A recollection of cutting late season hay two years back: Summer had seen heavy rain once or twice a week all summer. Finally as September arrived the experts agreed on a beautiful seven days, no rain and low humidity. I made my plans while the gods smiled, chuckled and made their own mischievous plans.

Tuesday afternoon under gray skies, I double checked the forecast, crossed my fingers and put on the disc mower. Four hours of mowing in the lower field and I was done for the day. That night I woke to hear the sound of steady rain on the tin roof. Normally, a pleasant sound, I’m sure I heard an ominous chuckle in the thunder.

It rained until dawn and remained overcast all Wednesday.

Thursday, a forecaster still telling one to get out and enjoy the spectacular sunshine, dawned with heavy cloud cover. Mid-afternoon, I hitched up the hay rake, reversed the wheels into the “tedding” mode and drove down the drive. I entered the field and begin turning over the hay. The hay had managed to cure on the top. But, underneath it was still green and damp.

As I laid down that night reviewing the next day’s raking and baling, it began to rain, just a light “screw you, Brian” kind of rain. It lightly rained for a few hours.

Friday dawned with a forecast calling for picture perfect sunny skies and low humidity. The sun showed late for its appointment around four in the afternoon. I checked three times and found the hay still slightly damp.

Saturday: The skies were partly cloudy with the sun showing often enough to dry the hay by early afternoon. I began to rake hay. Two hours in and the clouds began building over the ridge on Possum Trot. Putting the tractor into 5th gear I flew across the pasture, up and down, raking, even skipping a center section, where the hay was thinner, to save time.

I finished with windrows thicker than any seen all season, great swaths of hay piled 3 feet high, like long brown pillows striping the grass. This cutting alone would tide us over all winter with feed and bedding for the livestock.

I dashed back up the drive to the barn and unhooked the rake. In my haste I took off the drawbar thinking, incorrectly, that I did not need it for the baler. I drove the tractor back across the yard to hook up the baler. Immediately I realized my mistake, with one eye to the sky I double-timed back to the rake to pick up the drawbar.

A drop of water hit me. Must have been sweat I told myself. I ran to the barn to pick up a new cotter pin and heard the first wave of rain hit the roof. I sprinted through big plum- sized cold drops to the tractor and baler. “It will only rain for a minute and the hay will be fine”, I said.

In the short time it took me to sprint the fifty yards the drops turned into a deluge. I still tried in the pouring rain to hook up the baler. Finally soaked to the skin I held my hammer up to the sky and shouted “#$&%, Big Guy!”

He and his cronies laughed all night as we received another couple of inches of rain.

The proud windrows of Saturday afternoon were molding piles of compost by Sunday morning. It rained for the next four days.