This is why we can't have a goat.

There is a man on Beach Road selling his goats. I have been stopping at his corner to watch the baby goats playing in the yard, butting heads, climbing up onto their shelter and jumping off. They are so frisky and intelligent. I have always wanted a goat. He has a big “Goats for Sale” sign on his fence now. I pulled over yesterday to get a closer look and the goats stopped playing to stare at me. I baahed at them and they responded, then went back to their head-butting game.

Alas, I cannot have a goat. This is why. Back in the 1980s, a gang of very badly behaved goats ruined any chance of me any owning one of their kind. At the time, the Farmer (who wasn’t a farmer then) was travelling the prairies visiting farmers on behalf of a credit union. On one especially hot day, he was travelling a long, country road, enjoying the breeze through the windows of his K-car. He arrived at a goat farmer’s house and went in for a chat.

That particular farmer didn’t get visitors very often, and he loved to talk. So when my husband (who wasn’t my husband then) arrived, this gentleman put the kettle on and opened a new box of tea biscuits. My husband is never one to rush away from a conversation or a pot of tea. For the next two hours, the two men chatted about the weather, crop yields, finances, and women. In that order.

This is how the goats spent the same two hours. Noticing the shiny new vehicle in the driveway, they decided to amble over and take a closer look. Goats – even Manitoba farm goats – fancy themselves mountain climbers, and will climb onto anything that they encounter. The first goat reached the roof of the car and did a little tap dance to proclaim himself King.

The second goat assessed the situation. If he climbed up top and joined the larger goat on the roof of the car he would likely be shoved off. Then he noticed the open windows. The Farmer had conveniently parked the car next to a pile of old wooden pallets, so the goats could step up and hoist themselves in. Within about twenty minutes, the K-car, a company issue, was occupied by four rather curious and snacky goats.

Now, goats have iron stomachs and they have been known to eat leather shoes, hardcover books – even tin cans. They don’t have to be hungry. They just consider it their duty to taste everything.

This is what they ate: the upholstery of both front car seats and a good portion of the rear bench; the Farmer’s briefcase handles and most of the papers within (he had left that conveniently open as well); the Farmer’s ham-and-cheese sandwich, apple, cookies and potato chips; the map of Manitoba; the novel he was reading; and the left of his pair of hiking boots. The goat was working on the right boot when the Farmer emerged from the house. His host laughed and said, “I hope you have goat insurance!” The story grows longer every time my husband tells it, with embellishments and items added to the goat menu. The morale always remains the same: we will never own a goat.

About four years ago, we were visiting friends and they told us another goat story that only added to my husband’s (then he really was my husband) dislike of goats. They had visitors with a shiny sportscar. While on the back porch enjoying a barbecue, the resident goats noticed the flashy car, came closer and caught a glimpse of two other goats in the reflection. A fight ensued and after about half an hour of head-butting the stubborn car-goats, the sportscar was covered in dents. That story told, my Farmer gave me a look and said, “don’t ever ask me for a goat.” He knows me so well.

So, if any of you are up for the challenge, starting a hobby farm or a goat cheese business and you need a couple of goats, I know where you can get some. I have been told we are sticking to beef cattle and turkeys.

Note: Diana Fisher will be doing a reading at “The 14^th Annual Literary Follies” books and music event on Sunday, Sept. 18 at 12:30pm, Grenville Mutual Insurance Bldg., Colonnade Drive, Kemptville.

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

www.dianafisherbooks.com

The family that you choose

Sometimes you get to choose your family members. That honorary aunt or uncle may not be related to you by blood but they are there for you when you need someone one-step-removed from family to confide in. They know you like family, but the other complications aren’t there. They aren’t as likely to flip out if you tell them something shocking – that distance allows them to just take it all in stride and give you wise, objective advice.

Colette was that person for me. She didn’t have children of her own and her beloved husband had passed away so she was always very interested in what was going on in our lives. Colette was my grandmother’s best friend over the last twenty years or so. Maybe thirty. She was part of all our family celebrations and gatherings, and we loved her like family.

Colette had been suffering with a bad back that wouldn’t heal, in recent months. She didn’t make it to our last few gatherings, and that wasn’t like her. She lost her footing a few days ago and fell. She never did wake up. The doctors discovered she was also full of cancer. It was in her bones.  That explains why she didn’t get better and the pain never went away. The pain is gone now.

For as long as I can remember, Colette has been the life of the party. She would laugh loudly and raucously, over Dad’s dirty jokes, especially if he mixed her a drink that was a bit too stiff. She was also very fond of my long-legged, handsome husband, because he reminded her of her man, whom she had lost when they were still very much in love.

