Makin' Hay

For Connecticut hay farmers, there are usually two cuttings each summer. The “first cutting” takes place at the beginning of June, after the orchard grass forms seed heads - but before the heads begin to open. During that so called “boot stage,” the grass is at its peak nutritional value, and once the seeds begin to disperse, the palatability of the hay begins to drop. The problem with such a narrow window is, like everything else in farming, the weather. You need at least 3 days of dry weather to get the freshly cut hay to dry out. If it isn’t dry enough, you can end up with a barn full of moldy hay – or worse, you can burn down the barn when the wet hay spontaneously combusts!

Our entire first cutting this year was a bust. As soon as I saw the forecast for 5 days of dry sunny weather, I cut the hay, and immediately the rains came and didn’t stop. Every time the forecast showed a couple days of dry weather ahead, I’d spend half the day on the tractor raking and tedding (fluffing up ) what I’d cut in order to get it dry again – only to have it rain - again. I finally gave up and we made a couple decorative haystacks for the Museum and carted the rest of it home to give to the pigs. The pigs were delighted. They played in it, rolled in it, slept in it and eventually ate it all.

 Over the years, our pigs and sheep have cleared invasive brush in overgrown areas of our pastures, and we’ve made a point of feeding them first cutting hay on the bare soil left behind. We spread the hay on the ground for them and they eat most of it, but in the process, they break open the seed heads and their hooves push the seeds into the dirt. It’s almost as if they mean to be helpful. Almost.

The “second cutting” of hay usually happens around the end of August. By then the fields have hopefully regrown a foot or more, resplendent with red clover and a collection of the more delicate warm season grasses. Our second cutting is just now under way. I’m a month late and still trying to figure out the best way to put up loose (unbaled) hay.   We modified our brush hog so when we use it to cut the fields, it throws off long blades of grass instead of mulching it up into little pieces. That part of the process works great. Then we rake it into rows with our wheel rake and gather it up with our Frankenstein like looking “buck rake” and haul it back to Hill-Stead’s horse barn where we store it for the winter.  The more I tweak our buck rake, the more it looks like something that couldn’t possibly work – but it does, and in fact it works pretty well.

The field we are haying right now is directly in front of the Museum, so I made an attempt to keep the windrows in tidy parallel lines. I’d start with the best of intentions at the beginning of the row and look for a tree or something on the horizon to steer towards and use as a guidepost. If I kept the tree in my sights and steered the tractor straight ahead, my rows would have been perfect. But it’s a long field and pretty soon I would find myself distracted. I’d look up at the red-tailed hawk circling overhead, hunting for any rabbits or voles I’d inadvertently flush out. I wondered whether hawks have a preference for the first or the second cutting. There are more rabbits exposed after the first cutting, but there’s an abundance of voles during the second cutting, so, it probably just comes down to each hawk’s individual culinary preferences.

Realizing my windrow was veering off course as I was watching the hawk, I’d scan the horizon, find my guidepost and straighten it out. But soon I noticed the praying mantis hanging onto the front of the tractor hood staring at me. Perhaps it was as intrigued by the bulging hearing protection I was wearing as I was with its bulging eyes.  Then I’d look  behind me and I’d watch the fly catcher perched on the back of the rake, thrilled with the number of insects I was stirring up. It was enjoying a veritable “all you can eat buffet”.

 And way up high, over the pond to the east of me, a bald eagle soared. I had to shield my eyes from the sun to see it, but even at that height, I could make out its pedantic flight pattern. Flap, flap, soar – flap, flap, soar. Clearly no guidepost was needed – it was just following its own inner compass as it laid down a perfectly straight line. Looking up, I couldn’t help but wonder, what it thought of mine.