The Farmwife Tribe is worldwide

During this season of outdoor farmers’ markets, county fairs and trade shows, I meet a lot of people. Some of them are readers of the column who want to meet me in person because they have been reading my life for the past ten years in my Farmwife blog and columns. Others are accidental farmwives themselves and they stop by to compare notes and meet one of their tribe.

Accidental farmwives, or women not born into the farming life, tend to be very interesting people. Some of us (myself included) come into the world of farming through marriage. Perhaps one of the best-known accidental farmwives is Ree Drummond, aka The Pioneer Woman. She lets readers into her life through her television show on The Food Network, her books, a blog, gorgeous photography and hilarious recipes that involve step-by-step commentary from the funniest farmwife I know. She has also homeschooled her children and she is a caregiver of wild mustangs on her Oklahoma ranch.

Others, like Kate Humble in the UK, feel compelled to enter the farming life for other reasons. Kate rescued a plot of municipal land before it was sold off to a condo corporation. Next she began rescuing animals (including “the world’s ugliest pigs”) and learning more about the various agricultural uses of her property. Now she has a teaching farm, a boutique, a café and she produces pear cider that is sold at the neighbourhood pub. You can read more about her and order a copy of her book, at Humble by Nature.

Another UK farmwife, Bobbi Mothersdale, has published a daily journal of a year in her farming life. It’s a great introduction to the trials, triumphs and seasonal routine on an East Yorkshire farm. Her book Hens, Hooves, Woollies and Wellies is available for purchase online.

If you do a quick search on the Internet you are bound to find some accidental farmwives in your area. Now, the “real” farmwives (who know what they are doing because they have been doing it since they were kids and are multi-generation farmers) have a wealth of information to share, but the accidental ones tend to share it in a more honest, blow-by-blow kind of way because every day, every week, every season brings a new experience. I highly recommend you check out some of their blogs, columns and books if you are considering becoming a farmwife yourself.

Nurse loves Farmer is a blog set in the Canadian Prairies. Sarah Schultz is also an avid photographer and cook (skills many farmwives seem to have, excepting yours truly. I can cook, but it usually involves grilling lean meat or fish and tossing a salad. Done. As for photography, my photos usually turn out blurry or with headless subjects). Schultz is a self-proclaimed “agvocate”, voicing her perspective on genetically modified foods, herbicides, and raising healthy kids on the farm.

Farmer Elaine Froese uses her background in conflict resolution to assist Canadian farmwives in their growth as “farminists.”

Canadian freelance writer and photographer Billi J. Miller has met a few female farmers who are opposed to being called “farmwives”. The term doesn’t bother me in the slightest, as in my mind it has always meant being married to the farm, as well as to the Farmer. I don’t split hairs over titles.

I am inspired by the farmwives (real or accidental) who have managed to produce something unique and special from their property’s bounty. Sheepskin rugs, alpaca wool socks, sweaters and mittens, goat milk soaps and essential oils, fermented tea kombucha, raw honey and jam are just a few of the highly-prized items I have seen farmwives produce. I would like to think I would be inspired to create something from the land too, if I worked from home fulltime. We have plenty of mature nut trees on our property. Maybe I could make some sort of low-sugar, preservative-free nut butter to sell. If I were handy and crafty at all. Keep in mind I can barely manage a minimal vegetable garden. Then again there is that time the Farmer tried to identify the strange nut tree growing next to the barn by licking the sap coming from its casing. He couldn’t feel his tongue for the next twenty-four hours. I suspect it has medicinal properties, as many of the native plants do here on the farm. Maybe someday I will take the time to research them.

For now I will continue to write stories of life on the farm, with our beef cattle, our chickens, cats, and one loyal pup named Fergus. Thanks for reading.

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www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

A warm welcome to our International students

This week the Farmer and I are preparing our spare rooms for two special guests on the farm. We will have two international students staying with us for the school year. In the past we have hosted students both short and long term from China, Spain, Colombia and Brazil. This year our students are coming all the way from Norway and Nigeria. We are one of dozens of host families in Leeds Grenville.

Mina is a 17-year-old from a small town called Nittedal, which is 30 minutes from Oslo by train. She likes arts and crafts, outdoor activities, family gatherings and trips to the cottage. She is looking forward to experiencing what it is to be Canadian, and she hopes to see a game of hockey. I think we can help her out there. I’m happy to see she didn’t list a lot of computer activity on her list of favourite things because what is the point of visiting a new country if you never leave the computer room? Mina will not be overly shocked by a Canadian winter, coming from Norway where winters can be quite severe. Maybe she will enjoy skating on the Rideau Canal.

