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Silage pits stink and their looks aren't overall pleasing, but it's what's on the inside that counts.
The nutrients that the silage holds may not be important to anyone else, but for me, it has moulded my life.
Something as simple as dried-out grass means so much to someone.
Looks aren't everything. You have to look past the obvious.
I wake up to the sound of the tractor grunting as it starts up.
Now it's the noise of the monster trucks coming down the hill.
The smell of freshly mown grass grasps your attention.
The dew rests on the ground as I inhale the freshness within every breath.
The sun just breaks the surface of the mountains, blinding anyone who glances towards the east.
I make my way up to the top of the track with a kick and a scuff of the gumboots, saying my last goodbyes to the small jagged stone I kicked all the way, as I wander over to the fresh stack of vibrant green grass piled into the hole in the ground.
I watch the massive roll of pearly white cover make its way down the hill.
It rolls away as if it could keep going forever.
I take note of the relaxing chirping sounds as the birds start to awaken from their dreams.
I clamber over to the uneven stack of the old shredded tyres trying to dodge the fingers of the thistles reaching out just to prick my leg.
The faint crunch under my feet of the dry brown grass makes me excited that summer is finally here.
I tightly grip the first tyre and I can feel the black rubber staining the pores of my skin.
Chucking the first tyre on to the stack feels like such an accomplishment.
As the second tyre is heaved up above the ground, I see the last glimpse of a litter of kittens scurrying away through the long sharp blades of grass.
The muddy stench of the water that has been trapped inside the tyres since they were last taken off the stack, splashes up against my legs.
However, the heat of the sun dries up the mud within minutes.
My skin is no longer the soft smooth skin I woke up to. It is now sandpaper rough.
I have to manoeuvre my way round carefully to ensure I do not put a gaping hole in the cover.
Dad would not be impressed.
He grunts and moans when he realises the mess I have made.
Winter is a different story.
I head along to the moist musty pits, bumping up and down in the big green mean machine, feeling every little rise in the road.
I blow into my hands trying to get that icy chill to disappear.
Finally, the heaters blast out the warm air that is welcomed so easily into the cabin of the tractor.
Dad opens the back window to let off the big bright fire truck-red wagon that glistens in the morning sun.
The cold air that we just worked so hard to get rid of is slowly drifting its way back into the cab, making a coat of ice on my lungs.
The seat squeaks as we wrestle our way into the stench of the conserved silage.
I clench my hands so hard around the handle of the door, trying so hard not to hit my head on the window with every forceful bump in the track.
I peer outside the mud-splashed window, amused with the muddy surface being squelched into the tyres' tracks.
The tractor claws its way into the front of the pit.
There is a sudden jolt as the force of the grab squeezes the silage with the tractor's inner horse kicking up its hind legs.
The freshness of the grass is long gone with a horrifying stench filling the air instead.
The sun peeks over the top of the silage and hits the top of the tractor, melting the hard core frost.
Sitting alongside Dad in the tractor seat makes me feel important.
I feel as if I am back in the junior class again, showing my dad off to everyone because he is such an important part of my life, and I want everyone to know that.
No matter what time of year it is or what job I am doing, as long as my dad is there beside me, I feel like a little girl again.
Proud to live on a stinky farm that has no limits to what you can do in life.
The silage stack makes me realise that life will not always be smelly and gross.
It brings out the fact that there will always be good in life.
There is good in everything.
• By Jessica Smith, Year 11, Maniototo Area School