Haying with horses on a New Hampshire farm is an enjoyable experience. Sometimes.
This season, haying has been dreadful. All that rain in July meant either no, or bad, haying. It also meant that the new growth was pushing up into the old growth, making for a miserable mowing in August, with big clots of grass binding up the sickle bar and the farmers' and the farmhorses' tempers.
The raking and the loading were also unhappy affairs, thanks to those same heavy, wet, sure-to-mold-in-the-barn clots. We would toss the wet off the wagon in the field, feeling the kind of grump that comes after you've spent a long time making a nice supper, and it turns out badly. There it is, the same amount of work, but it doesn't taste that great, which is probably what our horses will be saying about the hay all winter.
On top of that, all the hayings ran right up against our little bit o' summer fun.
First was the long-delayed-by-the-pandemic visit to my family. We didn't arrive until 11:30 p.m., after the haying. But our nice sleepy relatives cheered our arrival.
Second was my fellow's family visit, here on the farm, also pandemic-delayed. These nice alert relatives helped us hay and ordered take-out for us, so that we could have a meal together at 8:30 p.m., after the haying.
Third was our nice Philadelphia friends' visit, who also helped us hay, and made us a delicious supper, which we ate at 9 p.m., after the gloomy haying.
“Did it turn out the way you wanted it to?” the supper-maker asked kindly.
“Kind of hard to tell, isn't it?” We sort-of laughed, thinking of the crummy hay in the barn.
Most recently, the hay ran up against a much-anticipated Rhiannon Giddens concert.
That day, we got out to the field by three, hoping the hay would be dry. We should have had plenty of time, except there was way more hay than could fit in one load; and the horses were grumpy and not working well together; and the farmers were grumpy and not working well together. In fact, I accidentally hit my fellow with my pitchfork tines, which caused him to swear and me to profusely apologize.
Then, since we had to unload the wagon in order to pick up the second load, and the barn is getting full, which means a long slow unloading, with my fellow on the wagon, and me stuffing the hay into the rafters, and hay occasionally falling back down, which is maddening, and causes my fellow to really push those forkfuls of hay up firmly, and causes me to really grab hold of the hay firmly, all of which then caused my fellow to accidentally hit me with his pitchfork tines.
Then I swore, and he apologized profusely.
We got the last of the hay on the second wagon at 4:59. I wanted to leave at five, after my pleasant shower and change into fancy clothes. Instead, I raced in to swipe off the worst of the sweat and grub, and to gather snacks, vaccination cards, tickets, water, wallets, and keys. My fellow unharnessed the horses, and by the time I ran out to help lead the horses to pasture, my fellow had already taken all four at once up the narrow lane, which did not please them. But there was my sweet fellow, running down the lane with his shirt off, preparing to put on his fancy clothes.
Here is the nice end of the story: we got to the concert on time, and it was wonderful. I wish I could also say this was the end of the haying and my complaining, but alas, it is not, as we still have a section and a half to go.
Of course, haying with horses still could be enjoyable, even in this season. But I'm not holding my breath.
Originally published in the Monadnock Shopper News, Sept 22 – Sept 28, 2021