I love the smell of fresh-cut grass in the morning. It recalls pleasant memories.
Decades ago when I was in high school, I got the Saturday job of winnowing alfalfa cut on previous days. The horses, Bill and Joe, took me across the field raking the alfalfa into rows. They knew the routine; I just held the reins and turned them around at the end. There were meadowlarks and red-wing blackbirds singing, a rabbit dashing across, a snake slithering off or a pheasant shooting from the alfalfa. But it was also boring.
After lunch, taking a paperback book along, I placed hay on the bar holding the seat and sat with my back against the hay. Reading until the end of each row, I pocketed the book, turned us around and again began to read. At 4:30 p.m., I unhitched the animals, riding them to the barn. They filled up on water and strolled to their stalls, me following. Taking off the bridles, heavy harnesses and collars, I hung them up. I sneaked extra grain into the horses’ bins, brushed them down and, after a face hug and some sweet words, went home to supper.