Accidental Farmwife - Escape to the Barn

When the Farmer and I combined herds (so to speak) last August, we ended up with five teenaged daughters altogether. Granted, they are rarely all in the same place at one time, but when two or more of them get together, it can get very loud.
“It’s okay; it’s all happy noise,” the Farmer says, as he pushes his chair away from the table after another Sunday dinner turned raucous giggle fest.
At times like these, I wish I were deaf in at least one ear.
The girls are expected to do the clean up after our family get-togethers, but the shenanigans continue. The sisters and stepsisters tease and taunt each other and they shriek with laughter. The volume level rises another few decibels. My cries for them to “take it down a notch!” are drowned in the cacophony of pots and pans clanking. I look for a place to hide. Then I realize that the Farmer is missing.
I peek into the living room, but his favourite spot on the couch is unoccupied. The bathrooms are empty, and no one is in the bedroom or the den. Suddenly, I hear a screen door sliding open. Aha. He is escaping to the barn.
Now, if we have company, the Farmer will lead everyone to the living room for after-dinner drinks while the girls clean up. Other times, he will suggest that I take a glass of wine and join him on the porch to watch the sunset, or we’ll hop on the ATV for a ride through the back pasture. But when he wants to be alone, he heads to the barn.
If I want to be alone, I lock myself in the larger of our two bathrooms. The washer and dryer are in there too, so I can do laundry, take a bath, and spend quite a bit of time sorting out my thoughts until I am ready to be social again. However, my peace rarely goes uninterrupted. Within minutes of closing and locking the door behind me, the inevitable knock will come.
“Ma? Mommy. Mom.”
Someone always comes up with an emergency that requires my immediate attention while I am trying to find some quiet time. It never fails. But the Farmer, on the other hand, is rarely followed out to the barn by one of our offspring. That would require donning a pair of manure-covered rubber boots, passing by the crazy sheepdog and facing off with Donkey. There are just too many obstacles and challenges. He’s got it made.
I don’t have the same reservations about following my husband to the barn. I like to spend time there myself, checking on the animals and lending him a hand with whatever he is doing. But when he wants me to join him, he usually tells me where he is going and what he is doing. When he just sneaks out the door quietly, that means “don’t follow”.
Why does this work so well for him? I suppose most men exhibit similar behaviours when they need to claim some solitude. According to Dr. John Gray, bestselling author of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, when the man heads off to the garage, the workshop, the basement or the barn, he is often retreating to his “cave”. This is where all of his best thinking is done. While he is in the cave, he will likely take part in various mindless or mechanical activities such as tinkering with equipment, polishing his tools or finishing up some light handiwork. Most men will maintain a portion of their habitat that is decidedly female-unfriendly so that they are assured this necessary solitude.
During the time that the man is in the cave, however, Dr. Gray advises the woman not to ask him what he is doing in there, why he is in there, or when he will be coming out. The man must be left alone, undisturbed, until he decides he is ready to join the rest of his clan again.
Hogwash, I say, I’m pulling on my pink rubber boots, grabbing a couple of beers and heading out to the barn to pitch hay alongside him. Every cave-dweller needs a mate.

-30-

History Column - The Dirty '30s

We are all feeling the financial strain of rising gas prices these days. Car-pooling from homes in Kemptville to work in Ottawa has become commonplace for many people. According to those in the know, this is only the beginning. Oil prices will continue to rise throughout the summer. In the 1930s, however, residents of the Kemptville area were in dire straits indeed.
According to The Way We Were, a historical account of that decade before the 2nd World War compiled by Oxford Mills archivist Jean Newans, “1933 was the worst year in Eastern Ontario”.
Dairy farmers received 55 cents per 100 lbs of milk. Milk cows garnered $35 each and meat animals fetched one to five cents per pound live weight. Eggs were 12 cents a dozen and cheese was 9 cents a pound.
Farmers traded their fresh goods for sugar, salt, tea and spices. Property taxes, insurance, machinery repairs and farm necessities were often paid in quantities of fresh milk.
Doctors’ bills and medicine were sometimes paid for with loads of firewood or produce. Bartering became a way of life. Very little money changed hands because very little was in circulation.
A hired farm hand earned $15 per month in summer and “worked for his eats” in the winter. He had to save enough from his summer wages to buy his winter clothes.
School children walked up to three miles to class each morning. The school wasn’t heated all weekend so on Monday mornings the coats stayed on. Teachers earned $600 per year and paid $15 per month for room and board.
If you lived on a farm, it wasn’t uncommon to find a beggar at your door. The young men rode the freight trains looking for work and they often hopped off at one of the local stations to beg for food.
People became very resourceful, making underwear and sheets out of old recycled flour bags.
A drought plagued Western Canada, turning the sun into a fiery red ball and creating dust that could be seen across the country.
Headlines in the Canadian Press in the early ‘30s indicated the severity of the economic decline in the West: “Poverty Spreads as Depression Hits”; “Shipments of Food from Ontario Arrive in the West”; “Hundreds of Horses Starve to Death on Saskatchewan Farms”; “Westerners Hitch Horses to Cars to Produce Bennett Buggies”; and “September 1930 – Twelve Thousand Men in Relief Camps in British Columbia”.
The situation was pretty grim in Ontario as well, but the Depression began to lift with the coming of the Second World War.
In a note from The Advance in 1935, G. Howard Ferguson was quoted as saying that he felt war was imminent. “I think there will be war in Europe but I am sure that Great Britain will not be involved”.
When we are feeling the pinch at the gas pumps, we really must remind ourselves that it could be worse. We could be wearing flour-bag undies.

