Hay baling time at my property in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania.

I don’t do the baling myself; a local farmer does. We did bale hay when I was a kid, though, more years ago than I would like to admit. 😓

One whiff of the hay bales and, like Proust’s madeleine, I am transported back to those days of my youth when every day felt like it went on forever, and life did too.

That’s why I like coming up here. Makes me feel young again. It’s also great for writing. No interruptions! Aside from the dog. 😊