Hay is for Horses, Not Bras

daphne on September 29, 2009

Some of you may have gotten wind of the fact that I’ve got a hankering to be rolling around on the farm with a rugged cowboy.  It’s a beautiful fantasy.  Freshly harvested vegetables pose in a photogenic basket. The scent of fresh hay crushed beneath my back. The vivid blue of the sky peaking through cracks in the old wooden ceiling of the barn.  Somewhere in the distance a rooster cackles.

Oh yeah. It’s hot.

Thing is, much as I may covet a good old fashioned roll in the hay, I never have, actually, rolled in the hay.  And given my current circumstances I probably never will (though if I can get my hands on a hat, Halloween is looking promising.)  While I am ensconced in my life here in the suburbs,  I’ll just bet that somewhere out there someone is rolling in actual hay with an actual cowboy.  So to that lucky lady I must ask:

Doesn’t the hay make your boobs itch?

You see, recently I had the good fortune of experiencing hay in my bra, not from a wild romping in the barn with this guy,

but from the stomping about at Monroe Farm during harvest day, picking basil and carrots and pumpkins and strawberries.   Here, the carrots pose artistically, fresh from the earth–

And the sweet children, with the largest pumpkins they could find upon hearing that said pumpkins would have to be hand carried twenty-seven miles, uphill, in the snow, to the car.

You’d never know it from the handful of fresh strawberries and my cowgirl-ish good looks and cheerful smile–

but trust me, already the hay had worked its way in. And I was one heck of an itchy cowgirl.

I never would have guessed it, but it turns out that hay in the bra can make one feel a tad cranky.  That being said rules are rules; they may seem unfair, they may be difficult to understand, it may even appear to some as though they were made up on the spot out of poking discomfort but I assure you that on the farm rules are made to be followed, and that has nothing whatsoever to do with itchy lady parts.

Take for example this gem that came screeching out of my mouth towards the end of a delightfully long day:

NO! I said no and if you pick up one more grasshopper I will take it and saute it and call it dinner. Do not touch your sister’s grasshopper!  NOT one more grasshopper AND I MEAN IT!

If you think I’m crazy, that’s ok.  City slickers don’t know what it’s really like down on the farm.  Besides, I was just looking out for this guy

Poor Jiminy, he’d already lost his jaunty top hat and cane and I could barely make out the words to his exuberant show tunes.

With the grasshoppers set free and the time for liberating hay from it’s hiding place drawing near, it is time once again for a gratuitous picture of a cow. Those of you who have been around a while know that prior to my infatuation with cowboys, I had a thing for cows.  I’ve even been know to throw in a gratuitous picture of a cow, or two here at the Greener Biener.  It’s been a while, so here you go, one gratuitous picture of a cow

What?  You’ve got a problem with my picture of Bessie?  Perhaps you think you could do better chasing down a wild cow for a photo session with hay in your bra?  (If so, send me your successful picture and I’ll post it on the site, no jealousy, no hard feelings. I promise.)

The Facts of Life, thanks to the farm

daphne on June 28, 2009

Just minutes after we were officially welcomed with a beautifully carved sign, mountain views and clean restrooms–

we got our REAL welcome to life on the farm–

There it is, the facts of life in your face.  You might be thinking, especially if you recall what happened over winter break, that I bring out the frisky in animals.  Perhaps I do.  Either way, it provided a fitting conclusion to the conversation that I recently had with the girls; THE conversation.  The one about eggs and sperm and making babies that, in retrospect, I might have left a little open-ended.  Thanks to Fernando and Bovina for the visual that effectively fielded any remaining questions.

Kira watched the action, observed the cow’s blase demeanor despite the considerably-sized bull behind her, and wanted to know “does she even know that he’s there?”  Take another look at that picture. Talk about your high expectations.

I can only assume that’s what these crazy kids discussed on their first date. Sure that’s my eight year old being driven around by a boy, but hey, life on the farm follows it’s own timeline.  And when he asked her join him on a jaunt to spread manure in the fields, Kira leaped at the chance.

While the eight year olds pondered life’s deeper questions, back at the barn…

Acadia got friendly with the horses,

and helped feed the chickens. They even convinced the hens to give up a bunch of eggs too. I’m starting to think that I haven’t been fulling utilizing the farming capabilities of these girls.

We frolicked with fish, moved the cows, and mucked the muckity-muck from the horse stalls.  But still, my heart belongs to the true wild child of the farm, Rasta Chicken.  I know looks aren’t everything, but try telling that to this fine looking lady —

Superior hair style not-withstanding, my little Rasta Hen isn’t getting her fair share of the lovin’.  Most of the time she sits alone in a corner, missing out on the hen-house gossip and the attention of the resident rooster.  I’m no farmer, but look at that gleam in her beady eye.

This lady knows her birds and bees. Just give her a chance to prove it.