Rebecca is coming to Canada from Nigeria. I don’t have a lot of information on her yet, except that her real name is Oghenetga. I will have to get some help on that pronunciation. Of course with all of the turmoil being caused by the Islamic militant group Boko Haram in her home country, we are wondering what her life has been like. Our town councilor Frank Onasanya also hails from Nigeria and he says he can tell by Rebecca’s family name “Idimi” that she likely comes from the West of the country. Most of the attacks by Boko Haram have reportedly been in the North-east, but you can never get the full story from a news report. We look forward to learning more about Rebecca and her life in Nigeria when she arrives this week.

Part of the challenge when you are hosting international students is getting them out of the house and into some truly Canadian experiences. Particularly during the long, cold winter months, students are apt to stay in their rooms streaming video and chatting with friends and family back home. We want them to get out and make new friends and do the things that local kids do while they are here.

I remember some of the international students that came to North Grenville in the 1980s. It seems like they were here for longer than just the school year; they made such an impression. Vivi from Sweden was this tall, vivacious blonde who laughingly refused to adopt the North American custom of wearing a sports bra while playing volleyball. Spectator attendance rose significantly when Vivi was on the court. She had such a positive, effervescent spirit and a beaming smile.

There was a little French girl named Claude from Belgium who rocked the small town of Kemptville with her fashion sense. She was quiet and perhaps a bit homesick as I think her English wasn’t very advanced and it left her feeling a bit left out. She made a small circle of good friends during her stay, however, and will be remembered for her smooth moves on the dance floor (along with her awesome collection of boots and mini-skirts).

Carlos from Mexico came to stay one year and very quickly became another member of the Bryson family. Tall, dark and handsome, he was athletic, smart and very popular with all of us.

My memories of the international students from my youth are what make me want to host students today. Of course whether you are hosting students from another country or dealing with your own teenagers, it can be a challenge to get them away from the screens and into real life. But that is, after all, what they came here for. To experience another culture, in all of its flavours and colours.

I am still in touch with some of our past international guests on social media. It is my hope that we will remain connected in the future, so I can see where they go in life. And who knows? Maybe someday the Farmer and I will visit some of them in their natural habitat.

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www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

Trying to maintain my alpha status

The Farmer has surpassed me as the Alpha in this pack. How did it happen? I am the one who gets up in the wee hours of the morning to let the Ferg out for his morning constitutional. I am the one who feeds, bathes and plays with the dog. It is me who….wait a minute. I’ve been trained by a puppy. He has me scheduled and ordered me to do his bidding with a simple whine. The Farmer doesn’t respond to such prompts. He is deaf in one ear.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened but at some point the Farmer managed to usurp the title of Leader of the Pack. Fergus has decided that his word trumps mine, every time.

“Bed time, Fergus.” Dog ignores woman, looks at man, curls up on man’s feet in front of TV.

“Get off that couch, Fergus.” Dog just rolls his eyes at me. The Farmer shows up at the door and dog bolts off of couch and onto floor, begins innocently licking his paw as if he were there all along.

I have read “Fifteen Dogs” by Andre Alexis. I know how this works. Mama’s got to get her alpha groove back.

Dog trainers say you have to exert your authority and maintain it, from the beginning. I thought I did all the right things but I must have slipped up at some point. Perhaps I got down on the floor and let the puppy slobber all over me too much. The Farmer doesn’t do that. I decided to do some research.

Dog experts on the Web say you must first train a pup to sit, come and stay. You can use dog treats to reinforce this. You have to teach them their name and to follow alongside you on a leash. You’re not supposed to let the dog run ahead and pull you on a walk. Hmm. Clearly we have some retraining to do.

Even when walking through a doorway in a house you are supposed to make the dog come back and follow you. He is not supposed to lead in any circumstances. Humans first in all cases. And if he jumps up from excitement when you come home, you are supposed to ignore his bad behavior until he is calm. You aren’t supposed to yell at him to get down. That one is going to be the most difficult to teach, I think. Mostly because it drives me nuts when he jumps up on me.

At least we have managed to keep Fergus off our bed. He tries, but has yet to succeed in launching himself up onto the bed when we are lounging. I realize I have only a short window of opportunity to reclaim my alpha status and get him trained to stay off any of our special furniture before he is suddenly big enough to get up there.

If we aren’t careful, we could wake up to realize one day that we have lost one third of our king-sized bed to a large, hairy mutt. I have heard stories from other dog owners about slobber on their pillow and sleep interrupted by canine snoring. I have enough trouble getting a good night’s sleep. I’m going to avoid this catastrophe at all costs.