She asked about and remembered every detail of my daughters’ lives, and was as thrilled about the new grandbaby as the rest of us. I like to imagine her somewhere now, resting painlessly, her best self, maybe dancing, with her beloved Garnet. Or maybe she is enjoying cocktail hour with my Dad. It is his 75^th birthday, after all.

When Dad was sick, in 2007, he told me he dreamed of a place where people were dancing. The men could dance as well as the women – they were doing the jive. There were lots of colourful, gleaming sportscars parked outside, and dozens of dogs running around. I told him it sounded like his perfect Heaven.

Colette and I never had a similar conversation but if I had to guess, her Heaven would be full of tall, handsome men (the ability to dance would be ideal), fine, beautiful things like gold jewellery, crystal and flowers, and maybe a horse or a dog or two. No cats. Colette was terrified of cats, which I discovered when she was at the farm one day and a bold barn cat chose to rub up against her leg. (Why do they always go for the people who don’t like them?)

We will miss Colette and her sage advice, her raunchy sense of humour and her zest for life.

Thanksgiving is just around the corner and we will likely fill the house again with about forty people but there is a trend happening. The elderly members of our tribe are leaving us slowly, and the younger ones are coming up to fill the places at the table with their chosen mates and friends. This year we have a new addition, as it is Leti’s first Thanksgiving. She will be ten months old and ready to try some of the traditional feast. Hopefully she will also have a tooth or two by then, to help her eat it.

Also at our table will be three or four people not related by blood, but part of the family just the same. They are part of our group because we love and care for them and we want to celebrate life with them at this traditional time of year.

And gathered around us, the silent guests at every family dinner. Because they haven’t really left us. They’ve just gone on ahead. We keep them with us through our stories and memories and toasts, delivered teary-eyed, with glasses held high.

On the subject of Thanksgiving, if you too are hosting a large group, consider serving them a farm-raised turkey. Ours start at about 25 lbs each. The Kemptville Farmer’s Market will be open until Thanksgiving as well, featuring the bounty of many local farms and gardens.

For the love of books: the region's biggest book fair is on Aug 26-28

My love of books started with Nancy Drew. As a primary school student I would head to the high school in the afternoon to wait for my dad, who taught there. After visiting the cafeteria for a still-warm chocolate chip cookie I would follow the strange maze of half-staircases and cavernous hallways to end up at one of the most modern rooms in the old building: the library.

There was plenty of natural light flowing into the library because of all the windows but the books were kept in the centre of the room, away from the light. If you stood in the centre of the bookcases you were surrounded by a dusty, musty smell that has been filed in my memory among my favourite perfumes and aromas. Dusty books are right up there with Guerlain perfume from Paris and fresh baked bread.

Every day I would sit on the floor in between the bookcases, facing a row of about 100 Nancy Drew books. I began at the beginning. Volume 1, The Secret of the Old Clock. Carolyn Keene brought girl-detective Nancy Drew to life, describing everything from what she ate to how she dressed, what she thought and felt and saw. I was mesmerized. And I read my way through that book, and another, and another, until I had finished the whole series.

When I didn’t understand a word, I went to the librarian, Mrs. Scott. Her nickname was Dusty but she was anything else. Wavy red hair and energy to spare, she bustled me over to the dictionary and had me look each mysterious word up in turn. I still do that today when I meet a new word.

After finishing the final Nancy Drew book in that original series of 100, I asked Mrs. Scott (her real name was Ramona) if there were any other similar books she would recommend. Books with strong female characters I could emulate in my imagination.

“You’ve finished all the Nancy Drew books.” She seemed a little bewildered and doubtful.

“Well…yeah…unless you’ve got more somewhere,” I answered.

When my dad came to collect me that afternoon Mrs. Scott notified him that I, at age ten, had read all the intermediate level Nancy Drew books. The next thing I knew, I was sitting alone in a stuffy office in the back of the library, taking a test to determine my I.Q. The librarian had suggested I be enrolled in classes for ‘enriched’ students from now on, because I was clearly brilliant. I failed the test miserably.

“I told you she isn’t enriched,” scoffed my dad. “She just loves books.” And that was the end of that.

After working my way through the books in the high school library, I got permission to walk to the town library after school.  Sometimes I walked and read at the same time. I knew the path between the public school and high school and college where my mom worked so well, I never tripped. Sometimes I was late for piano lessons, however, because I would walk right by the house with my nose in the book, missing the address altogether and having to double back. I preferred the afternoons I was free to head to the college campus where I would climb a tree and sit there, reading, obscured from the view of the college students passing on the pathway beneath by the thick tapestry of leaves.

