"Making hay is forever embedded in my mind--the good and the bad. After the hay was cut and had lain for a number of days to dry, it had to be raked into a windrow--a long, continuous, fluffy row. Then it was baled. LeRoy would often send me out, late in the morning, after the dew had dried off, to rake the hay. It was, without a doubt, the best time of the day. The darkness of evening brought about a cooling over the sun-parched earth, and in the morning, as the temperature again began to rise, the air had a quality about it; a wonderful pleasant aroma rose up to greet me as I raked the dry hay into puffy mounds, a smell that surely emanated from heaven itself. The gentle clicking of the tines, as I continued circling the field, was music to my ears, and in the distance I'd sometimes hear the sound of a semi shifting gears somewhere out on the highway, which only emphasized to me that I was here, a world apart from everyone else--a world, for the moment, that was so peaceful and smelled so good."
