The following is a combination of journal entries, dating from 2005, recounting what it was like growing up on the farm as a young child.
The house in Firth was situated on 23 acres of land. We had a spacious yard, fields, pastures, and an apple orchard. I loved the apple orchard. We spent lazy days climbing the trees and swinging from the branches. In the country automatic sprinkler systems were not common. The fields and lawn were often watered via flood irrigation from a nearby canal/ditch system. On warm days I remember lying in the cool water as it flooded the lawn under the apple trees. As I lay I would pluck a recently fallen bobbing apple from the water, bite into its tart, crisp body, and feed what I couldn't eat to the horses in the near by pasture. (The horses weren't ours. The house was owned by my grandfather and the fields and pastures where often rented out.) During the summer nights we would hunt for nightcrawler to sell to the local petrol stations for fishing bate. In the winter we would dig tunnels in the snow and build snow forts among the orchard boughs.
Apples were not the only thing that we grew. I believe that more square footage was dedicated to the family garden than was dedicated to the house. Yet, I was only a child, and things appear to be much larger than they really are at that age. I remember feeling like I could easily become lost amongst the stocks of corn. They towered several feet above the head of a grown man. Occasionally mom would send us out to weed the garden, which I'm sure was more for the sake of Mom's sanity than for the sake of the vegetables. Irrespective, living on a farm is not an easy life. Each and every day is spent toiling, and at the sun's dawn the work begins afresh. It never goes away, not for holidays, not for vacations, nor for sick days. I remember husking corn, gathering eggs from the chicken coupe (the chickens scared me), and had I been old enough to milk the cows I'm sure I would have done that as well. Even for a young child, living on a farm is hard work.
Farming is more than cultivating vegetables. It often entails cultivating animals as well. As mentioned previously, we had chickens, but at times we also had horses, cattle, and pigs. Our society today has become too accustom to the modern conveniences that super markets offer -prepackaged cooked meat. We forget what it is like to raise, butcher, and slaughter your own food.
As a child growing up in a large family a claim had to be staked for anything to be personal. Such claims were often made upon items that were the property of the whole family, and not claimable by any one individual. Irrespective, if a claim was established over time the other children would respect that claim and it became the right of that child. This code of ownership I believe exists in all families, for the boundaries of living are too close, and a system of order must be established for peace to exist. Often the parents are unaware that such claims exist, but occasionally they are, and they will even entertain the child's fancy, and in this the child become the steward of the property. Claims can be made for bedrooms, positions at the dinner table, or even to farm animals. Thus it was with Oggy Woggy, a pig, whom my sister Julie had claimed as her own. Under such circumstances the stewardship of the child was not necessarily to care for the animal, but rather to be a friend, to checkin once in awhile, to be more intimately aquatinted with than the rest of the children.
As farm life goes, a farmer's livelihood is to cultivate and harvest his crops, including his livestock. One day, as we sat around the dinner table, Julie asked dad 'what happened to Oggy Woggy'? He was nowhere to be found. Dad looked at Julie, then his plate, and he snorted like a pig. Tears welled up in her eyes and she burst into tears as she ran from the room. I don't think she spoke to dad for sometime after that incident.
I had made such a claim myself at one point, upon a newborn calf with a black hide. I named him Blacky. Admittedly, Bonnie, Steven, and myself were probably the only ones who were aware that such a claim had been made, but I considered him mine. I had certain obligations to Blacky, as his steward, and I felt that I had an obligation to make him feel loved, and to do that he needed to be petted. Steve and I tried to coax Blacky into coming near the fence so we could pet him, but he was too far away to notice us. I was not so easily discourage. I climbed the gate and quietly snuck through the corral to the trees near the back where Blacky was. I worked my way towards the calf as Steve sat watching from the fence line. Blacky was still a young calf, and was abiding close to his mother. I distrusted his mother, and for good reason, because once I was spotted near her calf she began to charge. She didn't understand my responsibility to Blacky, nor did she care about my claims to her son. She only saw me as a threat. I quickly abandon my plan and ran as fast as my six year old legs would carry me towards the gate where Steve was waiting. I was lucky to have good lead, because she was close behind when I made it to the gate. I threw myself at the gate, jumping halfway up. Grabbing ahold of the top bar I flung myself over the top as hot breath was upon by back. After that day I rescinded my claim to Blacky.
Even thought I have long left those days behind, I continue to reminisce in the days of my upbringing. I tend to be a city boy, but there are country elements hid about me. I continue to garden, be it herbs, vegetables, or flowers. Gardening allows me to get in touch with the roots of my childhood. I don't want to be deceiving, I have absolutely no desire to return to the farm. It is not who I am, nor is it the contribution that I would like to make to society. Yet, I believe it is important to remember who we are and where we came from.