Fergus, a Golden Retriever, is very smart. So at least we have that going for us. I swear he has already learned that scratching on the door is neither allowed nor necessary. He literally knocks on the door once to be let back into the house. From the inside, he just sits at the door quietly until we notice and let him out. If we are distracted, he whines. I might have even suggested he use his voice once or twice when he tried to scratch the door. In some way, he understands me.

The other thing we are learning about Goldens is they really like to be in the same room with their people. We barricade him from the room where we are eating or cooking, but he sits just outside the gate. When allowed in, it’s the people he wants to see, more than the food.

It’s a good thing I ‘gave up’ on my vegetable garden because I clearly need to spend less time weeding ungrateful plants and more time training the dog.

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Wasn't that a party?

We had so much fun at our farm wedding ten years ago that we have repeated the outdoor celebration each year since. This year the Farmer announced that he quits. He no longer wants to go to all that effort for one night of partying.

“I’m getting too old for this. It’s been ten years!” he declared.

“But it’s your tenth anniversary!” said Paulina, who has always been the biggest fan of the farm party. It also falls on the same week as her birthday each year – and she does love to dance under the stars. After a bit of discussion, I decided to let the kids plan the party, one last time. And then I tried really hard not to do any of the work myself. The Farmer was a little more successful in that area.

The night before the party, a keg arrived. We have never had beer on draft at our party before and it was certainly taking things up a notch, with former bartenders as the party organizers. During set up of said beer keg, however, a tiny black washer ring fell and disappeared through the wooden floorboards of the porch. We couldn’t hook up the keg without it. The Farmer went to the shed to find a suitable substitute, but failed. The owner of the “kegerator” said he would go home and get a new one. Everyone groaned. It was the end of a long day, we were all hot and tired and in need of a cold beer. Farmwife to the rescue. I limbo’d and squatted my way around the house under the porch and miraculously found the washer ring lying in a nest of vines. “That’s why he married young,” I joked, as my knees creaked.

The tent had also arrived the night before the party, but perhaps just to make us nervous, the party organizers decided to leave it until the day of the party and go out with friends instead. The Farmer shook his head.

The day of the party, I had to be away from home until about 3 in the afternoon. I received a few texts during the time I was away, about the location of different items, so I knew the ‘kids’ were busy setting up the big event. On the drive home I was pleasantly surprised to see road signs en route declaring “Fisher Farm Party This Way!” because I was imagining a last minute scramble to get things done.

I arrived home to a complete party scene. Paper lanterns lined the driveway. A long dining tent was set up on the front lawn over tables set with linens and candles. Next to that was a circle of lawn chairs around a fire pit. Club music was coming from the barn, which had been set up like a stage with lighting, speakers and equipment. The kids had successfully organized their own farm party. The Farmer had successfully spent the better part of the afternoon watching “Twelve O’Clock High” in the living room.

Every year we get a few surprise guests and this year was no exception. It was great to see an old friend who had moved away in Grade 6 and another whom I had been keeping in touch with on Facebook for several years. Local musician George Buys played and sang as the sun set on an absolutely perfect evening and the Farmer grilled up three dozen burgers and sausages. The dining room table groaned with salads and snacks and our resident baker, Amy, brought cupcakes. I also had an ice cream cake for Paulina’s birthday but had left it to thaw on the table in the basement. When I finally remembered it, I discovered the cats were having a party of their own, in the puddles of melted ice cream that were dripping off the table onto the cement floor. Paulina said the melted cake made a perfect lunch treat after party cleanup the next day.

I don’t think the Farmer and I will be hosting another farm party in honour of our wedding anniversary. It’s been ten years and it’s time to pass the torch on to the next generation. Next year we will be hosting a wedding reception for Paulina and Carey. The year after that, perhaps another wedding or engagement party, or a baby shower…it may be the end of the annual farm party, but I’m sure our home will be the venue for many more family celebrations to come.

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www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

Fergus hates his Halti

“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” ~ Proverbs 22:6, NKJV.

It’s more than just a bible verse, and I am hoping it applies to puppies as well as to children. We had a large, rather untrainable dog before who, although lovable, was a going concern. If let outside without a lead, Cody would dash off to parts unknown. We are hoping that Fergus’ electronic collar is effectively teaching him his boundaries so that he won’t run away if left untended. The funny thing is, we never had to use these techniques with our dogs when I was growing up. We just told them to stay and they stayed. We never had one injured on the road, and none of them ran away. They visited the neighbours occasionally, sure. But they always came home.