This column is meant to be a forum for the retelling of stories about Kemptville. If you have a tale to share, please email Diana.fisher@metroland.com. Thank you to Donna Waldorf for sharing her video of The Boy in Blue, complete with tv commercials from the ‘80s!

-30-

History Column - Crime in Kemptville

After the excitement with the Scotiabank hold-up this week, I got to thinking about crime in Kemptville. Thankfully, there haven’t been too many memorable incidents in our area. While working on this week’s column, however, I found an interesting story in Eleanor O’Neill’s Irishtown, A Community. The style of writing used in the latter part of the 19th century is today quite an entertaining read. Here is the excerpt that she used from The Kemptville Advance dated August 23rd, 1894:
“Gagged and Robbed: Old Johnny Swords in the Hands of Villains at Mid-night. Threats of Murder.
To read of robbery, murder, etc., in Texas, Mexico or some other distant section is perhaps of so common occurrence that we are apt to pass it by without scarcely a second thought, but when the like occurs near our own village, excitement runs high and every reader is anxious to learn all particulars.
In order to obtain facts, our scribe visited the home of the old man at the scene of the difficulty. It is a somewhat ancient looking log house consisting of one very scantily furnished room the contents being a bed, stove, table, chest and 4 or 5 chairs. The old man is of the genuine old Irish stock, and although tottering on the verge of the grave – being now in the 82nd year of his age – he displays an unusual amount of nerve and wouldn’t be deprived of ‘backtalk’ to the strongest man on earth, though it should cost him his life.
The Old Man’s Story: He was lying at midnight on Friday last in bed when suddenly a voice from without demanded admission. The door was tried but being bolted at the top, bottom and side, it yielded not to an ordinary effort.
Stones were then thrust at the door and it gave way. By this time the old man was on his feet near the door. He was seized by a strong man, thrown to the floor beside the bed and there tied hand and foot. A gag was placed in his mouth and fastened by means of old shoestrings around his neck.
Johnny claimed that owing to his having no teeth the gag would not stay in his mouth. This enraged the man who appeared to be the boss of the gang, and he swore that he would kill the old man if he did not keep the gag in.
Notwithstanding his helpless position John indignantly replied: ‘Well it won’t stay in nor you can’t make me keep it in.’
A further vicious threat was answered with ‘I will have to die in a couple of years or so anyway and if you kill me now, I’ll not have to die then.’”
The old man was kicked, beaten and robbed but he recovered. He said that he had recognized his attackers by their voices, but didn’t go to the police because he didn’t have the money for a lawyer. Eventually, “a man came from Toronto” and brought the matter to court.
According to the Advance excerpt, Mr. Swords’ account of his attack and torture were told with a sense of humour, so as to incite the laughter of the court. In the end, the four men accused were found not guilty.
-30-

Accidental Farmwife - A Season Without TV

It all started with a simple voicemail: “Please call Bell ExpressVu in the next 24 hours for a very important message.” We didn’t have the time or inclination to return the call. The next week, we had a similar recording on our answering machine. Again, we ignored it. Finally, our cable bill arrived in the mail with an extra charge on it. We had been billed for a channel that we had not asked for. Apparently we were supposed to call the company at the beginning of the offer to tell them that we did not wish to have the channel added to our package.
The Farmer decided he just wasn’t going to pay that portion of the bill. He made a note on the invoice and sent it back, with his usual monthly payment. This went on for months. The unpaid, unasked-for portion of the bill slowly accumulated in the balance.
After a year, the phone messages started again. They were probably from the Accounts Receivable department but we will never know for sure because we didn’t return the calls.
Then, one day, Farmer Fisher sat down to watch his favourite Saturday morning television program, “Canada in the Rough”. Much to his surprise, all but one channel displayed the message: “this channel is only available with a paid subscription”. The Farmer put down his coffee cup with a smirk and said, “Well, honeybunch, it looks as though we’ve been cut off.”
Now, the Farmer doesn’t watch a great deal of television, but he is fond of hunting and fishing shows, the occasional documentary, war movies and just about anything on the Lonestar channel. I confess a minor addiction to all singing and dancing programs, but for the most part I sit in the living room just to be with my husband. I always have the laptop or some sort of reading material to fall back on if he’s watching another episode of “Bonanza”.
The girls, however, are a different story. When they found out that we had no television, they were incredulous.
“But you’re getting it back, right? You can’t expect us to go all summer without television!”
I took the bait. “You know, when I was growing up we only had two channels. It wasn’t a big deal. If there was nothing on, you read a book. In fact, during the summer months, my father believed you should be outside from breakfast until dinner. He unplugged the television and put it in the garage until September.” (I’ve repeated that last part to my kids so many times that I can’t even remember if it’s actually true…)
The girls rolled their eyes at me for the twentieth time that weekend (doesn’t that cause irreversible damage to the retina at some point?) and stomped off to their rooms where they quickly text-messaged their friends to spread the unbelievable news.
We probably will get our account settled and our television working again. It will likely take only a phone call to get things sorted out. But in the meantime, we are actually enjoying seeing the girls working on their scrapbooks, talking to each other, baking in the kitchen, reading and – yes, it’s true – playing with the kittens OUTSIDE. They don’t even spend much time on the Internet because, of course, we have dialup and that is too frustrating to bear for more than a couple of hours.
We might just leave things as they are for the rest of the summer. The Farmer and I are so busy in the gardens and the barn; we won’t notice the missing television.
And the nice folks at Bell ExpressVu didn’t cut us off cold turkey. They did leave us with one channel. Farmer Fisher can watch as much “Cosmo TV” as he wants. I think he is developing a deeper appreciation for “Sex and the City”.

