The farm, on my mother's side, raised generations of country kids, living off the land the way all great pioneers and settlers did.
I knew the farm as a kid, because my mother's brother ran it, because he was the only one of my grandpa's many children who wanted to be a farmer.
Grandpa got the farm from his parents, my great-grandparents, and they got it from his father, and so on. As long as one son wanted to farm, the land was safe to remain in the family.
The land was sandy, good for growing peanuts the way they do in Georgia, the way former President Jimmy Carter did.
The land was north of Lake Erie a few miles. Historians say that the land there used to be at the bottom of a much larger Lake Erie, but that's basically just an assumption. Who knows really why it is sandy like that.
It grew numerous crops, and when tobacco became popular, it grew that as well.
Grandpa had three wives who all bore him children before they died young. Mom and my uncle came from his second wife. They were barely a year apart.
They rose before dawn to milk cows, before breakfast, before they walked the mile to the one-room school, along the sandy road, carrying a tin pail of lunch.
Grandpa had cows and chickens and pigs and enough crops to feed them all.
The house has a wide verandah and gingerbread scrolling around the roof line.
The barn is huge and is set at the top of a rise of the wide sandy driveway a distance from the house.
The pig house is up behind the barn on a hill.
There were always goats in a pasture beyond the driveway.
The farm has two houses, which is often the case in Ontario. The second house was where the parents lived when they handed the farm over to a son or two.
The goat pasture is in between the houses.
Grandpa died in the farm house when I was a kid. He had a room before that, on the second floor that had two steps down to it, a sunken bedroom, a mysterious room with dark furniture and pipe smoke and an aura of pirate's den to me. A good pirate, because there were such things.
The farm was my favorite place to visit and to stay, because the land was huge and kids ran barefoot and scrawny, and ate good old farm food, mountains of it. They stayed out of the precious rose garden that my aunt grew beyond a wooden trellis, standing like a security gate to the fragrant garden on the hill.
The cows were big and dairy and they made an awful smell that ended up daily on a pile out by the barn.
The pigs squealed and grunted and acted like pigs, shoving to get at the trough when it was feeding time. No manners, whatsoever.
The goats were a little too friendly, pushing at a little kid like dogs needing attention.
The loose sand of the road squished between bare toes and clung like dust.
There's a pump in the back kitchen that brings up cold, clean water, and when I was a kid, we all drank from a long-handled tin cup that had survived an awful lot of farmers' families.
No water has ever tasted better, and everyone who tasted it will vouch for that.
Whenever I was terribly ill at home and suffering a raging fever, my delirious mind craved that water from the tin cup, haunting me until I was desperate.
Today, the son of my cousin runs the farm, and if things can remain the same as they have through time, that farm I wish was mine will still be in my mother's family, until the cows come home.
I knew the farm as a kid, because my mother's brother ran it, because he was the only one of my grandpa's many children who wanted to be a farmer.
Grandpa got the farm from his parents, my great-grandparents, and they got it from his father, and so on. As long as one son wanted to farm, the land was safe to remain in the family.
The land was sandy, good for growing peanuts the way they do in Georgia, the way former President Jimmy Carter did.
The land was north of Lake Erie a few miles. Historians say that the land there used to be at the bottom of a much larger Lake Erie, but that's basically just an assumption. Who knows really why it is sandy like that.
It grew numerous crops, and when tobacco became popular, it grew that as well.
Grandpa had three wives who all bore him children before they died young. Mom and my uncle came from his second wife. They were barely a year apart.
They rose before dawn to milk cows, before breakfast, before they walked the mile to the one-room school, along the sandy road, carrying a tin pail of lunch.
Grandpa had cows and chickens and pigs and enough crops to feed them all.
The house has a wide verandah and gingerbread scrolling around the roof line.
The barn is huge and is set at the top of a rise of the wide sandy driveway a distance from the house.
The pig house is up behind the barn on a hill.
There were always goats in a pasture beyond the driveway.
The farm has two houses, which is often the case in Ontario. The second house was where the parents lived when they handed the farm over to a son or two.
The goat pasture is in between the houses.
Grandpa died in the farm house when I was a kid. He had a room before that, on the second floor that had two steps down to it, a sunken bedroom, a mysterious room with dark furniture and pipe smoke and an aura of pirate's den to me. A good pirate, because there were such things.
The farm was my favorite place to visit and to stay, because the land was huge and kids ran barefoot and scrawny, and ate good old farm food, mountains of it. They stayed out of the precious rose garden that my aunt grew beyond a wooden trellis, standing like a security gate to the fragrant garden on the hill.
The cows were big and dairy and they made an awful smell that ended up daily on a pile out by the barn.
The pigs squealed and grunted and acted like pigs, shoving to get at the trough when it was feeding time. No manners, whatsoever.
The goats were a little too friendly, pushing at a little kid like dogs needing attention.
The loose sand of the road squished between bare toes and clung like dust.
There's a pump in the back kitchen that brings up cold, clean water, and when I was a kid, we all drank from a long-handled tin cup that had survived an awful lot of farmers' families.
No water has ever tasted better, and everyone who tasted it will vouch for that.
Whenever I was terribly ill at home and suffering a raging fever, my delirious mind craved that water from the tin cup, haunting me until I was desperate.
Today, the son of my cousin runs the farm, and if things can remain the same as they have through time, that farm I wish was mine will still be in my mother's family, until the cows come home.
Love this and the memories it brings back!! Was Grandpa REALLY married 3 times??? Nobody ever told me. Keep up the great writing! Love you, J
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