Grass Mountain and Shooting Barley

My heart was a bit heavier than usual and sank further when the morning emails brought disheartening news about people I care about. Not devastating, OhmyGod altogether unexpected news but, as a friend used to say when our work world went to hell in a handbasket--"sub optimal."

I looked for cheer from the cats, but they were nowhere to be found. The sermon at church was perfectly fine, but did not manage to lift my heart appreciably, but the newfound rhythms of the farm helped me get my equilibrium back.

This is the silage season. Because the cattle cannot be in the field with the grass in the winter, we bring the grass to them. Because cattle eat a lot of grass, this means collecting the bounty of the green fields in June and making a mountain of grass. This mountain is kept under plastic tarps that are weighted down with tires to keep the grass away from air and moisture.

Building the mountain is an art form and a competition and a race against time. If the grass is not in the right condition when it is stored, there is a risk that it will develop mold or harmful bacteria. It can get too hot and smolder and burn. Getting in the silage is both labor and equipment intensive, so there is competition for resources. There is also compettion for bragging rights, although my husband would balk at the idea that well-mannered farmers ever boast. "Got your silage done yet?" is a classic opener in the butcher's shop or at the post office.

And of course we are always watching the weather.

The silage got cut yesterday. The rain held off. Today they lifted the cut grass in a choreography of "nose to tail": .trucks move alongside the giant vacuum cleaner so that as soon as one truck is full, it tears away to the mountain site while the other truck pulls up so that vacuum cleaner does not miss a beat on its tour around the field. The speed at which these truck (lorry) loads move belies the volume until the mountain manifests itself.

The first time I watched this mountain creation with fascination. I rode into the fields with my husband and he explained it to me. Now I take comfort in its familiar rhythms as I hear the trucks outside racing up and down the farm road while we are safely tucked inside.

On the way home from church my husband pointed out the barley is shooting--creating the seed heads that make the grain for the cattle to eat. The sight of the barley bursting out from its green waves and the steady pounding of the lorries comforted me. Tomorrow I'll walk through the fields and let the bristly awns brush against my hand on my way down to the sea.