-30-

The Ball Players of Irishtown

History Column - The Kemptville Advance
By Diana Fisher

How have you been occupying yourself on these warm summer evenings? The other night when I was out with friends for a pint, one of them shared a story that his father had told him about a typical summer evening in the area once known as “Irishtown”.
“After finishing their chores, the boys from Heckston would walk to Irishtown to play baseball. They walked straight through the bush and across the fields, as the crow flies. It was about ten miles.” – Wayne Workman.
Now, think about it. Would you walk ten miles to play baseball? My first thought was, “yeah, but I get to take a taxi home, right?”
Irishtown, as explained in a book compiled by Eleanor O’Neill for the Oxford-on-Rideau Historical Society in 1999, was a community settled around Beach and McGovern Roads south of Kemptville. The baseball story is confirmed in her book:
“Baseball was the favourite sport in Irishtown…Many long Sunday afternoons were whiled away playing scrub baseball in some farmers field.
In a humourous account supposed to have been given by the Right Honourable G. Howard Ferguson the Ottawa Journal printed the following: ‘Yes, siree. In Kemptville in those days we had hitters to contend with. Take that old Irishtown outfit for instance. Why, they simply murdered speed. And the best drop curve in the world was apple pie for any of them!’
A group known as The Twilight League came from Millars Corners, Heckston, Hyndman and Groveton.
Near the beginning of World War Two, a League was formed including Oxford Mills, Bishops Mills, Burritts Rapids and Irishtown. This Irishtown team included Ray and Jack Higgins, Ken McGovern, Jay Flannigan and the Workman and Montroy boys from Bedell Road.
After WWII, the Kemptville-St. Lawrence Hard Ball League was formed, sponsored by Mervyn Wilson, the druggist in Kemptville. This League included teams from Kemptville, Spencerville, Cardinal, Brockville and Prescott. Prescott had a team that was hard to beat. Jay Flannigan played for Kemptville.
In the 1970s a baseball diamond was set up in Jay Flannigan’s field to give the boys of the neighbourhood a chance to enjoy a bit of sport. Among those who came to play were Danny and John Flannigan, Bob, Bruce and Jimmy Whaley, Jim O’Neill, the Jackson boys, the Brayman boys and Doug McNeilly.”

I am enjoying my first summer on my new husband’s 200-acre farm between Oxford and Bishops’ Mills – not far from the area described in Mrs. O’Neill’s book. I like to take a glass of wine in hand after Sunday dinner and walk around the property, looking at the gardens, watching the sheep coming in from pasture. Sometimes I have to open the gate to let Ginger the cow back in after she has once again jumped the fence to sample the weeds on the other side.
As I survey our little segment of pastoral peace, I am making a mental list of what needs to be done and also feeling a sense of accomplishment for a day’s hard work. I can relate to the “second wind” that you get after working yourself to exhaustion, then coming in and showering off the dirt. Sometimes that positive feeling transforms into a burst of energy, and I feel like going out and doing something fun.
But I’m not about to walk from Oxford Mills back to Heckston. That would be ridiculous.

-30-

The Boy in Blue

History Column – The Kemptville Advance
By Diana Fisher – June 9, 2008

I am Kemptville born and raised. But it wasn’t until after I moved away and lived on the other side of the world for a few years that I learned to truly appreciate my hometown. This column is a forum for the retelling of Kemptville’s stories. If you have one you would like to share, please do so by emailing Diana Fisher at: Diana.fisher@metroland.com.

A Brush with Celebrity

Whether you are new to Kemptville or - like myself - born and raised here, you must admit we have some beautiful old buildings.
One building in particular, the stone edifice now housing Rowland Leather on Clothier, was once the home of Hartley’s Ice Cream Parlour. It was the place to go for a sundae in the summer after a ball game, and the old-fashioned homemade candy counter was a unique treat year round.
My boyfriend and I were heading toward Hartley’s for our usual lunch one day in 1985 when we noticed a gathering of strangely dressed folk in the street.
As we got closer, it became evident that a movie was being filmed, using Hartley’s historically correct architecture as a backdrop. Actors milled about in 19th century garb, carrying parasols and top hats.
We stood back and took in the scene for a moment, then realized that cameras and lighting were being packed up and the crowd was dispersing. Some of the cast went in to the restaurant, and we followed them.
We took our usual table in the far corner and indulged in people-watching from a distance. Our server came over and filled us in on the situation.
“They’re filming a movie with Nic Cage and Christopher Plummer!” she whispered, causing my head to whip around.
Thinking myself a movie buff, I quickly scanned the crowd for somebody famous. I didn’t see either of the actors that she mentioned, but a man sitting at a table by the window caught my eye.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I said to my boyfriend, who looked worried as I got up from my seat and approached the unsuspecting man.
“Hello there,” I announced myself, “welcome to Kemptville! You must be Christopher Plummer’s double. You look so much like him!” I gushed.
The poised gentleman set down his cup of Earl Grey tea and stood up to take my hand in both of his.
“Actually, my double is a helluva lot better looking than I am,” he winked. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Christopher Plummer.”

