Grass Burning

“Hey boys,” Dale addressed his oldest two sons. “I'm going to burn grass. Care to join?"

Caleb and Scott looked up from their respective activities with their excitement and anticipation written plainly across their faces. There is a short list of items that will almost always immediately peak any boy's interest. Right at the vary top of that list is fire. Fire is held in such high regards by most boys that Dale knew that his question was more or less rhetorical. So much so that his oldest two children didn't even bother to answer him. They simply leaped to their feet and made a beeline to the basement door where they grabbed their work coats and barn boots.

“I thought so,” Dale nodded with a smile on his face. “Grab a couple of pitchforks and meet me down by the milk house.”

Caleb nodded as Scott zipped up the front of his coat. They walked out the back porch door and turned left. Scott ran up to the Yankee barn and Caleb made his way to the long barn. They both emerged from their respective buildings with a pitchfork in hand and headed towards the milk house. Scott carried his three-pronged pitchfork straight down the hill while Caleb chose a path in between the house and the summer house. Much to their disappointment, they both made it to their rendezvous point at the same time.

“I guess neither way is faster,” Caleb commented matter-of-factly.

“Guess not,” Scott agreed with little enthusiasm. “But at least I got the three-pronger,” he finished with a smile, referring to his pitchfork.

“Big deal,” Caleb scoffed. “You act like fewer prongs are better. Dad and I will both have four-prongers which means we'll be able to burn twenty-five percent more grass than you.”

Their father emerged from the bottom of the big bank barn carrying his own pitchfork which drew the boy's discussion to an abrupt close. (The discussion was closed by their father's presence, not the pitchfork he carried. Scott did manage to deploy an exaggerated eye roll which somehow left him feeling like he had the last word.) Truth be told, the three-pronged pitchfork was the preferred tool. The four-pronged pitchforks were common on the farm and there were a couple five-pronged pitchforks up in the mow with the chopped straw but for some reason there was just the one three-pronger.

“Okay, boys,” Dale addressed his pitchfork wielding sons. He washed the manure off his rubber boots with a bucket of water drawn from the watering trough before continuing. “We're heading across the crick. And watch how you carry those things.”

The Henning men walked three abreast down the gravel drive with the manure pit to the left and a pasture to the right. They crossed the creek and Dale motioned them over to the hay field to the right. Dead brown grass and alfalfa covered the ground in a matted manner as signs of new growth attempted to make themselves known through the thick cover. A green shoot stuck up through here, a maple sapling pushed it's way through there. Spring had sprung, but there was some work to be done before the field in front of them realized this fact. 

Dale walked a few feet into the field and bent down. He pulled an old pill bottle from his pocket, removed the child proof cap, and gently shook three wooden blue-tipped matches into his large calloused palm. He kept one for himself and handed the other two to his sons. 

“Okay,” he began as he stretched out his arms in front of him at a forty-five degree angle and pointed into the field. “Each of you walk about twenty-five steps out, strike your match, and light the grass on fire.”

“What are we supposed to strike these on?” Scott asked, obviously confused.

“These are 'strike anywhere' matches,” Dale explained. “Just pick up a rock and strike it on that. Some people strike them on a tight spot on their jeans.”

Both boys looked at their pants with disappointment as they realized that they were wearing uniform pants instead of jeans. They sighed to themselves as their father chuckled. Caleb bent down and picked up a couple of pieces of rough granite and tossed one to his younger brother. Scott nodded his thanks and started counting steps. When he got to twenty-five, he stuck his pitchfork into ground and knelt down. He pressed the tip of the match firmly against the stone and jerked it across the semi-rough surface. The smell of sulfur burned the young man's nose as the match tip flared to life. He tentatively held the match to the dry grass and a lazy flame began to grow and spread outward. He lit a couple more spots before the flame of the match got too close to his fingers. He stood up and watched as flames moved slowly across the grass leaving charred ashes behind. 

“Use your pitchfork to fluff up the grass and spread the fire to other spots,” Dale called from his spot.

Caleb and Scott nodded as they worked their areas. Scott stuck his pitchfork under the surface of the matted dead grass and fluffed it up. The flames flared up slightly as they reached the fluffed grass. Scott smiled at the improved results and continued his fluffing endeavors. He watched his dad use his pitchfork to scoop up a clump of burning grass and drop it in a fresh spot. The newly planted flame quickly began spreading to the dead grass around it. Scott followed his fathers example with similarly positive results.

“Hey dad,” Scott addressed his father. “Are we going to burn grass on every field?”

“No,” Dale replied much to his son's disappointment. “I didn't get the last cutting off this field before the snow hit. That's why there's so much growth on this field. The rest of the hay fields were short enough before winter.”

“What about the pastures?” Caleb interjected. “They're pretty overgrown.”

“Sorry to disappoint you guys again,” Dale began with a smile. “But I'll just be brush hogging the pastures.”

“Aww,” Scott replied. “Hey, why do we need to burn the fields anyway? Not that I'm complaining...”

“The old dead growth will smother the new growth if we leave it alone,” his father explained. “The dead grass doesn't burn very hot so the fire won't hurt the new growth underneath. Besides that, the ashed will act as a kind of fertilizer for the hay.”

Both boys nodded, satisfied with their father's answer, turned back to their own sections of the field. The rest of the afternoon went by relatively devoid of conversation as the bi-generational grass burning crew continued their work. The fire never got too big to handle. The limited fuel source and the close supervision of the crew were sufficient enough to ensure that fact. 

Scott rested his chin on the handle of his pitchfork for a moment and stared at the small fire in front of him. The flames before him were mesmerizing and the smell of the smoke was oddly invigorating. There he was, standing on the charred ground, watching the field burn and that was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. That would not be true any other time of the year. Usually, when he got caught playing with fire, he got in trouble for it, but not today. Today, his fire shenanigans were not only adult supervised, but father sanctioned. On this beautiful spring day, all was right in the world.

“Hey Scott,” Dale interrupted his younger son's silent musings. “Your fire is about to go out.”