There’s a lot to be depressed and angry about if you want to focus on the universe in a certain way, but my little world is peppered with things that make me want to smile – and I’m not talking about baby animals or pink-cheeked children and fields of flowers. Or clowns. I’m really not too keen on clowns. Or mimes, though I haven’t see one in years. I’m smiling right now because all the mimes have gone far, far, away.
Our dairy farm is located on the Gore Road in Highgate, but most of our fields are outlying, meaning that we have to travel some distance to work, plant, and harvest them.
On Memorial Day, we wanted to put corn on the piece located at the Carter Hill Road/route 78 corner. This meant traveling through the center of town, back and forth all day.
There was a parade and chicken barbecue imminent, and folks staking claims with lawn chairs and parked cars alongside both sides of the road starting about 10 o’clock in the morning for a 1 p.m. event.
Other farmers were on the road, too, but we were moving three tractors, a cornplanter, the plows, some implements, a fertilizer spreader, and the big dump truck with the extra-tall sides for hauling feed and bedding.
We had to squeeze all that equipment through a shrinking gauntlet of oddly positioned metal and moving people, with the extra pressure of wanting to avoid being caught up behind the parade.
On one trip, Dan returned to the farm with the dumper full of dried manure from the Rowell farm (we use that for the cow’s bedding material). The Rowells have a manure digester that burns methane, creating electricity; they also sell the byproduct consisting of dry, peaty, brown stuff.
I’d like to humbly suggest a commercial name for it, say, “Farmigrow” or “Beddamoo.” “Dried manure” sounds like a gardening supplement, but comforting dairy cows on processed poo – that’s as “green” and hip as a business venture can get. Needs a cool name!
After waving to parade watchers, then depositing the load in the bunker area behind the barn, he went into the box to sweep it, and discovered one of the American flags that had been lining the route through the center of town. They fly from the telephone poles, but some on the Gore are a bit closer and lower to the road than on the main thoroughfare. You may have seen the torn one, dangling by the elementary school entrance.
Dan is certain he wasn’t responsible for that.
We flew it at the farm for two days then returned the flag to the town offices. He took what he called “The walk of shame” for having neglected to return it right away.
In truth, he was crazy busy, and I didn’t know where the flag had come from. I thought we were just being patriotic.
So there you have it. It might not be ha-ha silly, but I’ll take it.