Yes, I was a bookworm. I still am. It’s my guilty pleasure, my stress relief and my escape as well as my inspiration and my challenge.

This weekend, North Grenville will once again host the region’s largest book fair. It’s in a huge warehouse at the Ferguson Forest Centre. Money raised at the fair goes to the Kemptville Youth Centre, to help them pay their annual utilities bills.

The books are conveniently categorized so you can find your favourite themes easily. I always head straight for the Canadian female writers. Elizabeth Hay, Camilla Gibb, Alice Munro…but they have tens of thousands of titles every year and they sell for a buck or two so you can afford to venture off into unknown territory if you’re intrigued by something new.

So grab a big tote bag and head to the book fair this weekend, fellow book lovers. You can indulge this guilty pleasure, at least, knowing you are simultaneously doing something awesome for a very good cause in the community. Dibs on the Nancy Drew.

Keep doin' the rural wave

 

The Kemptville Farmer’s Market is more than just an opportunity for me to sell some books and unload a truckload of zucchini. It’s my social time. I get to visit with people I haven’t seen in years, catch up with close friends and meet loyal readers of this column for the first time. Many thanks to everyone who takes the time to stop by and say hi.

Sometimes I get really good suggestions for columns too. Last week a woman said she would like me to write about the disappearance of the rural wave. Many farmers still do it – it’s a hard habit to break.

When you’re on the road headed to market and you pass another pickup truck, you put two fingers to your temple and give a quick salute. Some of you just raise your hand slightly from the steering wheel. The light effort is symbolic of the casual nature of the wave. It may also be a sign that you are a bit low on energy, as you have been working hard on your farm. Your laidback nature is indicative of your lifestyle. You take your time and live in the moment, aware of your surroundings. The weather determines your daily activities. You’re on farm time. You probably drive a bit slower than city folk as well. What’s your hurry? That kind of wave. That is how it is done. And it seems to be a lost art.

I grew up in the country outside the bustling metropolis of Kemptville when it boasted a population of about 4,000. There were no subdivisions to speak of, and we knew just about everyone in town and the surrounding hamlets. We didn’t live on a farm but we certainly knew how to do the rural wave. It was a comforting gesture. It said, “I know you. We are neighbours. Go safely.” My father in his Chevy Silverado rarely missed the opportunity to wave as he passed someone he knew.

I still get to do the rural wave a few times a week, because I live near a single-lane bridge. If two vehicles are approaching this bridge from either side, you have to decide who will go first. Now let me tell you, it’s a sure sign that you aren’t from around here if you speed up to get across the bridge before the other approaching vehicle gets there. The neighbourly thing to do is to decrease your speed and pull over slightly. When you are close enough to the bridge you decide who is closest and let them go first, obviously. If you both reach the bridge at exactly the same time, it is common courtesy to let the other person go first. Pull over, signal to the ditch and that will indicate to the other person you are letting them go. Sometimes the courtesy volleys back and forth a few times before the final concession is made.

“You go first.” (beckons the other driver with a flick of the wrist)

“No, by all means, you go first.” (a come-along motion)

“Oh all right then, thank you very much.” (driver proceeds across bridge, deploys the rural wave).

I have to admit I don’t recognize half the vehicles or drivers that I used to. We have grown in population and I’ve lost track of who owns what farm. Other than at the single lane bridge crossing, there are only a handful of people I wave to when I pass them on the road. These are family members, and lifelong friends like, for example, Jim Perry. Being a truck dealer he is always in a different set of wheels but I’m pretty recognizable in Dora the Explorer so he usually recognizes me and waves first. As the descendant of a multi-generation farm family, the rural wave is a habit he likely won’t be breaking soon. And yet I’m sure when he recognizes and waves at some people, they probably give him a confused look.

“What? Is my headlight out? Should I pull over?” the uninitiated can be bewildered by the wave. It is probably best to reserve it for those who know its purpose.

But for those you recognize, wave away. You might get a text a short time later, asking you what’s going on, but you can explain you are just being neighbourly. We’re from the country and we like it that way.

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

www.dianafisherbooks.com

Talkin' turkey on the farm

I was heading out to the compost pile early one morning when I felt I was being followed. The cows were already out in the field so it wasn’t one of them. I turned around and no one was behind me – but when I looked down I saw four turkeys standing at my feet. They had followed me across the barnyard to the compost heap and were curiously examining what I was depositing.

