The Farm and Why it was So Loved

The farmhouse was very old , we found the year 1829 etched into the attic boards of the old part and 1867 above the woodshed when we were exploring. Imagine living in a house that had seen so many prior generations living in it. The rumour was that a retired sea captain had the house built after he decided to leave the life of the sea. Treasure was said to be buried somewhere near the house and for us that explained the odd old coin that surfaced in the garden or by the lilac bushes. When they installed the plumbing (and the houses first bathroom with running water!) in the 1960's Mother told the fellow who excavated for the tile bed that if he found the treasure, we would share it. Mother was a romantic at heart, even though there was little time to indulge those sentiments, and the thought of a treasure and an old sea captain really peaked her curiosity.


Coming to the farm meant meandering down a long lane, bordered both sides by oaks and elm trees that were absolutely regal in the summer, framing the passage way with a living, green canopy. The lane itself was covered with crushed stone, that was variably dense or sparse depending upon whether we had money to buy a load or two of gravel or whether we used the stones that we ourselves picked from the soil of the garden. We picked stones out of the garden to save the ploughs we used from damage and to make the plants germinate and pierce the earth without obstacle.


Father loved to garden; he loved it his whole life. He ploughed in the early days with one of the work horses and a plough that he "walked" behind. I still remember the reigns from the harness slung over his shoulder as he "drove" the plough. I can still hear him urging the old horse on with his slow and steady voice, calming and encouraging old Jim to first of all, continue; and, to move along in a straight line from row to row. It was a dance of sorts, a little awkward for sure, but captivating to watch. Father knew just how much to spur the magnificent partner on and when he needed a break to rest and for that long, refreshing, drink of water. During the break Father would scratch that place under Jim's harness collar where he knew (somehow) that it would be itchy and, behind the ear, under the bridle, where a rub was always welcome. They would rest a while together, Father whispering and the old horse nuzzling, and then, together, finish the job.


Inside the farmhouse the smells of fresh baked bread or pot roast in the oven would permeate the air. Mother would be busy getting a meal on while Father worked. There were always seven of us for supper, sometimes more. Because Father loved to grow things, we had fresh fruit and vegetables with meals. The farm came with a small apple orchard but we never fully understood how to care for it so it seemed to produce a little less every year. We also had two cherry trees and in the back of the farm beside the "far" well there was a pear tree. I discovered the pear tree with my brother Fred one time when we went looking for the cows out there. He somehow knew where it was; possibly from his hunting trips with Father. The cows ate all the low hanging fruit so he picked me a pear as far up as he could reach from the height of our horse, Tina. It tasted tart but so good. No preservatives there.

So the farm helped to sustain us through what the land had to offer, what the animals produced for us in milk and meat, and, with the shelter provided by a century old home.

The Close Call ...

It was early summer on the farm and the fruit trees were green and laden with the fragrant blooms that would soon become tasty treats. The barnyard was messy after an early morning rain and I was excited to be going to the barn with my Father. The early morning was my favourite time, before anyone else was awake. Spending time with Father in the barn, in the gardens, really anywhere was wonderful for me. I was the baby of the family and the only girl. He never said much but he always had a little smile for me and my contentedness comes from him; of that, I am sure.



This morning was like many others. Bootsie, the Collie cow dog had rounded up the cows for milking and they were filing into the barn, one by one. My station was the centre aisle, in front of the cows faces as they stood in their stanchions. That is where they put their heads between two wooden posts and one moved over towards the other to latch around their necks so they would be tied as they were milked. Father latched them starting from the back of the barn to the doorway. But, in the third spot from the door he came to a very old cow that had been in his herd for the longest time and he scratched her head and said "not you bossy! you can stand free because you know your job is not to move and to eat your hay in front of you". Some of the younger cows needed calming down and needed the security of the latched stanchion. All was as it should be - I was playing in the center aisle, telling my stories to the big black and white faces that mooed, and stared and chewed. It was heaven.



Once the cows were secure, Father was just about to begin the milking process when a huge commotion on his side of the barn startled me - he was shouting , the younger cows were swaying and dancing from side to side in fear. This was not at all what it was usually like - usually milking time was calm and peaceful, the cats mewed for milk, the cows munched on their hay and I played where it was safe for me to be. I ran over to peer through the cows and was horrified to see that the big bull had come into the barn, nostrils flaring, pushing and screaming at the tied cows. He had been locked in another paddock, away from the cows and the milking. He had broken free. He was massive - his head was as big as my Father's chest, and my Father was a very big man in his younger day. He had huge, sharp horns and a big shiny ring in his nose. He stomped and snorted and made the most horrifying sounds. I was scared.



Father had hold of his horns, the cows were stomping and swaying in their stancions - all except old Bossy. She was eating her hay and standing very still watching the calamity as it unfolded. All of a sudden Father lost his grip on the bull's horns and his balance and the bull backed up to take a run at him with horns lowered, aimed at his midsection. I was screaming with fear. No one could hear us. Just as the bull was about to plunge a horn into my Father , as he was clambering for a better position and foothold, Bossy backed out of her stall and with her teeth bared, grabbed the bull by the tail, bit down hard and pulled backwards, slowly taking one... two... then three steps back. The bull was so surprised that, as he turned to see who was inflicting such pain on him, Father was able to grab hold of the ring in his nose, give it a twist and get the huge, angry beast under control.



As Father led the bull to a stall in the other barn, I watched Bossy put herself back in her place for milking and continue her eating. She waited patiently for her turn to be milked. I waited for Fathers safe return to us. She was a favourite cow of Fathers always, before and after she saved his life that chilly morning.

The Pigs in the Pen and Peter's Pants

When I was a little girl I lived on a farm with many animals, barns and sheds and beautiful forests. I lived there with four older brothers and my mother and father. One beautiful, sunny day Peter, Christian and I were walking through the barnyard and we stopped at the Pigpen. Father had just "slopped" the pigs - that is giving them their breakfast of sweet feed, potato peelings, carrot peelings and something very watery that I have no idea what it was. We decided it would be fun to stop and sit on the fence and watch the pigs have their breakfast. In the pigpen was a mother pig - a sow - and her 8 little piglets and the sow's sister. We were never allowed to name the pigs but the mother looked like a Hazel and her sister, a Bertha...



Father had moved on to the main barn to milk the cows and he was well out of earshot from us. We were laughing at the little piglets scurrying and pushing to get at the trough and the slop...they were snorting and grunting and generally making lots of noise... We laughed so hard that Peter slipped off the fence and into the Pigpen! One thing to be aware of is that when sows are feeding it is no time to be near them because they can mistake you for dinner! In a split second Hazel had grabbed Peter's pantleg with her snout and was pulling ! We were scared and I was screaming "Get out of there!" Peter was losing his balance and just when he was about to fall down and be part of a pigs breakfast Christian swooped in, one hand on the fence, and grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up! However, Hazel was not letting go of Peter's pantleg and the more Christian pulled , the more she held fast. Christian was very stubborn and he gave a big yank that left he and Peter tumbling to the other side of the Pigpen fence on safe ground. Hazel was upset and when I looked back at Peter and Christian lying in safety on the ground I saw something very funny! Peter had lost his pants to the Pigpen and Hazel!



We were relieved! Whew! Because I was the youngest and should not have been so near the Pigpen Christian said "Peter, we have to tell Mother that you threw your pants in to Hazel and Bertha otherwise she will be upset that Christina was with us for such a calamity!" And that is how Peter lost his pants to the Pigpen.