The Boy in Blue was filmed in Kemptville and Burritts Rapids for release in 1986. Nicolas Cage played the lead in the story of Ned Hanlan, Toronto’s world champion in rowing from 1880-1884.

Rankism: The latest plague of the workplace

Racism. Sexism. These attitudes are no longer acceptable in today’s enlightened society. One day soon, a new “ism” will be outlawed in society: Rankism.

Robert Fuller, author of Somebodies and Nobodies: Overcoming the Abuse of Rank, coined the word “rankism”, which is defined as “abusive, discriminatory or exploitative behaviour towards people who have less power because of their lower rank in a particular hierarchy”.

Tammy, a 30-year-old executive assistant from Ottawa, says that her eighteen months at an insurance firm left her feeling “worthless”. “My boss told me that she wouldn’t accept mistakes, and that if I was unsure of how to do something, I should ask questions before attempting to do the work. But when I approached her, she would act annoyed and irritated, and snap at me that the task was “a no-brainer”. After months of this treatment, my self-esteem was gone. I felt I could do nothing right. In the end, I was breaking down in tears in the bathroom. I knew I had to leave for my own sanity. After quitting that job, I never wanted to work in an office setting again.”

Victims of rankism often suffer long-lasting effects from their abusive situations. As a result of lost confidence, many will have difficulty applying for and acquiring new jobs. Some will seek counseling, and others will require medication in order to pull themselves out of their depressed state.

Doesn’t the Ministry of Labour (www.labour.gov.on.ca) have regulations in place to protect against rankism? The Ontario Human Rights Commission (www.ohrc.on.ca) protects against bullying and harassment where discrimination or unfair treatment occurs in reference to sex, race, colour, age or religion. Bullying or harassment of someone of lower rank, however, is not a violation of the Human Rights Code.

In order to protect employees from abuse by higher-ranked supervisors and managers, the Human Rights Code would have to change. And in order for that to happen, the Member of Provincial Parliament in each region would have to promote the issue.

The first step to recognizing rankism as a social problem, Fuller believes, is giving it a name. Sexism and racism went through the same processes before they were finally recognized as abusive, debilitating and unacceptable behaviours.

The Dignitarian Movement (www.breakingranks.net) promotes that everyone has a purpose and a right to fulfill that purpose within a fair and supportive working environment. People in lower positions of rank have important jobs to do, and in their capacity as support staff, they enable those in higher positions to perform their roles more effectively.

Unfortunately, not everyone has this enlightened outlook. If you feel that you are a victim of bullying, unfair treatment or harassment because of your lower rank on the employment totem pole, speak to your Human Resources representative. If there is no HR specialist in your company, you may want to start looking for a new job. Once you have broken out of that suffocating, stressful atmosphere and found a position in which you are treated fairly, you will be able to thrive and grow as an employee and a person.

http://www.canadianliving.com/life/work/rankism_bullying_someone_of_a_lower_rank_at_work.php

Ginger and Betty

The sheep can only eat so much. They need help keeping our 200 acres neat and tidy, so Farmer Fisher decided we should get…beef cows. They would keep the grass down for us, perhaps keep the wolves at bay with their sheer size, and they might even make good pets for the next 8 or 10 years. That was the plan.

So off we went to market. My husband was thinking, Black Angus would be nice. The cows are typically smaller in size, and the beef garners a good price. We arrived at Leo’s Livestock barns early on Saturday morning, and wandered around, looking at the numbered cattle. There were only about 5 black cows, so we recorded their numbers on our list and went to take a seat in the auction gallery.

It was a full house. I had been to auction once before, when the farmer sold his lambs. But I had never been on the bidding end of the deal. The auctioneer rattled off the details of each cow, in both official languages. John Michael Montgomery’s “Auction Song” kept running through my head: “she’s an 8, she’s a 9, she’s a 10 I know…” I tried to focus. Most of the chatter around us was in French, and we struggled to keep up with the numbers.

The cows were sent in two at a time, and one of the workers walked the ring with them, smacking them none too gently with a wooden cane. I realized that it was necessary to turn the cows so the spectators could see them from all angles but after the first ten minutes or so, I wished that just one of the beasts would step on his foot. Most of the cows went for between six and eight hundred dollars, depending on their size and breed.

Then two of the Black Angus cows were up. The bidding started at 700, and Farmer Fisher jumped in. 750, 770, 800…these cows were going to get much more than the other breeds, he suddenly realized, and promptly dropped out of the race. The same quick bidding happened with the next three black cows and, before we knew it, they were all gone. We looked at each other. Black Angus were going for $1200 in the newspaper. $800? Not so bad. But we had missed our chance.

A few bids later, we bought a Hereford mixed with Limousin (I had been studying – she had white curls on her brow, and she was a bit oversized…) and then very soon after we became the new owners of another Hereford, a bit smaller. My head was spinning from the excitement. I sat on my hands to keep from clapping them (which would have clearly identified me as a newbie, if it wasn’t already obvious).

