A few years back, I recall a roll in the hay. On any given day during the summer it isn’t uncommon to find a gaggle of kids hanging around out house. Often, I boot them out the door to unplug them and create my own Fresh Air Fund camp. Our back yard extends well beyond our unenviable lawn. “Crabgrass, Dandelions and Clover Are Us”. Our lawn may not make it into a photo of a Scott’s advertisement, but things could be far worst. Beyond the green lawn is an acre of hayfield. I love this little piece of country that we can call our own. It looks beautiful with the backdrop of our neighbor’s horses affronted by a sea of golden hay. Twice a year, a farmer comes into our back yard and cuts the hay. I always laugh because we never have actually discussed with the farmer whether we want it cut or not. He does it anyway. Chris and I just shrug our shoulders and let him do it mainly because we don’t have a tractor to do with as we please. God knows I won’t be cutting an acre of hay with a scythe. One day, Kate has two friends over. After a half hour or so they realize that one of the friends has been missing for about a half hour…so is Peter. We look everywhere to little avail. The farmer had been by earlier and was half way through the process of cutting and baling. The hay was lined up in rows to dry out. After the exhaustive search, the worry is growing on my face. Out of nowhere, Peter and the girl show up disheveled with hay all over him. It is clear now where he was but I still have to ask where he had been? My eyebrows are raised. Matter of factly, he says, “Mom, I was just having a roll in the hay”. My eyes pop out of my head. He spoke literally, unknowing of the euphemism he had used. He was technically rolling in the hay and I am thankful for that. Good thing because some years later, this story could have had a distinctly different ending.
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