Hay smells different to lovers and horses . . . proverb
The sweet scent of the cut hay simmers on the quiet air of early afternoon. Long, sweeping windrows dry top down from the sun’s hot touch. Two hawks circle intersecting invisible paths while eyeing the furrows searching for mice uncovered by the swather shearing grass into a labyrinth. From the far end, the bailer disturbs the peace boxing the bundles turning outside in and then spitting it to the ground at measured intervals.
I grew up on a farm in Michigan. Summers meant hide and seek in the corn fields, climbing trees to eat green apples, and evenings playing kick the can. I have heard that odors trigger some of our strongest recall to our past. Every time I pass a newly mown hayfield I am transported to my childhood. The odor of freshly cut hay takes me home.
Funny isn’t it how we see our childhood house as “home”. I lived there for only 18 years and have lived in Colorado for over 30, yet the farm in Michigan will always be home. Unfortunately now both my parents are gone but I am happy in knowing my nephew lives on the farm and my second family still lives down the road. So when I visit, there is still a sense of homecoming.