farm critter census

Dear reader, in order to better enable you to envision our little farm on the brushprairie, I thought it advisable to conduct a census of the farm animals. The results are as follows:

- Icelandic Sheep. Icelandic: Islenska Saudkindin. Ovis aries. 3. Volli (ram), Viska (ewe), Vitra (ewe).

- Boer/Nigerian Goats. Capra aegragrus hircus. 2. Willow (female), Geronimo (male).

- Llamas. Lama glama. 3. Napoleon (male), Mamma Llama (presumed name, female), Tina (cria, female).

- Assorted Chickens. Gallus gallus domesticus. 20. Unnamed. Breeds: Rhode Island Red (2 male, 1 female); New Hampshire Red (1 male); Light Sussex (2 male); Ameracauna (1 male, 2 female); Barred Plymouth Rock (1 male, 3 female); Bantam Rhode Island Red (2 male); Bantam Blue Wyandotte (4 male, 1 female).

- Horse. Equus ferus caballus. 1. Canuck (gelding). Currently resident back pasture.

- Maine Anjou Cattle. French: Maine-Anjou, Rouge de Pres. Bos primigenius. Classified. Perhaps better described as my parents' cattle, but I get to work with'em and that's all that matters.

- Dogs. Canis lupus familiaris. 2. Jack (breed unknown - hound? male. my sister's but he thinks he lives with us.); Guinness ( Chocolate Lab. male. actually does live with us).

- Cats. Felis catus. 2. Cat (neuter. force of evil on the earth. resides with parents.); Mario (male. has a moustache, must therefore be Italian. resides with us.)

a pleasant, snowy day

Winter, which has been lurking around for a week or two in the form of below normal temperatures and arctic winds, caught me by surprise this morning.

There's been snow and ice around for a week of so now: last Thursday I had to rescue half a dozen roosters from the trees when they were caught off guard by a sudden snow-squall - I hadn't considered that my spring chickens likely hadn't seen snow before.

But I did not expect to wake up to several inches of white. Previous snowfall amounted to little more than a skiff: what we have on our hands is a genuine blanket.

Our recently acquired llamas apparently shared my emotions on the subject - when I tramped out to the barn they looked mildly surprised but willing to regard the occasion philosophically.

I can't say I mind the snow, but I guess not everyone shares that opinion: Co-workers met in the hallway struggle to hide their disgust when I suggest the snow is, perhaps, not all that bad; other teachers' faces tell me they think the new guy is out of his mind.

Truth be told, I'm getting used to people thinking I'm nuts. I've begun to think it comes with the territory.

Because it would seem there aren't a whole lot of people who do what I do: high school English teacher / evening, weekend, and holiday farmer is sort of a specialized line of work; cattle, goat, llama and chicken raising appeals to only a select few; recreational bagpiping also does little to improve the image.

But I ask you, dear reader, does living that way sound crazy?

I'd like to think that it doesn't: I'd like to think that you're reading this because you're vaguely interested and maybe even agree with me from time to time. One hopes you're not here because you want to see what the neighbourhood nutcase is up to now.

As time goes on, as I become more involved in the farm or add to the barnyard family I feel like I'm getting a little bit closer to the life I want to live.

If that sounds crazy to you, dear reader, take heart. I'm a hundred miles from civilization: from here it's hard to do any of you harm.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

to do.

October is proving to be climatically advantageous for me. By which I mean that the month has been mostly wet and cold. If you ever want to make Stu happy, make the world wet and cold.

But October brings other changes besides the weather. October is a dark month. Not as dark as the months that come later, mind you, but dark nonetheless.

The dark of fall is all-encompassing on the brush plain. In towns and cities you have the benefit of streetlights, yard lights, headlights lighting up the world around you. Out here you get what light you can from the moon and stars.

By no means am I complaining. I am truly one of the luckiest people in Canada for the night time views I enjoy.

But the dark isolates. Falls forces the deer and moose out onto the roads. Snow can come and ice up the roads anytime. Suddenly an evening trip to town becomes hazardous and markedly less appealing.

The dark reveals just how far we live from civilization - isolation guarantees northern lights and stars but leaves you utterly, miserably alone.

It's an odd feeling, to be alone. When I lived in Red Deer and Edmonton I was acutely aware that there were people next door, downstairs, around the corner. There was always somebody around.

When I got back to the farm I realized that, at any given time, the next nearest person could be several miles away.

The farm never seemed as lonely as those years in town did. In town I was always a bit of an outsider. But when I came back the distance between myself and the friends I made seemed awfully far. It only seems longer through time.

And so, dear reader, in hopes of simplifying life, eliminating distance, etc, etc. I reveal to you my list of goals for the coming months:

1. Dispose of surplus crap. No one requires four pairs of ripped jeans and a t-shirt from space camp;

2. Actually visit friends: clever text messages do not cut it;

3. Winterize the house: it's easier to persuade company to visit a house sans interior snowbanks;

4. Train the goats to not wander into the house. Unnecessary to explain;

5. Apologize to sheep for shearing them myself: I can't take their scornful looks much longer;

6. Try to figure out why I still have what appears to be a large, mechanical calculator in my spare bedroom;

7. Stop muttering under breath. Adopt zen-like appearance as alternative.

It's a short list, but it's somewhere to start.

Happy Wednesday from Alberta's brush plain.

let us declare war on unnecessary things.

Sometimes it gets pretty damned hard to sit down and pump out a post for the ol' blog.

Life, it would seem, has been getting in the way.

I've been putting real effort these past few months into simplifying life - every aspect of it. Results have been mixed.

