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.”

MAY - THE MONTH OF WISHES

It’s the merry month of May. The flowers are blooming, the birds are singing, and the warmth of the sun beckons us outside to smell the newly mowed grass. It’s the dig-in-the-dirt month, too. Everyone is scouring the nurseries for flowers and plants to decorate their porches and flowerbeds.                                                      

Most nights, we can hear our resident owl hooting away, often beyond midnight. He’s taken up a nightly position nearby our bedroom window, possibly on the roof of the house. It’s a comforting, if not slightly eerie sound to lull you to sleep.

I always have too many projects in half-started states when spring arrives. The birdhouses have to be cleaned, refurbished, and set out. My hummingbird feeder is now suspended along our patio for early arrivals. The robins are nesting under our deck and in the rhododendrons. The aggravating grackles have returned, chasing away the small birds at the feeders. The sparrows have taken over the bluebird house. The chaos has begun for our springtime feathered friends.

Central Pennsylvania is in the migrating path of orioles heading north, and I was lucky to catch an orange flash of one clinging to the hummingbird feeder the other morning.

Our weather has also been erratic the last few weeks. Rainy days teaches us to slow down. It’s nature’s way of telling us to shift to a more unhurried pace, interrupting our rush to get things done, but allowing us to experience the joy of spring. If we are lucky, we may even be rewarded with a rainbow stretching from horizon to horizon above budding and blooming trees in hues of green, white, lavender and pink. Oh, how I love this colorful month and warmer temperatures!                 

"May is the month or expectation, the month of wishes, 

the month of hope.”—Emily Bronte

 

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VISIT MY                    AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE FOR ALL MY BOOKS 

 A sweet romantic western and mystery!
Best Book Award Finalist!

SPRING IS IN THE AIR

March blew in mild and warm to Central Pennsylvania, then swept out while morphing into rainy days and chilly weather. We know April will be fickle here and always brings us breezy, sometimes blustery days as well. But, April showers will bring May flowers, as the saying goes.

As we look toward to spring marching in, we start thinking and rehashing in our heads all the outdoor and various chores we want to accomplish. Just remember the old phrase, “Rome wasn’t built in a day.” Take time to make time for yourself.                                                                    

Find something you like to do: Read a book, work on a craft, re-order your aggravating miscellaneous files or your desk. Put in order anything that makes you uncomfortable at a first glance. Clean an untidy corner. Take a walk. Do whatever will make you happy and feel good.

This month, I’m highlighting my book, “Courting Betsy,” Book 3 in the Ashmore Brothers Series. It’s a romance with a touch of mystery, but has the humor of children, the quibbling of grown siblings, intrigue, and of course, Two Bears, a Ute Indian and friend of the Ashmore Family.

BLURB:

When Betsy Ashmore, adopted sister to a family of four brothers, discovers U.S. Marshal Luke Ashmore is lying wounded in a renegade Indian camp, she can’t refuse to help a brother in peril—especially one she has loved all her life. With the help of a wily Ute Indian, the spunky shopkeeper saddles up to rescue him.

 Marshal Luke Ashmore never expected to be bushwhacked  while escorting the young boy of a murdered army scout northward to Fort Collins in the Colorado Territory. Outlaws want the boy and believe he knows the location of a hidden treasure.

As Betsy and Two Bears struggle to get the marshal and the child to safety, can they outwit the ruthless outlaws following them? And what will they do with two more orphaned boys they stumble upon along the trail?

Fall in love with the plucky shopkeeper and her three scheming youngsters—all determined to help the U.S. Marshal lasso her heart so they can become a family.

A sweet romantic western and mystery!
Best Book Award Finalist!

               VISIT MY   AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE FOR ALL MY BOOKS