Farming is often referred to as a ‘way of life’ rather than simply an occupation or job. A life’s commitment to a farm engages the farmer in a romance fed by a world of delightful revelations, a bargain realized through the committed hard work of the farmer to maintain a faithful relationship to place. That commitment creates both the pattern of day-to-day tasks and the serendipity of new experiences: whether the daily rhythm of milking a cow or goat; the seasonal requirement for successful planting and harvest; the community of family, friends, co-workers and neighbors; or the vitality of a buzzing, vibrating, blooming, fertile world creeping into a morning sunrise with the cooing of a morning dove or the chattering sparrow. Life on the farm is a constant, exhausting and wondrous seduction all around us. Every day.

Romance enters our lives through an abundance of sinewed, or sensuous experiences. It finds a place in ones heart and holds tight like tendrils of climbing pea, or grape vine. We planted a couple of acres of table grapes last year and it is remarkable to watch the dainty shoot of tendril exploring for anchors that tie fast all of the weight of growth to follow. I like the notion of romance. It’s a sweet and positive embrace of experience, a growth of knowing through venturing out, wide-open and engaged senses, a going beyond the me, to a me in relationship, to a newly revealed place in shared hearts now graced with a responsibility for caring and empathy. A good romance can empower and fill us like a deep breath of clean air, or a sweet peach, or perfect watermelon that drips juice from the corners of our mouth. We can create the places for romance to bloom in our lives, in our children’s lives or in the lives of those in our community. We can make romance a ‘way of life’.

Seduction and romance go hand in hand. I remember times of work and/or delight in my upbringing that deepened my love of farming and rural life. It is easy to see in children, mine or others, who can grow up roaming and exploring freely, developing a fearless curiosity. Our four kids would look forward to summer days when the watermelons were ripe foraging the patch for the perfect watermelon heart. They needed a few sober words of instruction about the loss when an immature melon was picked and cracked open before its time. They became a small pack of consulting experts — stalking, spying, gathering around, conferring, detaching and then dropping from about three feet. The ripe melon would split open and reveal their choice, and sticky handfuls of watermelon would confirm the sum of their learning. To romance well, it seems that one cannot fear mistakes, or failure, nor can there be an overwhelmed sense of a world out of control. Rather there needs to be a willingness to embrace the experience and be present in the place, at the moment, with attention to the whole — ones experience creating the whole.

Which brings me to baling hay. Now I know it is a stretch, but bear with me. One of the important romances of my farm life (after my sweet wife, my great kids, my wonderful family, my patient partners , the hardworking farm crew, or this small piece of earth itself, or…) was lying under the stars, on a summer night, at 2 or 3 in the morning drifting in and out of sleep on a soft windrow of fragrant alfalfa hay waiting for the dew to settle. I remember being about 16 when I had learned enough to make the judgement about when there was enough moisture in the hay to compress it into a bale and make high quality livestock feed. The window each day was different – sometimes 2 am, sometimes 6 am, depending upon the levels of moisture in the air – usually always gone by 10 am. Hay must be dried completely before it can be baled and stored, but if it is too dry, the leaves shatter to powder. Hence a 16-year old farmer-in-training, reaching over to crunch the mattress of hay each hour to see if the nighttime air had sufficiently hydrated the leaves of dry alfalfa to keep them whole in a bale. What a treat! What a responsibility!

So I convinced my partners this spring (or maybe they once again indulged me) to let me buy a baler to make hay for our sheep and cows. We plant our hay in the fall, and it grows over the wintertime — oats and vetch mainly — to keep our ground covered, and to make dry feed for our animals. We cut those hayfields in the spring, when the oats are heavy, and the crop starts to dry. This hay is fed to our animals when the winter is cold and it is too wet to have them outside. It is then, in the short cold days of November to January when a bale is opened, that all of the warm summertime aromas of good hay are released into a cozy barn. The sheep munch contentedly and thank us for our foresight.

I spent the spring with a task of fitting in haymaking between rainstorms and all of the other ongoing farm work. I rekindled a romance. I crunched and sniffed and recalled a long forgotten seduction of sweet fragrances, open starlit sky, skill and judgement about qualities to be revealed six months from now. Although not as profitable as growing vegetables, baling hay is an activity that needs to be done when the time is right. The responsibility for making good feed is now ours – an act of self sufficiency. We no longer hire away haymaking for someone else to do when they get around to it. The used equipment purchased to make the hay will serve us for many years at a fraction of the cost of new. In a short springtime, this ‘way of life’ has accomplished recycling, remembering, recreating, realizing and renewing romance.

By Paul Muller, Full Belly Farm

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