I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point I completely lost control of my own life. Or maybe I was simply naive and believed that, for a while, I was in control of my little world.

Life now is governed by community commitments, family engagements, bureaucratic hoop-jumping, requirements of work (both educational and agricultural), et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum.

That, of course, doesn't take into account my physical surroundings - at some point our little house became clogged with unwanted clothing, discarded containers, unused appliances, and other detritus of unknown origin.

"But Stu," you say, "that's just life."

Dear reader, say that again and I shall be forced to strike you.

I can think of no good reason why I should allow the situation to continue any longer. So I won't.

The first step, I think, is to get a handle on my physical surroundings. Dispose of the clothes and other assorted crap that's crowding me out of my house.

Clearing out my schedule will be the next step. Decisions will have to be made about what really constitutes important events. Special care will be required when determining which hoops I will refuse to jump through. The aftermath of this, one must expect, will be especially bloody, but the rewards, free time and space to breath, will more than make up for it.

Take heed, friends: the revolution is at hand; change within your grasp. Cling to it while you have the chance.

Happy Friday from Alberta's brush plain.

weathering the storm

The weather this week turned cold and windy. Clouds have moved and there's talk of snow come the weekend.

I'm glad that my work largely follows the seasons. School running through the coldest months, farm work in the summer - it helps me feel connected to the world in a time where more and more people are living removed from it.

My sister recently mocked my back-to-the-land attitude and lifestyle.

After an hour or two spent making fun of her pseudo-bohemianism I had time to sit back and think about what she said.

It appears, dear reader, that my younger sister may have been right.

But it makes me wonder how I can come back to the land when it seems that I never left it in the first place.

I suppose the answer is that Endiang, Alberta (motto: "Not quite the end of the world but you can see it from here") is not immune from outside trends after all: by extension neither are the farms. The fast-paced, consumerist, technology driven world of the urban centers exists just the same at the end of the road.

And frankly I don't find it very satisfying. I don't want a life defined by the number of digits on my paycheque, the square-footage of my house, the year of manufacture on my car.

I don't want to be made obsolete by a machine, or be reduced to the status of technician.

I want to be able to walk where I please, to see the stars at night, to be independent of municipalities and corporations.

Is that cliche? Is it naive? Should I just admit I can't change the way of the world and hold on for the ride?

Because I really don't want to.

I like the farm. I like how the work changes from day to day with the weather and seasons. I like how I am more and more able to provide for myself.

As it stands I can provide some of my own meat, eggs, and vegetables. Soon I'll be able to provide my own milk and wool. With time, maybe electricity and heat.

It's a lifestyle that makes me happy. It's a lifestyle I'm starting to think more people yearn for.

Will I be able to pull it off? I hope so. But I suspect it will be difficult in the future for people like me, people who value the institution of the family farm, to continue.

Because the powers that be seem to want us to dry up and blow away. Make way for the corporate farms to come.

For now, though, I'll hold out in my little island of sanity.

Regards from Alberta's brush plain.

a year without combines

You’d think that the third year of teaching would be easier. That starting up in the fall would take a little less out of you.

If you thought that, though, you’d be sorely mistaken.

The first three weeks of this school year have torn a strip out of me. I can feel my immune system slowly crashing; my eyes droop a little more every day. I am completely exhausted.

Not to say that the year has been bad: by week three the past couple of years I was already looking for alternate employment.

This year the sense of dread is largely gone.

But a new school means learning new names, new faces, new procedures, new locations, new habits. Teaching new courses means new curriculum, new assignments, new marking routines.

And of course, this year has come with its own particular stresses.

Schools, we are assured, need to ready themselves for the H1N1 plague we’re told will kill us all. $80 million budget cuts have everyone questioning the longevity of their employment. Talk of elections has the whole country up in arms.


What I need, dear reader, is for the whole world to step back and take a breather.

Which is why, this year, I find I really miss the harvest.


I think some farmers find harvest time particularly stressful : the potential for disaster – fires, rain, untimely snow, etc. – can be overwhelming at times.

For me, though, harvest is when I finally get to see the reward for all the evenings and weekends. Watching wheat pour into the combine hopper makes stiff necks and sore backs worth it.

At harvest time I turn off my brain and enjoy the world around me: the air is sweet with grain dust, the stubble shines in the fields.


But this year I get none of that. Our harvest is largely done. The early summer drought made sure of that.

Which, of course, means no combining this year. No wheat in the hopper. No golden stubble.


Instead we’ve a pit of silage and a winter ahead of us.

But we should count ourselves lucky. The year was not the wreck it could have been. We’ve feed for our cattle, which is something, and the chance to try again later.


And next spring, when I find myself swearing at the tractor, I’ll remind myself of the combining and reward to come.

That should straighten me out for a week or two.

for fall, too, must come

Fall is coming.

You wouldn't really know it, though, to look around.

It's as hot now as it was for most of July and August; the mosquitoes are only just beginning to hit full stride; the air is humid and heavy and wind pretty rare.

But there are signs. The crows have left and ravens replaced them. In places the leaves have turned golden, the grasses red. Thunderheads in the afternoon have been replaced by sheets of gray.

In short, fall is doing its damnedest to get here. It's just being a bit slow about it.

From my viewpoint it can't get here fast enough. I need the fall to come. I need the year to end. This year has been long, hard, and exhausting. I need the cold days of fall to refresh me.

If you're like me and long for the cold days and short nights of fall, rejoice. It will be here 'ere long.

In the meantime, though, feel free to mutter at the sun worshipping masses with me.

Happy Wednesday from the brush plain.