JUNE - Is Busting Out All Over!

"It was June, and the world smelled of roses.

 The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside."

– Maud Hart Lovelace 

American Children’s Book Author (1822-1980)

There is something special in the air and over the lands in Pennsylvania when June waltzes in with her bouquet of vibrant flowers and lush grasses that cover the lawns and fields. The entire world seems to come alive. Trees and bushes wearing their timid light green foliage change into their summer clothes of a deep green. Despite the constant rains of May, the sun peeks out. Overhead the sky is colored a soft cozy blue with fluffy white clouds floating around.

Our backyard has become a haven for our feathered friends who have arrived early. We have chickadees in a birdhouse under our patio, finch nests in our hanging ferns, bluebirds in a box on one of our fences, robins under our deck, and sparrows in a second birdhouse nearby. And let’s not forget the doves. They have taken a spot in a tree in the neighbor’s yard and are cooing back and forth to each other as early as five o’clock every morning. The chirps, cheeps, whistles, and warbles of our feathered fellows merge to make up a summer chorus filled with melodies. 

I have to admit, the smell of drying clover and other field grasses is one of summer’s most pleasant scents, along with June roses in full bloom. And who can ignore the light fragrances of lavender or sun-kissed red raspberries when they drift out into the breeze?

 

Growing up in the country, this was the time of the year when we farm kids all uttered a deep sigh as soon as we heard the sound of the tractor and its mower heading out to the nearest hay field. The odors of gasoline, motor oil, and baler twine became a common smell. Soon, we knew we’d be tossing hay bales onto wagons and into hay lofts.

June is my favorite month. It’s clean, new, and the start of summer and warmer weather. It’s vibrant vegetation. Sizzling sunshine. And, by the way, it’s my birthday! 

 

                                                 LINK to my AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE 

JUNE AND OLD HAY LOADERS

There was something magical for me when I was growing up on a farm in Pennsylvania, and the month of June rolled around. School was no longer in session. Only for rare winters, when we had an un-unusual amount of snow, did a school year extend into June.

For farmers, the first long stretch of rain-free days heralded the beginning of haying season. A sickle bar side mower was hitched to our Farmall C tractor, and my father headed to the hayfields. I used to like to watch him slice down the rows of tall grass in perfect side-by-side rows. The sweet smell of clover, timothy, and other grasses drying in the blazing sun permeated the air.  

 

On rare occasions, you might hear the squawk of a killdear as it flew up from among the still-standing stalks. Dad was always careful to stop, find the nest, and mow around it, leaving some tall grass to protect and camouflage it. 

 

 If by chance, the weather turned fickle and the hay became wet, we knew on the first clear day, we’d have to man our pitchforks. With the fork in hand and often with some help from your shoe, you could lift and flip the hay over on itself to dry. Round and round the field you’d go.

 
While everyone disliked this job, I found it relaxing because I liked to daydream—or if Dad and I worked side-by-side—to talk. And it was always a heart-stopping surprise when a sleek black racer slid out from under the hay row, just inches from the toe of your shoe.

Before we purchased a square hay baler, we used a hay loader hitched behind a 1932 Chevy flatbed truck with a crank start, once used for milk delivery. I was only seven or eight years old when I first started driving it, straddling the rows of loose hay while the loader gobbled it up. I remember half-standing up and holding on to the steering wheel to push the peddles on the clutch and brake when Dad, scattering the hay on the truck’s bed, signaled for me to stop. I was always in awe of his ability to whistle a loud shrill sound with just two fingers in his mouth.                          

Then, it was off to the barn where a large hay fork on a track lifted bunches up from the truck, onto an overhead track, and into the loft where it was scattered about. I also often mowed away loose hay when I was a little older, spreading it to level the loft.

When people ask me if I missed the farm when I moved away, I have to admit I didn’t miss the hard work, hot days, and hayseeds. But there was something special about growing up in the country.

Dwight D. Eisenhower’s words come to mind, and I like to paraphrase one of his quotes:
                     “Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil, 

                      and you’re a thousand miles from the corn (or hay) field.”