I hope you realize that 50 years from now your son will likely say the very same as he views your own weathered dreams, because farms, like people, never reach perfection. Yet every generation has a vision all its own, but sometimes in the eagerness to improve upon the past there is a danger of tearing down more than is built. At the risk of sounding like a sentimental old fool, I caution you not to be too quick in eliminating the eyesores of yesteryear — the sagging barn, the patched wooden granaries, a rickety henhouse. To you they may be crude emblems of crop failures and poor quotas, but to some of us they represent the joy of a good yield, the warning crack of a wooden granary about to burst, the props and braces hammered on amid the haste of bringing in a bumper crop. To you they are a poor excuse for carpentry, but to the men who farmed these acres before you they symbolize success — at last! In the never-ending battle to fill the breadbaskets of the world, that old granary was an arsenal of ammunition. When the day finally comes to tear it down, do so with respect to its historic value. In a world that is racked with hunger pains, that granary represents your heritage of plenty.

Farm buildings are strange that way. Time depreciates their value but appreciates their meaning. You say you plan to level that sagging old barn, that diversified farming is not for you. Should the day ever come when you find yourself staring at nothing but broken eggs in the bottom of your solitary basket, however, you may begin to see things from a different perspective. That quaint old barn leaning into the wind may suddenly represent the practical wisdom of bygone days. Bulldoze it to the ground and the gaunt spectre of bankruptcy may rise to meet you from the ruins. Give fair consideration to that for which it stands and you may be the richer for it.

But you think I am exaggerating, that “it doesn’t pay” to raise your own meat, to butcher your own hogs, gather your own eggs, milk a cow or two. That dilapidated old henhouse down by the clump of willows bears mute evidence to the contrary, a visible reminder of the days when egg crates and cream cans were shuttled back and forth between supply and demand in a concerted bid to keep the family farm afloat. Faced by the prospect of a mortgage foreclosure, “it doesn’t pay” was not a favourite phrase of your forefathers and today you have the family farm to prove it.

Even though by comparison the economy may have treated you kindly, there is the present-day danger of being squeezed out by things until there is too little time for family relationships. In striving to build that new house, for instance, I hope you don’t forget the degree of love and co-operation and caring that emanated from the old home place. What started out as a big old rambling house with nine-foot ceilings and drafty floors eventually boasted that rarest of all rural luxuries, indoor plumbing. So maybe the water was hard and sometimes in short supply, but convenience in farming has always carried with it a certain measure of sacrifice.

Even though the new house you plan to build will not have sagging floors nor a dusty old furnace hogging most of the cellar, remember that for those of us whose roots are buried within its walls, the prospect of seeing precious memories torn from the landscape is painfully near, the price tag on progress unbearably high. In deference to our tired dreams, please swing your wrecking bar with care.

The post Letter to a young farmer… appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

“No way! Are you sure it isn’t near the open window?”

“We’re sure! We think it’s in the furnace room, or in the closet, or maybe under the chest freezer. It’s really loud, too.”

Not only was he loud (only males chirp) but this guy was a veritable ventriloquist. Try as we might, nobody could determine just where the sound was coming from, although the consensus of opinion zeroed in on the freezer.

Good, I thought. There’s nothing under there to eat so he’ll die of malnutrition. Well, maybe not. One day, two, three… he was still chirping away, long and loudly, except when I’d approach the freezer. I began sneaking down the stairs in my slippers in hopes I’d catch sight of him — not a chance! Maybe if I banged around some frozen stuff in the freezer — no dice. He was one sneaky cricket.

How was this guy surviving, let alone chirping? Research explained both. They live on decaying plant material and fungi. (Which led to a guilt trip: Just what was under my freezer besides dust bunnies?) As for the sound, a cricket has a large, serrated vein along the bottom of each wing. Running the top of one wing along the “teeth” at the bottom of the other wing creates the familiar sound, while the membranes in the wings provide the acoustics.

On day five, the thought struck me: What if that cricket goes exploring, finds my pile of new patchwork quilts and decides the cotton is edible?

I’d had enough. Grabbing the yardstick, I raced down the stairs, and on the second sweep under the freezer, out popped Mr. Cricket, and I nailed him before he could chirp one more time.

In Barbados, they believe a loud cricket in the house means money is coming in.

I guess I won’t be richer any time soon.

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Together we were about to witness a miracle. Two weeks before, a neighbour had come to ask me for a large jar.

“What for?” I asked.

“You’ll see!” was all she’d say.

When I went to visit her, she handed me the jar. At first, all I saw were a few twigs and crumpled leaves in the bottom of it. But then my neighbour pointed out a jade-green object, delicately trimmed with a dotted band of gold, hanging from one of the sticks.