“Herefords are nice,” I comforted my husband, who was sulking over missing out on the Black Angus. I told him he probably only wanted the black cows because he has a black dog, a black truck, his wife’s hair is almost black, and he is a creature of habit.

We went to the catwalk and looked down over the cows, searching for our numbers. There were our girls, two red and white cows from different herds, penned together. Already they seemed to be communicating with each other. The smaller one looked at us. She seemed suspicious. “The big one looks like Ugly Betty,” Farmer Fisher declared. I warned him that such talk would not be permitted in the presence of our animals.

Later that day, our cows were delivered. The drover got his truck stuck in the mud, and Farmer Fisher had to pull him out with the tractor. The cows peeked out between the wooden slats of the truck, their eyes crazed with fear. I made soothing noises in their general direction, in an attempt to comfort their jangled nerves. I was the cow whisperer. We set up the barricades and opened the truck. The cows calmly walked into the part of the barn that would be their home for the next week. We can’t let them into the yard just yet, or they might try to run away. They need to settle in first.

We have 5 teenaged daughters in our blended family, but they aren’t all “farm girls”. In fact, most of them are more at home in front of the computer than in the barnyard. I brought the girls into the barn, to meet the new additions. Most of them pronounced the cows smelly and ugly. Annie pronounced them “Ginger” and “Betty”.

Every morning, I check on the “girls”. I fill up their water barrel, and make sure they have access to fresh hay. Betty, the bigger breed, is a heifer. She hasn’t had a calf yet. She is in for a surprise come April, as she is now three months’ pregnant. Betty is more trusting also, coming up and licking my hand with her sandpaper tongue. Ginger is pregnant too, but she has been through this before. She is the older and wiser of the two.

In a few days, we will let them out into the barnyard. And another week after that, they will be let into the adjoining pasture. I want to spend some time interacting with them this weekend, as I have been doing some reading on the Internet and I’ve learned that cows really do make good pets. They are said to be the smartest of all the barnyard animals, even more intelligent than a dog or a pig – which is reported to have the intelligence of a three-year-old child.

Farmer Fisher says he can’t wait to see Ginger and Betty play fetch.

On the necessity of stubbornness

I have learned that, in addition to an unsinkable sense of optimism, one must also possess the stubbornness of a ram in order to be a sheep farmer. Luckily, I was born under the sign of the ram, I am a stubborn Aries, and I truly believe that because of that predestination, I am going to get the hang of this sheep farming thing yet.

When we had multiple lambs born to one mother, several times over, I asked the Farmer if we could feed baby bottles to supplement the mothers’ supply of milk. He said I could and so I have been in that barn every night with a canvas bag from the liquor store loaded with warm formula in lamb-feeding bottles. The lambs know me so well now, they swarm me and nibble at my boots or my hair or my knuckles – whatever they can reach – until I hand over the milk. I would like to think that I had something to do with so many of our lambs thriving this year. I’m quite proud of our little herd.

I realize that stubbornness and optimism must be balanced, however, with rational common sense. Lambs, if they survive gestation and birth, come into the world hoping that their mother has enough milk, that she accepts her obligation to feed them, and that conditions are favourable (i.e. not minus-30 in the barn). Even if warm and well-fed, the lambs might contract one of myriad diseases that sheep carry around with them, or they might just be born with a genetic “will to die” as a result of a lack of vitality passed on from their mother. Sometimes, no amount of bottle feeding will help, and you lose one. But occasionally, the extra effort put into caring for a weak one pays off.

Last week, I noticed that one of our newborns (probably about a month old) was walking in a rather stiff-legged fashion. The lamb looked alert and well-fed, and he didn’t have the wrinkled skin of dehydration or the hunched-over stance of starvation. He just walked like Charlie Chaplin.

The next day, he could hardly move at all. On the third day, he could no longer stand. His little legs would just collapse beneath him. Realizing that he couldn’t catch up to his mother to nurse, I tried to feed him a bottle. He couldn’t swallow, and choked on the milk. I must have had a rather distressed look on my face, as I rubbed his little back while he coughed. The Farmer had an idea. “We can feed him with a tube. Then he will either get better, or he won’t.” But at least he will have a full tummy, I thought. Stiff legs are a symptom of more than one disease known to lambs. In some cases, it’s caused by an overfeeding of grain, or bacteria growth in the intestines. This little piggy must have had more than his fair share at the feed trough.

We gave him about 75 mls of milk replacer once a day through a tube that he swallowed. It didn’t seem to be very much, but it was all he could handle in the time that we had to feed him. This routine carried on over the weekend. The Farmer gave him a shot of penicillin, and we hoped for the best.

On my 40^th birthday (this was a big week for me), I went out to the barn to find the paralyzed lamb. Normally he is just a few feet from where I had placed him, having dragged himself over to a fresh patch of nibbling hay. But on this night, he wasn’t where I had left him. He was on the other side of the 20-foot “kindergarten” pen, looking at me and blinking. And he was standing up.

“Oh! My lamb is getting better!” I squealed. The Farmer came over to take a closer look. I tried to give him a bottle, but he choked on the milk. We fed him with a tube again, and I put him on the barn floor to see what would happen. Stiffly but surely, he walked away in search of his mother. I think he’s going to be okay.

That was a good birthday present. Almost as good as the diamond earrings that I got from Farmer Fisher. I’m going to be one well-dressed farmwife.

