Cutting grass
Continued from Page B2
But then I realized that the grass didn’t need to be cut in May. In fact, it is better, local agronomist and naturalist Giuseppe Piro told me, to wait until grasses have reached their maximum growth.
Piro showed me an old scythe among the rusty tools on a property where he makes olive oil with his son. He took the scythe in his hands and demonstrated how old-timers used them, in particular in the higher mountains where vast fields of wheat, barley and other cereals are grown.
Sicily, as many know, was the breadbasket of the Roman Empire.
“Look at the blade,” he said. He ran his finger along it. “Fifty centimetres. With every stroke, 2 metres by 50 centimetres (of grass) go down.”
He talked of the ancient culture of cereal cultivation in the mountains, where he worked as a boy. He remembered seeing men, women and children cutting grass by hand and with the help of mules, working through “waves of grass which sway like the ocean.” The grasses are used for animal feed and human consumption.
Piro said cutters sheathed their fingers with pieces of bamboo to prevent them from getting cut as they used sickles. He remembered how bales of hay were made, how he piloted an ox-pulled sled piled high with hay.
As for the machines, he scornfully pointed out patches along the road where one had been used.
“When you go with a weed whacker, you destroy the grass. You can’t use it for forage,” he said. “It’s all in pieces.”
By the end of May, I was ready to start. I’d had a grip put on our scythe by a blacksmith friend. I’d purchased a big straw hat at the market, and sunglasses.
My father had visited and given us some tips on how to dampen the whetstones and sharpen the blade. I had loose-fitting clothing and rubber boots.
And thus, as the deep quiet of June descended, I waded off into the fields. One stroke at a time, I cut. Sweat beaded on my brow. The slash of the scythe was soothing.
Every 10 minutes, I paused to sharpen the blade and listen to summer’s sounds.