“It’s the chrysalis of a monarch butterfly,” she said. “We found the caterpillars feeding on our milkweed so we put four in your jar. Take it home and watch them emerge.”

And so began the vigil, with our kitchen table the “maternity ward.”

A few days later we noticed the chrysalis begin to darken and we could see a faint tinge of orange beginning to show. For the butterfly, the labour of freeing itself from the tight confines of the chrysalis had begun. That was when I called my husband to come and watch “the birth.”

Since nothing seemed to be happening right away, he went out to park himself under a shady tree to shell peas. And wouldn’t you know it! That’s when the butterfly decided to arrive on the scene.

For a long while it just clung to its empty chrysalis, as if reluctant to leave the safety of what had been its home for the past 10 days. And then the brand new butterfly began to pump the fluid from its swollen abdomen into its wings, flexing them open now and then.

At that point I took it outside and gently transferred it to a flower.

“But won’t the birds get it?” my husband asked, concerned over this new offspring.

“Apparently not. I read on the Internet that in the caterpillar stage it ingested chemicals from the milkweed that serves as a poisonous defence against predators.”

All the same, my husband pulled up a lawn chair in an act of protective custody over this new “boy.” And how did we know it was a male? The male monarch has a black spot over a vein on each hind wing.

For several hours it just sat there on the flower looking handsome, and then enticed by a gentle breeze, (or maybe a female butterfly) it decided to leave “home.” We were sad to see it go, but with the wind beneath its wings, it was off to begin another stage in the life cycle of a monarch.

The post It’s a “boy!” appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

This morning as I inched along on my hands and knees, pulling weeds from our waterlogged flower beds, I was not exactly happy with my chore. It would have been far easier using a hoe, had the ground been drier; but then I might have missed something.

As I worked my way along, inwardly grumbling about all the mud on my hands, my aching back and my sore knees, I eventually came within a few feet of a peony plant. Its blossoms looked a little like I felt — downcast and discouraged.

Instead of murmuring about its heavy load, however, the peony, although droopy from the weight of rain in its huge blossoms, was nevertheless perfuming the entire area. I felt invigorated by that refreshing fragrance, just one more example of nature’s “aroma therapy.”

Sweet smell of nature

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“That was some rehearsal!” my music conductor husband said when I complained. “If only all singers were that dedicated to practice.”

I’m happy to report that a female wren was more impressed with her suitor’s singing than I was. The wrens have quietly settled down to raise a family, and I can settle down for a good night’s rest.

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A squirrel chatters as it hides away nuts, a reminder of this nation’s granaries and freezers and pantries full of food.

A meadowlark sings, a celebration of Canada’s wildlife.

A dog barks, a reminder of the much broader circle of protection our police and armed forces provide.

Cows softly low, summoning us to both the responsibilities and privileges of work.

The wind rustles in the fir trees, whispering of our four distinct seasons.

Water splashes into the sink, a small portion of the abundant supply that is ours.

A lawn mower buzzes, a reminder of the pride we take in the property that can be ours.

Overhead wires hum, an indication of our reliable utilities.

Tires crunch on the gravel driveway as a car pulls out onto a grid of highways that crisscrosses the country.

An airplane drones overhead on its way to distant places, soaring along in the pure fresh air of Canada’s skies.

The doorbell rings, calling us to welcome friends who live nearby.

Men’s voices carry in from the farmyard as they repair machinery together, a sure sign of neighbourly support.

A tardy school bus growls along on its way to be parked for the summer holidays, a reminder of the educational opportunities Canada affords our young people.

Carefree children laugh, representing the future of our great country.

The post Sounds of Canada Day on the Farm appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

The cabbage heads are so dense there’s no way you can smarten them up. Nor can you subdue those egotistical muscle men of the garden, the onions — they are that strong. The cucumbers, on the other hand, are an unkempt bunch, seedy as they are.

About the only vegetables you dare trust are the ones in that modest row over there. Whenever you pay attention to them they blush — as red as a beet.

Other than that, you better not gossip in the corn patch with all those ears listening. The potatoes are inclined to eye your every move, while that bunch of celery is very apt to stalk you while you’re not looking.

And when you leave the garden, make sure the gate is closed. The lettuce, you know. It’s inclined to bolt.