Cody was terrible at walking on the leash. He would pull me so hard that he would choke himself and have to stop to catch his breath. I tried stopping and rewarding him with treats, along with a number of different commands to get him to stop pulling, but it never worked. I felt it would be unfair to introduce a choke collar at his advanced age, so I just put up with his shenanigans. It took all my strength to hold onto the leash. It was quite a workout. I couldn’t walk Cody much during the winter, because more than once when he tugged me along the ice I lost my footing and landed on my face, in the middle of the road.

Fergus is getting big, strong and brave and he too loves to pull on his leash. It’s time to nip this situation in the proverbial bud. I have been doing my research online and in the dog owning community and I think I have a solution. It’s called the Halti. Basically it’s shaped much like a horse halter, with which I am very familiar. You slip one loop up over his ears and the other around his muzzle. The lead attaches to a ring under his chin. If he pulls on the lead, it tightens the loop around his muzzle, which makes him slow down. I’ve seen the Halti in action and it basically turns a wild, human-tugging, zig-zagging beast into a well-behaved canine sauntering along directly beside his master. This is our goal. The only problem is that Fergus hates his Halti.

I’ve tried putting the Halti on him every day for a short period of time so that he can get used to it. We’ve had it two weeks now with very little improvement. He used to spend a great deal of time trying to scratch it off his face but now he is resigned to just lying there, chin in the grass. He won’t get up and he won’t walk with the Halti on. So I turned to the Internet for help.

It seems I have been going about this all wrong. I watched a video on the dog halter and the trainer advises you introduce the device gradually, with copious amounts of treats. First you coax the dog to put his muzzle through the halter, and reward each time with a treat. Then you pull the halter up over his head as he puts his muzzle through the halter. Now you introduce the instruction “get dressed.” Again, more treats. Finally you buckle the halter on him and reward with – you guessed it – still more treats.

I think that woman handed out approximately 52 treats during the course of the two-minute video. Clearly I will be stocking up. I am wondering if there is such a thing as a treat card, like a coffee card where you get a stamp each time you buy a pack and your tenth one is free? Because if there isn’t, perhaps there should be.

We went back to the pet store today, Fergus and I, to ensure the halter I bought him has been properly fitted to his five-month-old head. The clerk witnessed his paralysis after the halter was on, and declared he was acting out in protest. We headed to the drive-thru on the way home, and Fergus was introduced to Tim Horton’s plain Timbits. I had to show him there is an upside to what he seems to perceive as an extremely humiliating experience.

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www.theaccidentalfarmwife.blogspot.com

email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

A gardener I am not

After ten years of marriage I have decided it is time to come clean. I have made a confession to the Farmer. For many years I have been doing something just to make him happy – because I thought it was part of what he expected in a farmwife. However, despite my feigned enthusiasm and efforts, I have not enjoyed or excelled at this activity. No, it isn’t cooking – I have never pretended to relish spending time in the kitchen, so he had no illusions there. It’s gardening. I don’t like it.

I once inherited a perennial garden. It came with the house that I bought in the suburbs. What first appeared to be a huge responsibility turned out to be a joy and a retreat from the stresses of daily life. The plants took their turn each season coming into flower and I collected any seeds they dropped to replant for the following year. But there was no weeding involved. The plants were established so tightly together that weeds had no chance to grow. Occasionally I had to divide a plant and give half away to a friend, replenish the soil or relocate something that wasn’t flourishing in its current location. I borrowed gardening books from the library, learned the Latin names for the plants and studied their habits. But I didn’t have to hoe grass under the soil or pull out a single dandelion.

I even worked with a landscaper one summer, putting my newfound knowledge of perennial flowerbeds to good use. But in 2007, when I married the Farmer and he said he always had a vegetable garden, I bit off a little more than I could chew. I spoke too soon. I wanted to impress him so I said I would take on the role of chief gardener – all I needed him to do was turn over the soil each spring and add the occasional heap of well-composted manure.  I would handle the rest, I said. It sounded like a good, manageable arrangement. I would show him that I planned to be a hands-on farmwife. Then we went through our first season.

I don’t know if it is the manure or the soil in which the garden is planted but I just can’t control the weeds. Drought has taken out entire plantings one year, and flood has washed seeds away the next. This year we have a puppy who loves to race in circles in freshly planted soil. My garden didn’t stand a chance. The grass, however, is flourishing.

In order to keep the grass at bay (for really that’s all there is in my garden) I have to be out there every couple of days, painted in sunscreen and doused in bug spray, hoe and trowel in hand. Over the Canada Day weekend I was too busy to garden and missed a few days. By the time I got out there again a nasty band of beetles had taken over my potato plants. They ate the leaves down to the stems and laid fresh eggs on the stalks. I had to pick them off one by one – a messy, smelly business. Bugs eradicated, I moved my marigolds closer to the row of potatoes. Their scent is supposed to ward off pests.

