Herd Immunity: In the name of the fodder

Life as a grassman is no easy ride

Sean Deere

I had no one else to blame only myself. I’ve thought about it and yes, it was my own fault. I said my days of mowing ‘on the country’ were behind me.

I served my time as a teenager, working with local contractors. Late nights and early mornings, fuelled by Lucozade, breakfast rolls and the odd dinner whenever there was a kindly farmer’s wife in the vicinity. If you were lucky, there may even have been a bar of chocolate in there somewhere.

As a rookie schoolboy working with silage contractors, you start on the wrapper and work your way up (I’m taking about baling here, not the bar of chocolate you understand). Back then, if you were lucky, there was a dodgy radio in the cab that might pick up Atlantic 252 on Longwave. Otherwise, you only had the sound of the engine for company.

Last week, though, it all came flooding back.

Now, I had set a bad precedent while making my own silage. I was just after checking the cows and calves early on what was a glorious morning when the phone rang.I saw the number flash up on my mobile and immediately suspected the worst.

“Howya, Sean,” began Frank, my contractor, who I’d been waiting on all morning.

“Jaysus lad, I’m on top offme head here at grass and I just had a thought…”

I knew, before he had uttered another word, that whatever way this conversation played out, it was going to be to my detriment.

“Maybe,” he continued, “you’d come with your bus (the tractor) and do a bit of mowing for me. You’d let me out of a horrid hole!”

Now, what could I say? If there’s one unspoken rule which the farming community in general abides by, it’s that you don’t leave somebody stuck - you always do your best to help out your fellow man. So, there I was, years after packing this gig in - Sean Deere, grassman!

So after finishing my morning chores and having a couple of boiled eggs, I climbed aboard the tractor and headed over the road to Frank’s yard.

“Bring that yoke there with you, Sean,” he said, as he pointed at a new McHale mower sitting gleaming in the corner.

“She only arrived the other day, see what you think of it.”

I agreed and duly hitched her up and set off for its first foray into the green stuff. Memories of long summers ‘on the country’ came flooding back. I spent four years with Frank in my youth doing everything from mowing to slurry.

It’s a tough profession with long hours and demanding customers but it’s like a drug. You just always like to see “the grass” – which is what we call this whole season, when a quiet day can be described as frantic - starting. Maybe it’s the smell which is addictive – I don’t know. It’s definitely not the pay…

Anyway, I digress. The hours soon passed and the acres tumbled. I found myself actually enjoying it. With all the dry weather, the grass was bone dry and standing tall, making mowing a pleasure. Crops in general were back on last year’s bumper yields but quality looked to be excellent.

But as I took out the backing swath off the last field, delighted with my day’s work and looking forward to putting the feet up, right on cue the phone rang. Inevitably, it was Frank.

“How ya getting on, Sean?” he asked.

“Just finished here,” I said, slightly suspicious of his motivations. I was right.

“Jaysus lad, you wouldn’t be able to bale a few acres of hay for Jimmy Reilly down at the village??I’m still lifting here and he’s effing ringing every 20 minutes!”

What could I do? As I said, you never want to see a man stuck and Frank had always been decent to me. So, the mower was duly swapped over for a baler and off I set again. In fairness, auld Jimmy had excellent hay and after the mandatory tay in the corner of the field on completion, I headed for home around 8pm.

After Mrs Deere’s evening tea, I sat back in the chair to relax and reflect on my day’s work.

“You’re tired looking, Sean,” smiled my better half. “I bet you wouldn’t go back to that every day?”

“You know me too well,” I chuckled, “one day a year would be enough for me these days.”

If only. At that every moment, Sean Junior ran into the kitchen, phone in hand.

“Da! Frank’s after ringing, he wants you to mow for Joe Clarke tomorrow, I told him no bother!” he gushed.

“Let me guess,” I scowled, “he’s badly stuck?”

“Yep,” said the gasun, “that’s what he said.”

I sighed to myself and mentally cancelled whatever jobs needed doing the following morning. The local agri Godfather had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, again.

Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in!