The Nature of Hay

Hay is a remarkable substance. Properly harvested it captures much of the nutrients available in the included forage, removing the bulk of the moisture to allow long term storage. It provides nutrients and calories for my flock, keeping them fit and healthy through the winter, providing energy to stay warm and develop the lambs inside them. I love the smell of good hay. It is fresh and sweet and clean and wholesome. I bed my dog houses deeply with hay in the winter so the dogs can make a warm nest. The dogs smell delightful. I love the smell of the loft loaded with hay.

If only I did not actually have to carry the stuff.

Hay has an amazing ability to work its way into any amount of clothing. Wear a turtleneck, fleece vest, fleece jacket, winter jacket, long pants, hat, gloves and boots. Take a few bales out to the sheep. Brush the bits of hay off your jacket, noting with satisfaction that they seem to slide easily off the smooth finish of your outerwear. That, my friend, is a lie. The hay that slides easily off your coat is a distraction, covering the progress of the hay that is now working its way through 6 layers of clothing to your skin. As you took each bale and spread the flakes out for the sheep, small bits of hay have been surreptitiously disengaging themselves and beginning their journey. Some simply clung to your clothing as you carried the bale or lifted a flake. Some lifted through the air in the chill winter breeze, or perhaps separated as a flake was tossed to a hungry ewe. Many of these bits fall short of their goal, landing in the snow to be consumed by sheep or decay into the ground. But many successfully make it to the outside of your clothing. Once there they begin a burrowing process that any subterranean dwelling animal would envy. Hay can work through any fabric with ease. Natural fibers or manmade, knit or woven, if it is not hermetically sealed then hay can get through. If not through the fabric then it slides in the cuffs of your boots, up your sleeves, down the turtlenecks. Let’s ignore the fact that you never lifted the hay above your shoulders to avoid the turtleneck entrance, the hay gets in there anyway. Once in, it works its way through the layers like a chigger, aiming for the most sensitive skin. And only when it has positioned itself so as to cause maximum annoyance does that final, almost invisible, pointy piece of hay finally anchor to your undergarments.

You continue your chores, desperately trying to ignore this infernally uncomfortable sensation as the tiny bit of hay scratches at skin not at all accustomed to such abuse. Finally, in disgust, you drop the bucket you were carrying, unzip your coat, pull the hem of your sweater and underlying vest away from your body, un-tuck the turtleneck exposing your bare skin to the icy air, and reach up to sweep the offending needle of hay out of your clothing. You do this while leaning forward, pulling your upper layers away from you so the hay will fall freely to the ground. But instead it manages to slide down your body and into your pants. Lord only knows how since the waistband is so damn tight from holiday gluttony. Once there it snags on the top edge of your underwear and immediately works its way down into a position equally miserable as where it started. You sigh, perhaps swear, and finish your chores.

Once in the house you will find a good shake gets most of the hay out of your clothing, but there always seems to be one piece, one microscopic and very sharp piece, that cannot be found to be removed. You take a clean pair of socks from the drawer and slide them on only to realize that the wonderful, nutritious and remarkable hay is still with you.