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Haying Time in Franklin Farm

Haying Time in Franklin Farm

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On Friday’s walk I spied two monster tractors motoring back and forth across what remained of a meadow quadrant, cutting down everything within reach. It was a brisk, efficient business, abolishing in minutes what it took months to build: the waving golden rod, the spindly stalks of Queen Anne’s lace, the nettles, the Virginia creeper and the chicory.

It is haying time in Franklin Farm, which means not the cutting, drying and bundling of grass to nourish animals through the lean months, but rather a tidying up of the suburban landscape. Franklin Farm is a subdivision, after all, and this is not the mowing of a lawn but of the common land, a place set aside for recreation and beauty, a tip of the hat to the dairy farm that was here before, and as such, a place I like to walk because (despite the paved paths and center-hall colonials), it has some sense of the genuine about it.

I’m almost afraid to walk past the meadow today. Will the entire swath of grass-carpeted land have fallen to the blade? If it has, we will all be the poorer for it. We will miss the beauties of first frost on tangled briars, a seasonal transformation made possible only by negligence, by leaving alone the delightful chaos of nature.

A Meadow Begins

A Meadow Begins

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Is it a matter of omission, the simple act of not mowing? Or is there something else involved, some sowing of seeds? I’m wondering about meadows and what makes the one I visit so kind on the eyes.

It is not the regularity of the plantings. There are no rows of tulips, no artful arranging of azalea and dogwood. No, it’s the very randomness that appeals to me, I think. The buttercups, the chicory, the tall grasses gone to seed, the flat blades and thin blades, even the occasional cat tail — all mixed up together. Like a bouquet of wildflowers that draws its beauty not from any one blossom but from all of them mixed together.

Once Upon a Meadow

Once Upon a Meadow

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Sometimes when I’m walking through the suburbs I ponder street names. Our neighborhood has a faux English theme: Folkstone, Treadwell. You half expect to be strolling through the Cotswolds — but of course you are not.

Close by are roads with names like Flat Meadow, Hay Meadow, Cross Creek and Still Pond. These belong to the neighborhood called Franklin Farm. The farm is gone, the creek is but a shadow of its former self and the meadow is a narrow strip of land hemmed by houses. The ponds are so still (that is, stagnant) that this summer they were renovated, if that’s something you can do to a pond. The trees around them were felled so daylight could freshen them up.

The small dairy farms that still dotted our landscape half a century ago are gone now. We grow families here now. But in my walks through the woods and fields, I like to pretend. The place names make it easier.

The Meadow

The Meadow

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To search for the soul of the summer, you could travel from mountains to shore, from lake to canyon, from baseball diamond to golf course. But you could also head to the nearest meadow. That’s what I did this morning. And there amidst the buzzing bees and jumping crickets, in the bright sun and rough foliage, I found the soul of summer. The heat and the heft of it. The brightness of it, the sturdiness and the shagginess. There was Queen Anne’s lace, Joe Pye Weed and goldenrod just coming into bloom. Above all were the grasses, tall and lanky and swaying over the scene as if to fan it and cool it down.

I used to overlook meadows; I found them ordinary. I preferred cool wooded glades. But lately I’ve realized what a treasure the meadow is, how it captures summer in its openness and lack of guile.