“Hey! How did you guys get out?!” They looked up at me and warbled in a perfect chorus. I have no idea how they do that. It’s like they communicate telepathically within seconds and decide they are all going to speak at once. They do it all the time and it freaks me right out.

The Farmer thought the turkeys might like their free range area expanded a bit so he cordoned off a sheltered area in the stable with snow fencing. Then he slid both the back wall and the front wall of the stable open so the breeze can pass through. It’s quite comfy in there, and about ten degrees cooler than outside. We put the turkeys back in their pen for safekeeping at night – we don’t want anyone escaping to wander the yard where they might get picked off by a predator. And it has become apparent that they are quite capable of escaping their snow fencing.

I walked back to the stable, the turkeys in tow. They shuffled along behind me, stopping occasionally to nibble grit and weeds on the ground. Examining the snow fence, I could not clearly see their exit route. There were no gaps in the fence and the bottom had been pinned down to the dirt floor. They must have jumped up and flown over the top. And the Farmer said turkeys with their pin feathers removed cannot fly.

Then I noticed a problem. Their feeders were empty. I dragged a 40k bag of feed off the pile and hauled it into the fenced area. The turkeys followed me in, gullibly. They commented in unison about the new development. They were getting fed. I wonder if they took any credit for collecting me from the barnyard and willing me to do their bidding.

Turkeys don’t eat much but we have a few more birds this year so they are going through the feed pretty quickly. Not as quickly as the cows though – I think our dozen  head and their babes  are halfway through their winter hay already due to the lack of rain and no grass growing on the meadow.

The turkeys have it easy. They seem quite content, and I would like to think they have made it past the age of being targets for raccoons and skunks. I could be wrong there, but fingers are crossed.

I surveyed their domain. The double horse stall had been turned into a turkey pen, and they are quite cosy in there. Turkey poop lines every flat surface – again, a sign that they are able to fly at least a few feet in the air, up to roost. I knocked some of the dung off, shoveled it up, and spread some fresh, dry hay across the spongy floor. Immediately several turkeys appeared on either side of me. They climbed up onto the piles of hay even before I could release it from my fork. I gently pushed them aside with my foot so I could spread the hay out.

“Oh, you like that, huh?” The birds nestled down into the dry hay, preening, cooing and clucking. The brushing action of the hay must feel good under their sweaty feathers in this heat. It dries them off and fluffs them up.

By the time I finished dressing their pen the birds were all shiny and white again. And the four who had escaped to go and find me looked quite pleased with themselves, snuggled together on a fresh pile of hay in the corner.

As I turned to walk away I said “goodbye – have a nice day, birdies…” and they all responded by warbling the same three notes together, simultaneously. I wish they would stop that. Freaks me right out.

www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

Country mouse in the big city

When you think of the heart of the city, you might bring to mind the Byward Market. Well, that is where I drive to work now, as evening news producer/ writer at CFRA News/Talk Radio. I don’t have to deal with rush hour because it’s a smooth mid-afternoon drive in and a cruise home just before midnight. It takes less than an hour one way, and I use that time wisely. I listen to the news and when I’m all caught up with that, I car-dance.

The Market is a bustling beehive of activity at any time of day, it seems. The heat from the pavement causes the scent of warm tomatoes, donuts and flowers to waft through the air. You can hear live music coming from the street corner where a busker dressed like a geisha girl is playing an antique Japanese string instrument. Yesterday it was someone singing old French Canadian pub tunes while playing a guitar, a tambourine and a bass drum. You never know what you are going to get.

I look out the studio window onto George Street, and I am reminded of when I lived in Taipei. I was then situated one city block from town hall. My roommate, Sylvia from Singapore, placed two brass turtles on stacks of books looking out the window onto the busy intersection below. The turtles were part of a feng shuei action, to divert any negative energy that might be emanating from the people and vehicles in the intersection.

I don’t feel that George Street requires any feng shuei correction. Most of the people I see outside seem to be in an extremely good mood. They don’t appear to be in a hurry to get anywhere. I think most pedestrians and motorists passing through the market have a pretty relaxed agenda. Except, of course, for the dozens of people I see every day who are obviously playing the highly addictive “Pokemon Go” on their mobile phones. They have their noses in their phones and if they don’t watch out they may get hit by a passing vehicle.

I usually bring my dinner to work from home, to save money and calories. The Beavertails donut kiosk and the Lois and Frima homemade ice cream stand are right outside my office, however, should I need a snack. I can also get fresh sushi, Chinese bubble tea, a Three Amigos cookie, and myriad other delights. I can pick up fresh fish at the Lapointe fish market and bring it home for the next day’s lunch. I bought myself a sterling silver ring made out of an antique spoon for ten bucks. It’s like being a tourist every day.

