the sunshine and the cloudless blue sky. Maybe it was the smell of freshly cut grass and the trailer full of Hereford calves in the parking lot outside the grocery store. Or maybe it was the young man who bounced past me in the squeaky seat of an old tractor. Whatever it was, the walk back home from town this morning was like an exercise in homesickness. Or if my parents house is not technically my home anymore, at least I'll call it farm sickness. I'm planning on taking Silas back home to visit his grandparents this summer, which means I'll miss the spring tillage and spraying. I'm hoping the trip will coincide with a cutting of hay. Because as much as I miss my sisters (and siblings in-law) and parents (and parents in-law) at the moment what I want more than anything is the isolation and mindless driving back and forth in the hay field, seat bouncing and squeaking, insulated long john silvers mug filled with iced tea, oldies station cranked up loud, and the sweet smell of alfalfa falling in neat wind rows behind me.