Life on the farm...

lsproule@thereview.ca
I have to say : I have always thought farming was one heck of a tricky way to earn a living.
There are all the wonderful things that go with farming . . . like owning your own piece of land, tending it, watching it change with the seasons. Then there is growing your own food, raising your family in the country, creating a heritage to be passed down to your sons or daughters.
Can you tell? I didn’t grow up on a farm . . .  but I did grow up on a farm. The thing is: I watched from the sidelines as our neighbours lived out their lives on a regular family farm. Most of what I remember is the golden glow of lying down in a field of mature oats and looking up at the blue sky. What I remember is picking my way carefully along the top of the stone fence while a bull eyed me balefully from not too far away. What I will never forget is the smell of the hay piled so high in the mow with streaks of sunlight coming through the barnboards in spots – those were pre-aluminum siding days.
What I remember is the moist warmth of the barn on a winter evening – the clinking of the cows’ chains as they stood in their stalls, milking in progress, always a kitten or two playing in a corner.
But even as the freedom of the fields, the wild apple trees and adventure awaited me as a child, I caught a glimpse of the inside of farming: the early hours and the regularity required to get everything done that needed to be done. Those were the times it seemed to be that the land and the animals were in charge; the farmers struggled to keep up.
On the farm, nothing was wasted and certainly, time was never wasted either on this traditional farm where the wife’s duties and the husband’s duties seemed as clearly defined as the workings of a delicate clock.
Meals were served on time; Monday was wash day, Thursday was going-to-town day. Machinery was kept in good repair; tools were put away. Firewood was always ready two seasons ahead of time. Cows were moved from pasture to pasture to graze. As crops were brought in, the freezer was filled with food from the garden and tomatoes were canned for the winter ahead.
The children had their chores, too and from time to time, this interrupted our play as my childhood friends had to wash the milkers, or bring in firewood or leave childhood behind, sort of, to bring in hay for a few days. I was envious that they were called to duty as if they were adults. They were needed and their work was valued.
I never knew, of course, about any tensions that may have been there due to bad weather ruining a crop, or a valuable cow succumbing to illness. These were things of which I was blissfully ignorant. It just seemed like the best place on earth to wake up to every morning.
When I think back, what I witnessed of farming back then was an intricate little ecosystem that needed constant tending and attention from an independent family that would do whatever it took to make everything right.
That time was but a brief window into that world and even today, it seems I can see look again any time I pass a field of corn or see cows grazing. I can hear the rustle and feel the leaves of corn scratching my arms held in front of my face as we ventured deep into the corn fields. I can see the path worn by the cows as they returned to the barn for the evening milking.
Although a family farm consists of many big and small details, it sometimes felt as if there was something simple and comforting about the whole thing. I wonder if there was enough routine and work to minimize anything unexpected which no doubt came along.
I know that I was lucky. I took all that was good and never once had to clean manure from a stable. I heard the rattle of the hay elevator as I watched, mesmerized, but I never lifted bales till my arms ached.
Perhaps what has stayed with me is the sense of satisfaction that can come from having many different jobs that are all part of one larger purpose. I think the happiest people you meet today are those who see the value of their work and what they are working for.