Pasture art

When we first got to Tennessee, almost 15 years ago, and one of the neighbor farmers came over to cut our fields, the first thing I noticed was the scent. The second, after days of raking, drying and baling and the burping out of the rolled hay, was the random deposit of these big, beautiful sculptural masses across our pasture.

The baler moves and gathers and binds, and when it's full: blam. It falls where it falls.

Robert laughed when I called it "pasture art," but that's the term he's used since.

When Mom came out week before last, I loaded her into the Gator and we took a turn around the mowed paths bordering the pastures. She wanted to go through, but I've been there and warned her about thrashing out enough seed heads to make you feel like something that's been set aside for birds to peck on in winter.

So when our real-estate agent called Tuesday to tell us that someone wanted to look at the place, the first people I talked to were Ray and Brenda, to get them hopping on the house and gardens; the second was Keith, to get his guys mowing lawns; and third, I looked out to see the newmown hay being baled. . . .

At least the farm smelled like a farm, in the good way, when Charlie brought the guy out today.

Filled with art and all.