I have to admit, though, the first two weeks of walking across the market to my parking lot after dark I was a bit spooked. Ottawa has its fair share of people on the streets who can be a bit intimidating when they approach you for spare change at night. But for the most part I feel pretty safe on the market. And I’m out of there before 11pm.

On the other end of my commute is the farm. I wake up when I wake up. No alarm clock required. I go for a jog, then fall into the pool to cool down. I weed the garden, then take a shower, dress, do some laundry and tidy up the house. The rest of the morning might be spent making some meals for the Farmer so he doesn’t starve while I’m at work. Then we enjoy a leisurely, substantial lunch together before I drive in to the city.

It isn’t your typical farmwife life but what is, really? I have my weekends off for social activities, family dinner and the Kemptville Farmers’ Market.

The other day at work I used the sayings “a man on a galloping horse would never notice” and “I’ll have it done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail” so I think they are on to me. The country mouse is in the house.

When I get back from my morning walk I like to let the turkeys out of their pens to roam around for the day. Sometimes I get a bit of turkey poop on my shoes. Let’s just hope I remember to change shoes before I head to work, or it will be more than my colloquialisms that let everyone know I live on a farm.

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com  

A man on a galloping horse would never notice

“You realize your tablecloth is a little wrinkly. Want me to run the iron over it quickly for you?”

“Nah. A man on a galloping horse…”

Perhaps it means something that my family uses that expression so often, we don’t even bother to finish it. A man on a galloping horse would be travelling past so quickly, he would not notice that my tablecloth has not been ironed. Besides, the plates and platters will soon cover the wrinkles after dinner is served.

I do not aspire to be the type of farmwife who has everything just so. I am comfortable with a bit of untidiness. I know the foundation is cleaned. I cleaned it myself. I enjoy cleaning the house – it is my stress relief. I tend to do more of a quick pass-over than a thorough scrubbing, however. I tell myself it will do for now. Eventually the Farmer waits until I’m gone away on a girls’ night or something and he cleans the floors the way his mother taught him. He moves the furniture and uses an entire bottle of floor wax. The mop is stiff like a brick when he is finished, and the floors gleam so that you can see your smile reflected back at you. Bless him.

If you happen to notice me scrubbing floors at odd hours of the day, i.e. 2am, stand back. Give me plenty of room. Chances are I am extremely ticked off about something and that is why I am scouring so fervently.

My garden is doing very well this year. That is one area where I am not slacking off. I’m staying on top of the weeds, so they don’t get a chance to choke anything out or to take over the garden altogether. Deep cleaning of the house can wait til winter – I have to keep tabs on the veggies and perennial beds.

Usually while I am outside weeding I take a moment to check on our old sheepdog, Chelsea. I make sure she has clean, dry hay in her house and her water bucket is freshly filled. This morning I stepped around the stable to her yard, out of habit. She is no longer there to greet me. At the age of fifteen, she lay down for the last time. Fifteen is a good, ripe age for a border collie. They don’t typically live past ten or twelve years of age, I am told. Like our old Gordon Setter Cody, who lived to seventeen, I think there is a lot to be said for having a dog spend most of his time outside.

When it was minus thirty or plus thirty we would make sure the dogs were comfortable, either bringing Cody into the house or Chelsea into the stable, but for the most part they preferred to be outside. Their doghouses were well insulated with hay and placed out of the wind and rain or snow. They grew thick coats in the winter and in summer they dug cool holes in the soil under a shady tree.

“We are now dogless,” the Farmer said. I know that bothers him. Especially when he sees a three-foot-long fisher slinking across the road towards our property. We have dozens of turkey chicks happily roaming around the inside of the stable. We would like them to make it all the way to Thanksgiving. A dog would notify us of an intruder. For now we are relying on the cats. Fat lot of help they are.

When we get back from the cottage the next thing I want to do (or to focus my semi-retired Farmer on) is repair our screen doors. Sammy the big male cat has discovered that if he runs full-throttle into the sliding patio door, the screen will rip from its frame, the plexiglass scratch-guard will flip up and – presto! – instant cat door.

The screen doors on our dining porch also need repair – or replacing. They have bubbled and broken in the frost, so that it appears a large clawed animal ripped a hole in them. I pointed them out to the Farmer and he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “It’s a superficial wound. And a man on a galloping horse would never notice.”