Stratford

Summer on the farm in my youth involved making hay. Lots and lots of hay. To city folks, that might sound delightful, pleasantly Arcadian, perhaps vaguely erotic, but I am telling you. It was plain hard work. The whole family pitched in, each with their appointed task; first cutting down the green, maiden grass, then raking and turning it toward the sun, transforming the upright crop into brittle filigree. Then binding it up with twine, forming it into square bales, transferring it to lofty red wagons, driving it steeply up to the mow, unloading the wagon-full onto an ‘elevator’ and… Read More »In memoriam Brian Bedford: The haymaking