"You need to get a pickup, girl"
After some conversation about tomorrow's snow report and a signed check, I left the feed store. I was a few short miles from home and trying to juggle a very loaded station wagon with the ice-covered back roads. At one point in my life an open back hatch might have made me cold, bothered me even, but I rarely flinch at anything over -4 degrees anymore. And to be honest, I was too wound up to consider the wind chill inside the car. I was still reeling from Nelson's place.
Earlier that monring when I pulled up to Nelson's giant post-dairy farm no one was there. So I walked up to the house to see if anyone was home. I was confused because I called and made an appointment, but was told by his wife he ran to town, and if I could, would I please load the hay myself?
Well, of course I would. I was just anxious about how to go about it. I turned and faced the giant hay storage barn across the dirt road. It was about seven times the size of my cabin. The only way to get in (that I knew about) was a small loft hatch one of Nelson's farm hands would crawl into to throw bales out of.
Okay. I was going in.
Now I've been buying hay from Nelson for months. The day I drove home with the flock in the back seat, he was outside this very farm as I drove past. He was loading bales into the back of someone's truck when I pulled over to ask him (then a complete strange) "Do you have any hay?" and he laughed out load at my sheep taxi and said "Sure! You have any sheep?" That same day I that I welcomed the first hoofstock ever to Cold Antler Farm, I went back to Nelson's and together we loaded the car with eleven bales. A partnership had been made.
But now I was left to my own devices. I parked the car near the hay barn, turned on my hazards, and walked to the hatch door. I crawled up into the loft, and for a few holy moments I stood there and took it all in. I was standing in the soft, dusty, beams of winter light in a giant wooden barn. All around me forty-foot walls of second cut hay towered over my head. It was beautiful. Moments like this are like farm pornography. For me they're blantant moments of self-indulged pleasure. A bit of fantasy come true. Someday I'll have my own barn loaded with hay like this. I stood in awe, ridiculously happy at the sight of it.
Sometimes I worry if it's normal to gain inspiration from piles of dead grass...
I recently saw a magazine at Wayside that made me do a double take. The cover actually had a headline "What to do with an old barn!" which instantly made my heart drop into my lungs. The idea that some people have perfectly good barns and have to look to their coffee tables for ideas on what to do with them, breaks my heart. An unused barn being converted into lofts or gallery space makes me livid. I can't stand the gluttony of unused farms. Not when I'm at a place in my life where I would do anything to work that hard on my own land. My problems would be fitting in all the animals, figuring out lambing jugs and creep feeders, not if I should hire a historical society to restore it for the state's collective rural nostaglia... Christ, why don't you start eating caviar around some Victorian-novel orphans?
But a barn is a long way off, and I shouldn't be so bothered by what other people do with their land. After all, it is theirs, and none of my business what they do with their land. Right now I need to focus on what is going on in my current farmlife. Things like a pregnant Angora doe, and a goose-in-waiting. I have fences to mend, bills to pay, feed to stack, mouths to fill, and hay to put up. A pickup, a border collie, a flock of Scottish Blackface sheep, and a million other dreams will all have to wait for now.
It's good to want things, but dangerous to need them.