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We go through a lot of hay. We feed our horses and cows hay and bed the bunny cage and all the chicken beds with hay. We’re shoveling hay in, for one purpose or another, and then shoveling it all back out again, after it’s unpleasant transformation. Believe it, or not, I actually had a long gravel road put in this last winter just to take the transformed matter to converted pile (AKA, the manure / compost pile). Yeah, we country people know how to waste money on crap, literally.

On the other hand, we save money by purchasing our pre-crap, I mean hay, directly from the grower. We put in our amount of bales request, and when the farmer calls and says, “It’s on the ground” we drop everything, and go. The cookies are left in the oven to burn and the water runs over the tub. Alright, that’s an exaggeration, but it’s darn close. It’s definitely how it feels. Don’t judge, we’re saving money.

In return for our saved money, we have the pleasure of bouncing our pickup and flatbed trailer through someone’s field to retrieve our dried up, rash causing, grass clippings. My husband breaks his back picking them up and then heaving them to me, the master of all master stackers (I gave myself that title). My job is to build the most spectacular structure of perfectly placed and expertly puzzled golden rectangles man has ever seen. That’s right folks, my bales are so tight I can take them twelve stories up. My husband makes me stop long before that, due to the trailer tires. But let it be noted, I could.

Then, we haul or prized block of allergy inflaming dead grass home, where someone pushes, throws, or karate kicks it off the trailer. The style really depends on the particular person. My personal style goes like this: push, drag, pull, wheeze, and push again. Followed by a yell. “Look out! Sorry!” However, do to my astounding stacking skills, or my husband’s hay allergy, I’m usually the one in the barn, recreating a larger, grander version of my first pride and joy structure. I build mine with stairs – just saying.

By the end of the day, if we’ve all survived, we congratulate ourselves on another year’s hay escapade complete. We stand and around and gawk at our masterpiece for two point five seconds while my husband says, “Whoever thought of selling one’s grass clippings, was a crazy genius!” and then we run (well limp and hobble) for dear life, hoping we don’t bring home another animal and have to move even more next year

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