The post Gardeners beware! appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

Supplies:

• 1 large, round, plastic jug (the kind bleach or fabric softener comes in)

• 2 pieces of cotton material, approx. 12×12 inches (31×31 cm)

• 2 pieces, each 16 inches (41 cm) long, of cord, shoelaces or ribbon for drawstrings

• Kitchen shears

• Awl

• Sewing machine

• Strong thread and needle

Instructions:

Cut the top off the plastic jug, leaving the bottom about 6 inches (15 cm) tall. Using awl, punch holes approx. 1/2 inch (1.5 cm) down and 1/2 inch (1.5 cm) apart all around the edge.

Because the size of these jugs varies slightly, beginning 1-1/2 inches (4 cm) from the top edges, machine stitch the two pieces of material together so as to make a cylinder that fits snugly, but not too tightly, over the plastic bottom. Press seams open and trim, leaving enough to narrowly hem the edges of each seam allowance.

Along the top edges, fold down 1 inch, (2.5 cm) turn under edge and machine stitch to make casings for drawstrings. Make a narrow hem or serge along the bottom edge to prevent fraying.

Turn material inside out and fit over plastic bottom as shown. Using strong thread doubled, hand sew material to plastic bottom with a running stitch that goes in and out of punched holes. Sew one way and then the opposite. Tie ends securely.

Flip top of bag up and insert 2 drawstrings, one going each way. Knot the ends.

Wrong side of fabric

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By wearing this mini-pincushion on your finger while sewing, it will always be handy when you need it.

Supplies:

• Metal twist-off cap from bottle

• Piece of stretchy cord approx. 5 inches (12 cm) long (the type used for gift wrapping —very narrow elastic might work but thread elastic is too weak)

• Piece of fabric (satin or velvet is nice) cut in a 2-1/2-inch (6-cm) circle

• Small wad of polyester stuffing

• Glue gun

• Awl

• Sewing thread and needle

Instructions:

Place cap, (open end down) on flat surface and use awl to punch two holes about 1/2 inch (1 cm) apart in top of cap. Thread either end of stretchy cord down through holes to inside of cap. Measure finger and tie a knot in cord to secure at correct size (see illustration).

Make a running stitch around outside edge of fabric circle. Tighten slightly by drawing up ends of thread to make a cup shape. Fill until firm with polyester stuffing. Draw up ends of thread tightly, creating a small ball. Tie threads in a knot to secure.

Run a bead of hot glue around inside edge of cap. Quickly insert fabric ball and let dry before using.

If making one of these as a gift for a seamstress, the ring could be decorated around the metal edges of the cap with beads, etc.

The post Make a finger pincushion appeared first on Manitoba Co-operator.

I was not surprised. Somehow the idea of careful measuring and consistent seam allowances usually escaped her, especially as she grew older. Consequently the pieced quilt top she had just handed me was narrow at one end and sort of flared at the other. In other words, it had gone “wonky,” as they say in quilting circles.

I took it home, and busy with raising the family, 13 years went by. And then one day while going through my stash of quilting materials, I looked again at the wonky quilt top. The time had come. Taking out my seam ripper, I dismantled the entire quilt top, one patch at a time, until I had all 450 squares separated out. (Well, a few were squares, most were not!) That’s when the memories came flooding back, not only of Mom, but of her two sisters, bumbling, funny Aunt Nellie, and poised, quiet Aunt Emmie. By now they had all passed away, but included in the quilt top were patches from dresses I remembered all three of them wearing.

Short, chubby Aunt Nellie liked polka dots, and while they may have done little for her figure, they were in keeping with her clown-like personality. She could find humour in any situation, but especially in those dilemmas she was instrumental in creating, and there were many. If she wasn’t laughing at herself, she was poking fun at her tall, lanky husband, Uncle Jack, her sidekick in comedy. And here in the wonky quilt beside polka dot patches were pieces of blue plaid like the shirts he used to wear.

And then there was Aunt Emmie, who loved autumn shades of tan and orange and brown, but she also favoured black and white prints, and stripes, and yes, here were remnants of all three. As I fingered them I recalled her soft-brown eyes, her gentle voice and her welcoming manner as she greeted me at the door of her big farmhouse where I would spend a few days of my summer vacation each year.

Unlike her sister, my mother detested any shade of brown or gold. Her choice was anything blue — ginghams, geometrics, paisleys, but especially floral designs, the brighter the better. The wonky quilt contained more than its share of bold colours, all interspersed with soft pastels and wild prints. As I pressed and squared each one, I toyed with ideas of how to reassemble the patches. I decided to add some pieces from my own stash, scraps from garments I had sewn for both my daughter and myself. I separated the various-size squares with plain brown sashing representing the tastes of the three generations of women reflected in the quilt.

Despite our different tastes, the quilt is a constant reminder that we are all tied together as family.

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