The Accidental Farmwife doesn’t really know what she’s talking about, so if you would like to fill her in on some of the facts of farming, feel free to send her an email at: Diana.fisher@yahoo.ca

Brad Sucks and the Throat Singer

In a quiet neighbourhood south of Ottawa live two people who are quickly gaining international popularity for their unique musical talents. He creates music through the modern world of the Internet, and she performs the native art of throat singing. I met with Brad Turcotte and his partner Kathy Kettler recently, for a glimpse into the lives of these two very talented performers.

From the moment he was first introduced to computers, Brad Turcotte realized he could speak their language. He spent hours every day studying myriad systems and applications until he could comfortably manipulate and design websites on his own. Joining a community of like-minded tech bloggers online, he soon became known as somewhat of an expert in the field. The powers that be at Microsoft were made aware of Brad’s Internet expertise, and invited him to Seattle to take part in a panel of 30 tech journalists and industry specialists to preview their new search engine.

A true multilingual, Brad’s other language of choice is music. He began classical guitar lessons at 9 years of age, and soon showed signs of true musical talent. Inevitably, Brad eventually found a way to combine his two loves. After becoming a master manipulator of the music-sequencing program Billboard, he began composing his own music on the computer. He would compose the music for guitar, then do a track for the drums, mix in the keyboards, and add vocals.

In time, “the one-man band with no fans” was born. Brad posted his compositions on the website www.bradsucks.net and gained an immediate audience for his alternative / indie sound.

“I wasn’t prepared for the instant feedback,” Brad says of his online community of listeners. The Internet allows users to post critiques anonymously and they do so without reservation or self-censorship. Thankfully, most of the comments are positive ones, confirming that the music of Brad Sucks…doesn’t.

The Internet has the power to bring people of different worlds together. This dynamic makes the worldwide web a spectacularly powerful marketing tool for a musician with an online presence. Through visits to his website, Brad has gained fans and friends from many different walks of life.

William Gibson (author of The Matrix trilogy) has been quoted as saying that he often listened to the music of Bradsucks while working on characterization for his latest book.

Fans spread the word about Bradsucks, and the website quickly developed a loyal following in the college crowd. Brad began receiving requests to perform live, and decided to form a band to take his show on the road.

Their first gig was a Battle of the Bands called Tech Rocks. The audience, Brad remembers, appeared to be primarily made up of soccer moms. Their second performance was at the famous Ottawa establishment Barrymores. The band has also played Zaphod Beeblebrox, Live Lounge, Greenfields and the Rainbow.

Earlier this year, Brad received a request to perform without his band, for the students of Waterloo University. Armed with only his laptop and guitar, Brad took the stage alone to perform live for fans he had gained online. “It was incredibly surreal,” he remembers, “looking out at and seeing so many people singing the words to my songs.”

Those fans spread the word in their online community, and soon Brad opened an email that he never imagined he would receive, from Harvard University. In February, he was on a plane to Boston. He took part in a musical symposium, performing in various campus venues over the course of two days. The trip also included a radio interview and a question-and-answer session with students. It was a learning experience for both sides.

Brad shares his home and life with an equally fascinating person, his partner Kathy Kettler. Born and raised in Arnprior, Kathy comes from an Inuit background. As part of their native culture, Kathy’s sister Karin taught her the art of throat singing. Traditionally, while the men of generations past were out hunting for days on end, the Inuit women and children in the igloos would pass the time playing a game. Two people face each other, sometimes linking arms at the elbows, and one emits a deep hum. The other echoes, and the game begins. The humming goes back and forth, in a rhythm, until one throat singer drops the beat, hums a bad note, or starts to laugh. Not unlike the staring game, it’s a competition of endurance and creativity that breeds togetherness.

Kathy and her sister Karin have been invited to perform their throat singing at various high-profile cultural events throughout Canada, and have represented the country overseas. Kathy just returned from an exciting trip to Kenya, where she and her cousin Lydia performed as part of the annual Great Rift Valley Earth Festival. Due to the recent civil unrest in the country, Kathy’s sister Karin opted out of the trip.

Presented at Ol Ari Nyiro (“place of dark waters” in the Masai language) in the Laikipia Nature Conservancy in Northern Kenya, the Earth Festival is an annual celebration designed “to heal divisions between people and nature by bringing together exceptional artists from all continents to humanity’s common cradle, the Great Rift Valley.” The event is a benefit to raise funds for various environmental concerns.

Kathy feels honoured to have been chosen to represent Canada at the world-famous event. To hear a sample of throat singing, visit Kathy and Karin’s website: www. Nukariik.ca.

When they aren’t out and about performing their own special brand of music, Brad and Kathy make their home in Kemptville.

-30-

Accidental Farmwife - Christmas

Episode #5 – Christmas at the Fisher Farm

By Diana Fisher

Christmas is not a recognized holiday in Taiwan. I knew this when I went to Asia in 2003 but, somehow, I thought I would find a way to celebrate traditions with my family and friends, despite the customs of my adopted land. That first year, I stubbornly went home at Christmas, and was subsequently fired for breaching my teaching contract.

That visit was a wonderful holiday at home with the people I love, but it took me two months to land another position when I returned to Taiwan. By the time Christmas rolled around again, I decided I had better save my holidays for Chinese New Year, and keep my job.

