A Back Woods Peasant

My life’s aspirations seem quaint to most. Maybe a little lacking in motivation or imagination.

Long term planning has never been one of my strong suits. Possibly because I grew up in a household that moved on average every two years. Most of my life, I’ve flown by the seat of my pants . . . much to the dismay of my parents and the frustrated bewilderment of my long-suffering wife.

It’s not that I didn’t have goals. I wanted to live in the country. On a farm, where I could work from home, raise my own food and be self-sufficient. I wanted my wife to be able to stay home if she wished. The two of us working together towards a common goal. Raising our children to be self-sufficient. But not just in the material sense. I envisioned our children growing up strong and confident in who they were as people, not needing material things to validate them as men or women. This, as it turns out, is more difficult than one can imagine.

We did buy a farm when we were young and our children were very small. It was perfect for what we wanted to accomplish. It had a small orchard as well as grape vines, gooseberry and currant bushes, a quarter acre of asparagus, row upon row of raspberries, a chicken coop and a small barn. The soil was so rich and workable and already over an acre was set up as a market garden. The 3-bedroom brick house was over one hundred and thirty-five years old and full of country charm. Which meant it needed lots of work. This was not a problem. As a young man two of my greatest assets were a strong back and a willingness to work harder than anyone else. Those two things seemed to compensate for my ignorance in farming. But not, as it turns out, a personality that was always looking over the fence at the next project, the next great adventure. Homesteading takes a strict dedication, long-term planning and a laser beam focus for the job at hand. I was a dreamer.

After two and a half years, money was tight but things were progressing well. So well in fact, we thought we should share our wonderful family and lifestyle with someone less fortunate.

Foster kids were added to the mix. A brother and sister. Pre-teens. They were wards of the province. They could never be adopted and they could never go home. Their parents were alcoholics and abusive. Now we had six children between the ages of five and twelve and our house was too small. So, we bought a five bedroom, one-hundred-acre farm and moved everyone along. But it had already become clear, rather than being a positive influence in their lives, the level of dysfunction in their previous lives was causing havoc and dysfunction in our current lives.

After almost a year we admitted defeat and the children were placed in another home. We sold our farm and bought a smaller one. The most beautiful one of all. Fifty acres, with a four bedroom brick home, a huge barn, a stream and woods. Really, a perfect farm on so many levels. We raised chickens for meat and eggs as well as rabbits, pigs and cattle. We had a Jersey cow we milked daily and even made our own butter. But after all the moves and our failure in foster care, some of the magic seemed to be gone.

I have a picture from those early days, but I don’t look at it often. It always makes me cry. I’m walking away with a feed bucket in my hand. My two sons are behind me and behind them are a few of our horses. By the facial expression on my son’s face, it was obvious he was talking to me. My head is half turned and I must have been answering him. It makes me sad only in that I was walking away, head only half turned. If I could change the picture, I would be bent down looking into his face, giving him my full attention. I was distracted in those days. Worried about money and things that seemed important at the time.

My wife and I did get to stay home and be with our kids every day. I always knew how fortunate we were. But of course, there never seemed to be enough time.

One of the things I did for income in those days was presentations in schools. We called it “The Roving Reptile Review.” A live hands-on demonstration/presentation of exotic snakes, lizards turtles and such.

My youngest daughter, Virginia, accompanied me one day when I drove to a school in Toronto. She was only eight years old and very shy. She assisted me as best she could, but was embarrassed to be in front of so many people. On the way home she was tired and fell asleep beside me. I remember looking over at her and being completely overwhelmed with how beautiful and perfect she was. And in some odd way, feeling undeserving of such an exquisite gift and responsibility.

Life has a way of making a thinking man humble. Our oldest daughter died several years ago, but I am very proud of her children. Our oldest son sustained a traumatic brain injury in a fall while rock climbing, but is strong and carries on with a determined zeal in spite of his disabilities. Our youngest daughter moved to South Korea to teach English without knowing the Korean language or anyone there. Our youngest son is married with children of his own, a musician and artist of great talent.

They all credit farm life with their fondest memories. Their work ethic, their understanding of the natural world, their independent and strong personalities all grew along with the love we have for each other on those farms.

I’m back to homesteading on a much smaller scale. My ambition now is the same. I want to be a backwoods peasant. Making a life from the ability to coax grace and generosity from a piece of land. I would like to instill a desire in my grandchildren to understand the importance in helping something to grow. To nurture something, to help bring out the best in it’s being. Plant, animal or child. In this, is great privilege, great responsibility, great rewards and potential risks for great heartache. Even so . . . in this, is the greatest peace.