Farm Therapy

She died in April. He remembered that the lilacs had been in bloom. He remembered her laughter; he remembered his helplessness. He could still smell a trace of her perfume when he entered her room, as he did too often. He could still see her in her place at the table; his daily wanderings through the house put him in confrontation with a hundred ghosts of her.

Raymond swung onto the ramp and piloted the RV northward. It was a straight shot from Allentown to New York’s North Country, and except for navigating the perpetual summer reconstruction of Rte 81 through the Poconos, the drive was mindless. Her face came to him again and he let it: the athlete, the scholar, the apple of his eye, the perfect daughter.

A few days earlier, Pierce called from the farm and asked for his help. Now that Matt had finished Penn State and left the farm for good, an extra hand would be a godsend during haying. “We just need somebody who can drive one of the tractors,” Pierce had said. Both knew the real need was Raymond’s, but neither cousin spoke of that.

You can’t be too self-absorbed and bring in hay. It’s hard work: hot, dusty, sweaty and exhausting, and Pierce’s crew approached it in good humor. They also approached it with care and caution, mindful of safety and efficiency, so for Raymond there was little time to dwell on his personal sorrow.

As the day’s heat began to abate and the sun was sinking, one of Sarah’s meals waited. Like so many farm wives these days, she worked off the farm as well as on it. She was a teacher and had summers off, the pay was pretty good (by North Country standards) and the health insurance, retirement and other benefits she earned removed a further burden from Pierce. She could milk the herd when needed (in fact, she and Pierce used to do all of the milking), and she sure could cook. There’s nothing finer after a day of hard work than a good meal seasoned with laughter and a sharing of the day’s events. Raymond felt comfortable at Pierce and Sarah’s table, sated by good food and the knowledge that he had been of use.

At the end of the week, the hayloft held 12,000 bales, the food that would sustain the cows who in turn would fill the bulk tank milking after milking through the long North Country winter. In a world where it’s sometimes hard to see how you can make a difference, 12,000 bales from the field to the loft is a significant bit of work. The experience filled Raymond’s thoughts as he headed south. It wasn’t until he neared home that her memory painfully reasserted itself in his consciousness.