Math and Aftermath

Math and Aftermath
by Karen Beth Pike, Columnist

"Taking Care"

September 2, 2003

Definition: aftermath n. 1. a consequence or result, esp. of a disaster or misfortune. 2. a period of time following a disastrous event. 3. a second crop of grass in the same season. [AFTER + obs. math, mowing, < OE m th] From the American Heritage Dictionary

I find it amusing that the dictionary no longer shows the old usage of the word math, and has relegated the old usage of aftermath to the last place in line in the dictionary. In my hay fields this year the math of hay was superb; the aftermath however, has been far less impressive due to the drought conditions in my little corner of the world here in Wisconsin.

Even so, it is interesting to notice that as the tinder-dry lawn crackles under my steps that the hayfields are brilliant green and patiently waiting for rain, alfalfa can wait out drought by not putting forth a lot of growth and sending the roots deeper. The root system of alfalfa goes down further than most other crops, as much as thirty feet deep, and in the lower lying areas of my farm, there is ground water about that far down. I know this because elderberry bushes grow wild there, and they like places with ground water ten to twenty feet down. Alfalfa is an interesting crop, and makes the richest hay available in this area. Good alfalfa hay brings a premium price, and when cut at the proper time has a very high protein content. Proper time is the most difficult piece for this particular crop, since weather is the constant companion of the farm and is not always friendly to the farmer's schedule. The best hay is cut at ten percent bloom and is carefully turned and tended in the sun for a few days as it dries. In hot and dry weather it can be done in a couple of days, if it is humid or damp it takes much longer, and rain can ruin it entirely. Hay, like nature, cannot be rushed. Bringing it in too wet can burn down the barn, and leaving it too long can make it brittle and unpalatable for the animals that eat it all winter.

The pleasure of beautiful hay is somewhat marred by the effort required to get it from the windrows in the field into the barn. Those same hot, dry days that help it become hay are the same ones that are spent baling and stacking the stuff. Long sleeved shirts, jeans and gloves are the uniform for the sweaty and long days when the hay gets put up. The happiness and exhaustion of getting the last bales stacked in the barn are something that really need to be experienced to be fully understood. It means that the flocks and herds will eat this winter, and if things go especially well, there will be a surplus to sell as well. Farming has been called the ultimate act of faith, since there are no guarantees and the lessons that it can teach can bring both joy and pain.

That same joy and pain exist in our lives today as well. Although it more commonly comes from a city job well done (or not) than from the hard, physical labor of our ancestors on the farms. There are things that we still know from our past, the urge to plant in the spring and harvest in the fall are not lost on us. Just go into any major retailer on Memorial Day weekend and look at the tremendous quantities of bedding plants that are sold during that time. This time of year we are busily enjoying the harvest, either from our own backyard gardens or from the Farmer's Markets that thrive in most of the villages and cities around here. The part that amazes me is that during the flurry of activity from Memorial Day to the end of summer we remember the prosperity and faith that are nurtured from seedtime to harvest, and completely ignore it for the rest of the year.

Some of us have lost our native knowledge, or are busy denying it, to prove to ourselves somehow that we are too civilized and cultured to need such things anymore. I would suggest that no matter how proud and important we think that we are, there is One who knows us even better and more deeply than we can imagine, and can influence us for our good if we only let Him do so.

So it behooves us to go ahead and do the math. ***

Photo of Karen Beth Pike courtesy of the author