Ch.209 I Give Away 150 Bales of Hay
Two weeks ago, I placed an ad in a local paper called the Ad Delight. “Free outdated hay. Approximately 150 bales. Eleva, WI….” I didn’t need that hay anymore since my horse Lakota is now stabled at a farm ten miles away.
The first person to respond was a man named Menno. I suggested he call me before he came over, but he told me he didn’t have a phone. I suggested that Menno drive to my house to look at the hay, but he didn’t have a car. That’s when I asked if by any chance Menno was Amish; he was indeed. I offered to drive to his place near Augusta (only 30 minutes away) so I could bring him to my home. After a short pause Menno agreed. Next morning, we met, and on the drive, Menno told me he had ten children; the first six were girls, the next four boys. He would use the hay to mulch around his crops. He told me he would hire a non-Amish man to bring over a truck to load the hay.
Last night I came home from my grief group to watch as Menno and his four sons (and the hired man) efficiently loaded all 150 bales onto a flat bed trailer. Menno is tall, thin, and handsome. His four sons are tall, thin, and handsome. And, of course, they were all dressed exactly alike in blue shirts and pants. Finally, Menno sighed, shook my hand, thanked me, and off they went.
I will probably never see Menno and his sons again. But I enjoyed our brief connection. My life is nearing conclusion while his is mid-life vibrant, and his children are learning from Dad how to grow and, presumably, prosper. Gathering my hay and using it for mulch fits Menno’s mid-age task of providing for his family. Menno is investing; I am divesting. Letting go of stuff I don’t need any more fits my time of life. It’s all part of aa universal schema, one in which I feel destined (and willing) to play my part.