Every year, at summer’s end, we put up the prairie hay around our ranchette. It’s the natural grasses that are native to Kansas. Bluestem  that used to dominate the vast landscape–grasses that grew taller than a man’s head and provided Bison and other herbivores with sustainable nourishment and shelter.


The sweet aroma that rises from the freshly cut windrows, conjures up memories of my youth, when our dad would make hay. Although he put-up alfalfa, the affect is the same. Those who suffer from allergies may differ with me.

It’s a beautiful sight, those pillowy rows of hay, drying in the sun. There’s mix of sunflowers and other wild flowers in the grasses that will taste pretty good this winter, to the horses.


This year, our newest grandchild got to experience the texture, the smell, and… oh yes…the itchy qualities of our prairie hay. Grandpa felt he needed to sit down in it, get the, “real feel” for it!


Babies rarely hesitate to dig right in, touching, bending, and maybe/probably taking a bite!

We’ve found stranger things in his diaper!


Oh, to go back and really experience something for the first time in our lives.

The newness of each event–the sensitivities of our finger tips, the fragrance that drifts  under our noses, eyes that pick up the colors, and ears that hear the soft buzzing of a bee or the cry of red-tailed hawk overhead.

“It’s only hay!” You say.

I know, but I’m a romantic and a visual person. There’s something wholesome and soothing about hay. And, the fact that it grew just outside my front door that makes it so!


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