It was one of those Friday nights in September. The excitement in the small town of 3,500 was focused on the high school football field. Our community was in the middle of alfalfa country, and even the high school mascot was named after our most prominent agricultural industry. The hay mills were in full swing and the smoke from the processing of alfalfa into pellets hung over the town like a heavy blanket. By today’s standards, I suspect the EPA would have been beside themselves in horror and would have been all over them shutting down the smoky pollution.
Some people, I am sure, were bothered by the smell of the mills, but I for one always liked the smell. The house I grew up in was situated not far between two of the plants, and I enjoyed the scent of the dehydrators.
In fact, one of the jobs I held in my earlier life, that I still look back on with pleasure, was working for one of the dehydrators. I spent a summer running one of the field queen hay choppers. I suppose part of it was the thrill of a guy just out of high school being in charge of running a big machine and feeling a sense of acceptance in a man’s world. I can still smell the aroma of the freshly chopped hay, and remember how cool the alfalfa was to lay in on a hot summer day while waiting for the truck to show up in the field so I could unload…
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