Tag Archives: hay

Decompose

Decompose: (v) to rot; putrefy

My dad died of lung cancer.

It was not a surprise—though death itself offers a certain array of misunderstandings.

He smoked all his life.

Matter of fact, he rolled his own. No filters.

So by the time cancer got to his lungs, the disease already had a climate suited for its purposes.

I was never close to my dad. The last few months of his life, he made a feeble, but noble, attempt to connect with me—but I was sixteen and in no mood for sentimental drivel.

The summer following his demise, I was old enough that I needed money of my own so I could pay for gasoline, dates and some clothes.

I joined a summer jobs campaign offered by the federal government, which paid $1.10 an hour. I ended up working at the community cemetery, mowing the grass around the graves.

I guess I was a little freaked out about it. But it was quiet, and the man in charge of the grounds didn’t hang around, supervising me, which meant I could do things at a pace that honored my laziness.

This was also the location of my father’s grave.

His site was so new that grass had not yet grown up over the pile of dirt. So every time I took my mower by his plot, I said something to him. Since we had not talked much during my growing up years, I thought I would make up for it by chatting to him in his reclining position.

It felt weird at first.

But then I struck up a conversation that prompted me to work more efficiently, actually relishing the time I had, mowing down the departed.

I will never forget, one very, very hot day, there was a smell in the air. It was a combination of rotten tomatoes, vitamins—if you put your nose right up to the jar—with a slight bit of the hay fields that surrounded our town.

It was not an unpleasant odor. After a while, I breathed it deeply into my lungs.

It was the scent of human beings simmering in their graves. It was very natural.

The job only lasted that one summer.

It’s probably good that it didn’t continue.

I was young and didn’t need to be ruminating over the sniff of those who decompose.

Burlap

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Burlap: (n) coarse canvas woven from jute or hemp, used especially for sacking.

I once was young enough that a hostess offered me accommodations in a barn. (You have to look like you’re brave and strong, able to survive the elements and sleep on hay.)

I was grateful. She explained that she had so many guests in the house that she had run out of blankets and pillows, but I was more than welcome to draw from a huge stack of burlap bags in the corner of the barn to use for such purposes.

Upon entering the barn, I first found a collection of hay that was dry enough, without suspicious damp portions. That was pretty successful, although I will tell you, a bed of hay gets thinner and thinner as the night goes on and you crush the straws.

As she noted, there were innumerable burlap bags, which I grabbed and pieced together to form a blanket and a pillow. I would not consider myself to be a woodsman or an individual given to outdoorsy experiences, but I’ve had my share. Yet on this particular night, it was impossible for me to sleep.

The burlap was so coarse, so itchy, that I was convinced I had thousands of ants crawling all over my body, which was further reinforced by the knowledge that I was lying on a bed of straw.

I tried to throw the makeshift burlap blanket off, but then I got too cold–but every time I covered with it, I got too itchy.

So I faced a perplexing situation in the morning when I stumbled out of the barn and headed to the house for breakfast.

I knew my hostess was going to ask me how I fared amongst the animals, so I quickly grabbed two biscuits, stuffed them in my mouth, took a big swig of milk, and kept my orifice filled the entire meal– so I was only able to communicate with nods and grunts.

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Bovine

Bovine: (adj) of, relating to, or affecting cattle.

I suppose I would feel differently if I grew up on a ranch, but during my travels, I was invited Dictionary Bby a gentleman and his wife to come and stay a couple of days on their farm.

Normally on these kinds of excursions, I try to express an interest by offering the extent of what I know about their occupation or lifestyle. I don’t do this to be a know-it-all, but just to get the conversation started, so they can ramble on a bit and be my instructors.

I feel it’s the least I can do for some good meat loaf and clean sheets.

But when it came to the realm of farming and the animals that inhabit the location, I was lost. Matter of fact, when my friend took me out to his barn, I walked in and felt as if I had just landed on a really bad-smelling planet.

Yes–barns do not sniff of hay. They permeate of shit.

But I endured.

First we walked by some horses. Honest to God, I would swear that those creatures stared at me as if to say, “What in the hell are you doing in here?”

Then we arrived at the cows. The bovines.

  • I was surprised at how large they were.
  • I was stunned by how indifferent they seemed to my presence.
  • And I was extraordinarily overwhelmed by the size of their teats.

I kind of felt like a little boy who suddenly discovered a Playboy Magazine–farm version.

I became completely befuddled when the farmer wanted me to reach down and pull on the protrusions to acquire milk. I can’t even describe the levels of squeamish that trickled down my spine. It was a combination of girly-girl “g-r-r-r-oss” and feeling like I was cheating some calf out of breakfast.

I will never forget the experience, because it is so typical of me as a person.

After all, it is much easier to discuss a cow in theory than have a face-to-face.

 

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