Next I set to pulling out clumps of grass that has grown as tall as my onions. After completing three rows, I straightened out my aching back and surveyed the plot. I have two purple cabbages, six heads of lettuce, one cucumber plant, one tomato plant and a row of potatoes. Next to this I planted a pumpkin patch. It is truly the only thing that is thriving in my garden. My granddaughter Leti will be thrilled come Halloween. And the pumpkin vines will serve another purpose this year – they can block out the sun that makes the weeds grow between the vegetables. The Farmer doesn’t appreciate my pumpkins – he isn’t a fan of pumpkin pie and doesn’t understand why I planted them.

Well, next year I think I’m going to turn the garden into a wildflower bed for bees, butterflies and hummingbirds. I will spend my time and money at the Farmers’ Market instead of suffering over my own vegetable garden. I love the smell of sun-warmed tomatoes and onions but I can appreciate vegetables harvested by others even more.

It feels good to admit that a gardener I am not. Maybe next year when we sell our cattle the Farmer will reclaim his role as chief gardener. We shall see.

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email: dianafisher1@gmail.com

Pests take over our farm retreat

Our four-month-old Golden Retriever pup has a bee sting on his eyelid. For an animal that yelps every time he is accidentally nudged, he is enduring this latest assault without comment. We were on the way to the vet anyway, to get a shot. Seems he will have to be on Benadryl for a day or two until the swelling goes down.

I didn’t see the bee or wasp that stung Fergus, but I’m sure he deserved it. He just can’t leave them alone. He follows them, stamps on them and then tries to eat them. He has also been seen flying through the air in attempt to catch one in his mouth. He has been warned.

I’m happy to see the honey bees back on the farm. For a few years all we saw were yellow jackets. We still have those, but they aren’t as plentiful as they used to be. The bumblebees hover over the flowers surrounding the pool, and have no interest in provoking man or beast – unless provoked.

I wish the same could be said for the mosquitoes. I know I said I wasn’t going to complain about anything this year, because look where complaining about last year’s drought got us. Flood. Torrential downpour. Ninety days of rain. And a great season for breeding mosquitoes.

We often say we don’t need to go away to vacation because everything we need is right here. A great view of the sunset, a pool to cool off in, comfy chairs on the porch. But it seems I am going to have to invest in some sort of mosquito deterrent if we are going to enjoy our outdoor surroundings after sundown. I heard something on the radio about creating a mosquito-free zone around your house. I’m going to look into it before our annual farm party in August. We want our guests to enjoy themselves outside on the dance floor under the stars, beside the campfire. If this mosquito situation continues all our guests will be in the house. And what is the point of a farm party if you are inside? That’s just a house party. We can have one of those in the winter.

While I’m researching how to get rid of mosquitoes, the Farmer says he also needs to find a way to scare off a family of snakes. They have nested beneath his new log cabin and they are his least favourite thing ever. I told him I’m pretty sure if he makes a lot of noise the snake will go away. I’m not sure, actually. Our neighbour has a snake living under her porch that actually emerges to greet people coming to the front door. And the snake appearance at the cabin happened while the radio was playing, full blast. So it obviously isn’t put off by music. In fact it seems to like classic rock.

Knock on wood, we seem to have effectively dealt with the skunks and raccoons this year. I am giving Fergus some credit for their absence. Normally we lose some of our chickens to the marauding pests. This year I think Fergus has properly marked his territory and they don’t want to run into him. Ten points for the pup.

On the subject of chickens, we will have several dozen to sell come the end of the month. You know where to find me if you want to reserve some birds. I will be happy to see them go; they are the biggest pests of all when you are trying to fill their feeders. They don’t even wait until you have successfully figured out how to get the 40lb feed bag open before they start pecking your ankles. I check on them once in a while but to be honest I haven’t gone in there to feed them in over a month. The Farmer can have that job. He has tougher ankles.

I’m really surprised we haven’t seen any poison parsnip on our property. Maybe the cattle have eaten it, or maybe it hasn’t found the right conditions to thrive here as it does just about everywhere else. It’s a good thing, too, because you can be sure if we had some of the toxic week, Fergus would find it and get himself into trouble.

For now he only has to worry about insects and the occasional misplaced piece of lawn furniture or farm equipment. He hates when they aren’t in the same place they were the day before, and spends a few minutes barking out a warning. Fergus the Farm Guardian is on the job. Bees, bugs and buckets beware.

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email: dianafisher 1@gmail.com