Harvest Time c. 1897, Irish Life Series,
National Library of Ireland
(No known copyright restrictions)
Autumn is celebrated with the races and the harvest; and the harvest months at home were always spent on Uncail Ruaidhrí’s farm. For me, Haydn’s ungainly minuet brought to mind my father and my uncles’ long, lean forms swinging through the oatfields, their bodies twisting slightly as they swept their scythes across the grass, and their legs bending and creeping slowly, steadily from end to end.
The minuet was a scythe dance.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
Our bows, too, were like scythes sweeping through notes, and our bodies and instruments swayed in alternating pairs to a steady plodding pulse.
And after a hard day of reaping and sheaving, everyone gathered for the harvest dinner, himself and the lads (as Mam invariably called my father and his brothers) threatening to burn their tools if the table wasn’t spread with a hearty meal. It always was. Freshly churned butter and rounds of brown bread scored and blessed with a cross, a Michaelmas goose, fatai roasted in goose fat, and the best of summer vegetables followed by a pie made with the first of the apples and the last of the berries and served with plenty of cream. The Trio recalled those noisy, happy times: four instruments hungrily munching chords; and the conversation, not to mention the ale, flowing as freely as did Della’s melody on that occasion.
Then, following a good night’s sleep, it was back to the fields for another day’s reaping on a neighbouring farm.
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