Christmas 2004 in Taiwan was bleak, indeed. I hung ornaments on a potted banana palm, and smiled at the webcam for my family overseas. After cold turkey and bread pudding (what’s in that stuff anyway?) at the local British pub with other Westerners, I cried myself to sleep in my downtown Taipei apartment.

In 2005, I spent Christmas in Australia. The Aussies do it up big, with glitz, glam and flashing lights. It’s a bit hot to cook a turkey in the middle of an Aussie summer, however, so Christmas dinner is more likely to be king prawns on the barbie. New Year’s Eve was celebrated in a beer garden, in a sweltering 30 degrees at midnight. Half a day ahead of Canada, of course. Again, I felt as though I had skipped the holidays.

I came home to Canada for Good (capital intended) in March 2006. I reunited with family and friends and began the process of recovering from reverse culture shock. I thought I might end up in the publishing houses of Toronto, but by the end of June I had started dating the man who would become my husband. By Christmas of 2006, I was absolutely sure I was in the right place.

And now here we are, another year later. 2007 was very good to me. It taught me many things. I have learned that I prefer simplicity in life. And quiet. After three years in one of the noisiest cities of the world, I thrive on the silence of the pasture at sunset. After the sheep have come in I sit on the back porch beside my husband and watch the sun melt into the horizon.

I have learned a few undeniable truths over the last few years, but it took going far away for them to become real to me. Living in a foreign land, experiencing the idiosyncrasies of another culture and then returning home is an invaluable learning experience.

At the end of 2007, this is what I know: 1. I am blessed to be born Canadian; 2. I am honoured to be the mother of three and the stepmother of two amazing young women; 3. I have some really fantastic lifelong friends; 4. I come from good people; 5. I have enough of everything; 6. I am loved.

As the winter deepens, I look out the kitchen window and see our cow Ginger trying vainly to hide behind a sheep-nibbled pine tree in the middle of the pasture. Betty the heifer looks back at me, and raises her nose to the air. Just as I did when I first returned to Ontario. Canadian air certainly is sweet. Breathe it in, my friend.

I’ve been trying to entice the cows with sweet corn but so far all I’ve gained is the attention of a few dozen very persistent ewes and one downright annoying Donkey. The sheep announce my arrival when I enter the barnyard, and push their noses in my pockets, looking for the cow candy.

It may take a while before the cows learn to trust me, but that’s all right. We have time. Being on the farm slows life down a tad.

Christmas 2007 in the Fisher household will be about celebrating life, new beginnings, and fond memories.

This is the end of what many touted as an extremely lucky year. It certainly was lucky for me. I am content. Goodbye, 2007. Thanks for the memories. Bring on 2008!

The Accidental Farmwife. Episode 1.

Waking up to the sound of a donkey braying, I must admit, is far more pleasant than waking up to the sounds of several dozen taxis honking on the crowded streets of Taipei. The Taiwanese believe that joyful noise will scare away evil spirits. I’ll take peace and quiet and fresh air in Canada, any day. I returned to my hometown of Kemptville in 2006, after three years overseas. Last month, I became Mrs. Fisher. My husband is a college professor and a sheep farmer. I am The Accidental Farmwife.

I am proud to say that after one month on the farm, I now know how sheep end up with multi-coloured behinds. But that, I’m afraid, is the extent of my farm knowledge.

My parents moved to Kemptville from Ottawa in the ‘60s. Dad started teaching at North Grenville the same year, and Mom soon took up her post outside the Director’s office at Kemptville College. I was born at KDH in 1968, when my parents lived in the apartment above what was then Anderson’s Ladies Wear (now Gallery 6 and Butlers’ Victorian Pantry). We moved to George Street and lived there until I was about 8, then Carl Norenberg built us a wonderful house, “out in the country”.

My fondest memories were made while we lived in that house on Johnston Road. We climbed trees (pushed the neighbour’s son out of one once…those ambulances are pretty good at off-roading), “borrowed” kittens from the Williams’ farm down the road, and even learned to ride horseback through the quarry that is now Oxford Heights subdivision on Abbott Road. But we really knew nothing about farm life.

School friends who were members of the mysterious 4-H Club knew what farm life was all about. But, to the rest of us, they were simply “the boys who could dance”. Apparently dancing was something they learned at some of their 4-H meetings.

My husband jokes that the city folk are very entertained by life on the farm. Our Ottawa relatives come out to the farm, sit on the porch and watch the sheep, fascinated by their habits.

I remember driving down County Road 43 with my daughters a few years ago, and we passed by a sheep farm. One of my girls yelled, “Hey! How come some of the sheep have green butts and some have red?” Hmmm…

I was trying to come up with a creative answer to her question. The best I could do was “Green means go so…the green bum sheep are ready for slaughter, and the red ones aren’t ready yet. Maybe they are too small or something.” Silence prevailed while my daughter processed that information. I looked back in the rearview mirror to study her expression. I could see a thought coming… “But…they can’t see their own butts. They have to go around and ask each other what colour they are!”

“Yes!” I replied. “And maybe they are lying to each other! One sheep with a green bum comes up to his friend and says, Hey – what colour am I? And the other sheep says, Red, man, red. Nothing to worry about….and then he turns to the other sheep and whispers, Oh man…he’s green….”

Sheep don’t like to breed in the summer, apparently, as it is too hot for such behaviour. They prefer the fall, around Thanksgiving, which, unfortunately, means they are ready to birth in February. When it’s -30.

