On the farm where I grew up, "harvest" time with corn and hay (as well as the last of the garden produce) always had a feeling of anticipation and the common phrases were "Well, this is the last of it," and "With luck, this'll get us through the winter." It was a family farm, always with a dozen or so cows and a horse or two, with a scattering of pigs, chickens, and ducks, so a good season meant we'd get through without having to buy much feed. The same was true in the kitchen: November was cool enough that Mom could can tomatoes, as well as blanch and freeze corn and beans. Neighbors and family members would come by to help, just as we'd go there to help them, and there was a grand sense of bounty. Both of my parents grew up in the Depression and they passed along the fear of shortage and then the gratitude that there'd be enough... this was beside the fact that both of them worked outside jobs, my father as a supervisor, and so the farm was more or less a hobby, certainly not necessary to "our" existence, though it needed to "sustain itself" to be viable. Growing up, those distinctions weren't clear to me--it felt like our lives depended on this. Later in the evenings, after days of getting hay loaded and put in the barn, or digging the last of the potatoes and onions, we'd build a fire and roast hot dogs and tell stories. The adults would go in to play cards and we'd look through the windows at them.