I believe "work acreage" would be more accurate.
First, there is the "hobby" part of hobby farm. I hear hobby, and I think of building colourful kites, refurbishing old cars, collecting unique mugs. Or at least something that would be fun, productive, and just a little bit useful. Something one might do on the odd weekend or during cold winter evenings.
And yes, it is an acreage, in the sense that there are a lot of acres (read: more than two), but not really enough to earn a reasonable living from. I would have to talk in terms of quarters or sections. For myself, I own almost half a quarter, a rather awkward way to say I have enough land to feed a few cows for part of the year, but that's about it.
Feeding, milking, and chasing cows - for starters – is not fun, productive, or even a little bit useful. Okay, I concede on the milking part (when it comes to 'productive'). But at the end of the day when one has stepped in one's seventh putrid cow pie, repaired a fence one more time, and chased sweet Millie through one section and two quarters, the word "fun" actually doesn't come to mind.
At that point, I am thinking only of how many chewy sections and hindquarters I would love to package Millie into.
And then there are the chickens, you know, those stupid bird-brained squawkers that can get out of a pen that even Hercules would have trouble with? Once they are out, they start laying eggs and "calling cards" everywhere and anywhere you end up walking. It's also a gooey mess and I mean both ways. I want to give them the boot, but I'd probably get egg on my face.
I am a city boy, something you have heard me state categorically more than once. The country experiment was for the boys to learn many tricks of the trade that they would never learn on a city lot in Abbotsford. That part of the experiment has been wildly successful.
It's the grind of repairing fences, milking in January, keeping the broilers alive for their first three weeks, and other "hobbies" that have been a tough sell. The young men and the old man (that would be me) have actually done quite well adjusting to life in the back seventy; and I would add that the boys have done much better than I have. However, there have been some struggles with gracious responses and happy attitudes each time there is a agricultural calamity.
"Millie's out again!" is quite possibly the phrase that drives us most crazy. Millie, our beloved (not) milk cow, has a penchant for finding the weakest strand in the fence, the loosest screw in the gate. It is humiliating to think that a cow can out-smart a human. And I don't think she understands English, either: No matter what tone or variation of the word 'stop' I hurl at her, with occasional unprintable adjectives (words that precede a noun – as in "you #$@*! cow"), she fails to obey. Reminds me of junior high students sometimes...
Occasionally, it does seem worth it, especially when I sit down to a breakfast of farm-fresh eggs, wolfed down with cold, cold milk, and smothered by my wife's homemade cheese – all contributed by Millie and the Chicken Little Gang. There is something invigorating with an hour's worth of chores every morning on a sunny day. Okay, it's not always only an hour, and it's not always sunny, so we take the good times when they come.
But I think I will still strike the words "hobby farm" from my vocabulary. Next time you see me, ask me about my "work acreage." If I have the time, before I need to chase cows and scrape boots, I will answer you. If I don't, you'll know why.
After all, this sort of "hobby" takes more work than an occasional weekend to enjoy.
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