A country life

The only part of my adult life in which I truly lived 'in the country' was the few months that I lived on a small but efficient dairy farm near the village of Millet, Alberta, which is near Wetaskiwin, which is near Edmonton. I was ‘the hired man.’

I learned to drive a stick shift, learned how to drive and operate an old fashioned farm tractor with front-loader as well as the big enclosed-cab John Deere that also had a front-loader, learned everything I ever wanted to know about manure and where it comes from.

I learned how to milk a cow, by hand as well as by machine, how to check for mastitis, I learned how happy a cow can be to see fresh straw on the barn floor, so happy that it kicks up its heels, learned also how heavy a cow can tread when it steps on your toes while crushing you between itself and the wall of the milk house.

I learned how practical, unfancy and friendly farm people can be, how much faith they could have even in a city boy with scraggly beard and pony tail, to trust him to do his best, how they just assumed I was a Christian and let me know where the church was by a visit from the pastor.

Winter was cruel in the season between 1973 and 1974. By October 10, there was already a foot of snow on the ground, the silage pit under its plastic tarp was a steaming mass of fall fragrance, calves were still being dropped by their once pregnant mothers in distant snowy fields, and I had to rush to their rescue before coyotes found their supper.

The bright noontime sun cast very long shadows against the wall of my neat whitewashed cottage with its propane tank beside it as the sun made its short journey from south southeast to south southwest. Fifty milch cows had to be milked twice, both times in darkness.

If only I had stayed there, Farmer Cameron's herd would have gradually built mine, as I was due two calves per season as part of my monthly wage, which was $300 plus the cottage. Everyone was happy then, except me. I missed my friends in town, missed having free time of my own in which I could do something besides sleep.

I was owned by the herd I served, just as Farmer Cameron was, just as Aunt Irene and Uncle Hank were. I used to spend the summers as a boy on their farm outside of Genoa City, Wisconsin, at Slades Corners, where I played farm boy while they worked. No integrated milking systems back then.

Milking machine emptied into portable tanks that still had to be brought over to the vat to be emptied. I never quite got over the farm smells. I am a 'nose person.' That's my strongest sense. But still remember how safe and free I felt sleeping in the attic bedroom of their old farmhouse. Muddy boots left in the back porch.

Years later, my life in the city, the inner city, is as close to country life as I can make it. I have preserved the essential externals. Walk if I can, drive if I must. City streets mostly empty most of the time where I live. No struggling with highway entrances and exits, no traffic jams. No television, not even a radio, just peaceful, sunlit rooms, furniture that soothes to sit on or look at. Windows uncovered and open to the cool air most of the time.

Yes, we take our shoes off and leave them in neat rows in the front hallway, rain or shine.