My husband was perhaps too happily ensconced in honeymoon mode himself to notice that it was time to let the ram out to mingle with the sheep. But the bunch of heated females leaning on the fence reminded him of the season. In fact, one jumped the fence to be with her man. Well, everyone’s man, actually. Farmer Fisher went and got a brand new harness (a jealous donkey had shredded the last one) and block of red crayon to strap on the ram. Properly equipped, the ram set out to do his business.

Last year, we had two rams. One wore a blue crayon, the other green. One of the girls (we have 5 between us) was jumping on the trampoline the first morning after we let the rams loose in the herd. “Do you see any blue or green bums?” the farmer asked.

“I don’t see any white ones,” she answered. “And some are kind of rainbow.”

We are hoping that this year’s ram, who has to take care of business all on his own, is up to the task. Stay tuned.

Disclaimer: The Accidental Farmwife reserves the right to exercise artistic license from time to time. And she would like to apologize in advance for any embarrassment caused to friends or family members as a result of this column. Readers may contact the writer at: Diana.fisher@yahoo.ca.

To tan or not to tan...

To Tan or Not to Tan? That is the burning question.

Brockville Recorder & Times’ Real Life quarterly

By Diana Leeson

In many parts of the world, milky-white skin is the beauty ideal that women strive for. The women of Britain are known for their youthful peaches-and-cream complexions, due in large part to the lack of harsh sunlight in their climate. Some Asian women have gone to great lengths to keep their skin pale, covering up with broad-brimmed hats, shielding themselves from the sun with umbrellas, and even bleaching their skin with lotions that promise a snow-white visage. But we Canadians just wouldn’t feel that summer had arrived if we didn’t have at least a bit of a tan. And now there are several different ways to give your skin that healthy glow, without facing the harmful effects of the summer sun.

Gone are the days when we would slather ourselves with some fast-tanning oil and lie for several sweaty hours on the rooftop, the picnic table, or any other solar-attracting surface in the hopes of acquiring the perfect dark tan. Over the past few decades, enough information has come forward with respect to the harmful and dangerous side-effects of too much sun exposure that we have finally come to our senses. Or perhaps we have just started to realize that years of deep tanning doesn’t exactly improve our skin’s appearance? Unfortunately, if you spent the eighties in a tanning bed, you are probably showing the wrinkles and brown spots of premature aging right about now. And in many cases, you may be looking at some degree of skin cancer.

Of course, it isn’t healthy to completely shun the sun. We could all use a good dose of Vitamin D from time to time, according to Health Canada. The sun is an abundant natural source of the vitamin that builds healthy bones and guards against certain cancers. With sunscreen inhibiting the body’s ability to produce Vitamin D, however, you may want to spend your first ten to fifteen minutes in the sun without your sunblock. If you are going to be outside for a prolonged amount of time, of course, particularly during the hours of the harsh midday sun, remember to slip on a shirt, slap on a hat, and slop on some sunscreen.

So, if you are going to protect yourself from the sun’s deadly ultraviolet rays, how on earth are you going to shed the ghostly white appearance that has everyone calling you “Casper”? Well, the beauty industry has come up with some fantastic solutions to the problem.

Bronzing lotions spread smoothly and evenly over the skin, giving the instant-yet-temporary appearance of a “healthy” tan. If you know you are going to be wearing something that shows a lot of skin, slap some of this stuff on. I do have one suggestion, however. Not all bronzing lotions are created the same, and with our variety in skin tones, they don’t always result in a natural-looking colour. Ask the drugstore cosmetician if you can sample the product on a patch of your skin before you buy. And if you don’t want to come out looking orange, follow the directions on the label closely. When they say “avoid knees and elbows” or “wash your hands immediately after use”, they mean it! Bronzing lotions are an economic, ideal cosmetic solution to pale skin, but they are short-lived, as they wash off in the shower or pool, and they rub off on your clothes and bed linens.

The “self-tanning” and “sunless tanning” lotions and sprays on the market right now, work in mysterious ways. Within 30 minutes to half-an-hour of application, a natural-looking tan appears. Many of these products also contain a sunscreen so that you are adequately protected when you venture outside. Clinique, Clarins and Bain de Soleil produce some of the most popular self-tanners. The downside of this product is that you can’t see its effect immediately, and you don’t know when you’ve missed a spot until it’s too late. The Neutrogena company has taken steps to solve this problem, by combining their tanner with a bronzer, ensuring an even, streak-free coverage.

Taking the place of solar beds in many tanning studios is the new spray-on tanning unit. It has been described as “part-carwash, part-kid running through the sprinkler”. These devices involve the client standing naked (or in a swimsuit, if you wish), eyes closed, in a booth equipped with spray nozzles that shoot tanning “stuff” all over the body. You may have a better chance at an even tan with this method, but while they may be available in many urban areas, most small towns don’t have spray-tan booths yet.

If you are just looking for a bit of a “glow” on your way out the door, consider trying the new line of moisturizers that contain bronzing lotion in the mix. Olay, Dove, Aveeno and Jergens all make lotions that contain just a hint of a tan in the bottle.

Now that you are equipped with the information you need to make your decisions, venture out and get yourself “tanned”. Only you and your cosmetician will know that your healthy glow did not come from the sun.

-30-