Saturday morning: another hay run morning. Guys who cut hay for a living don't load trucks in the middle of the afternoon, so it's up and away, two truckloads and back.
I hate riding with 15 bales in the bed of the truck. Every once in a while, one isn't balanced just so and the wind catches it and it goes flying off. Most of the time, if a bale hits the road, it explodes, hay goes everywhere, but no one gets hurt. But sometimes they stay intact. And when there's someone tailgating me, I always stress that I'll go over a pothole, lose a bale, and it'll land on the guy's windshield. I have serious worries about this; I'm not even kidding. Public safety notice: Don't tailgate anyone with a whole pickup truck full of hay. You'd hate to have Killed In A Fiery Hay bale Crash be etched into your tombstone. And I don't want to be brought up on some kind of vehicular homicide charges.
Disaster was avoided this time. There's nothing more splendid than a fresh stack of hay. Mmm...smells like sunshine, and security.
The rest of my oh-so-exciting weekend was spent scrubbing down the front porch, readying it for winter. There's always this flurry of winter prep chores around the farm this time of year. I've got all the horse blankets washed and ready. The pastures are mostly bush-hogged.
I think I need another weekend to recover from this weekend.
I'm so ready to dive back into writing. 54,000 words and counting! Plus Rosewood. Plus Slight of Hand. The irons in the fire are making me dizzy.
Hope everyone had a lovely weekend.
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