It's More Than a Hobby

Hobby farm. Now that is an oxymoron if I ever heard one. That's like saying "talented Flames" or "quiet Irishman" or "tasty mushrooms." When I say that I live on a hobby farm, I then take the next ten minutes to explain that it is neither a hobby (as in fulfilling) nor a farm (as in massive).

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.

Canadian Auctions

What can be more Canadian than an auction? I was at one recently – earlier today actually, if memory serves me right – and I had a flood of all sorts of pleasant thoughts about all the good will that auctions produce. These reflections, I thought to myself, would make for a great column for all my friends and pre-friends out there in Newspaperland.

Thoughts, but no pen or paper. Ah yes, the pen was stuck above my ear, ready to record all the junk I paid excessively for. (You know the aphorism: One man's trash is another man's treasure.) The paper? Well, I was so busy writing down a list of my "treasures" that I hardly had space to write down these awesome thoughts about auctions.

Just as long as I am not guilty of "trash-talking" I should get through this column...

Auctions are a great time to re-connect with people you haven't seen for a while. There were clusters of men everywhere, with only a few actually paying attention to the loudmouth, er, loudspeaker, blaring the bargains and beckoning the buyers. At this time of year, farmers meet up with each other to swap stories, tips, and warnings – and maybe even the occasional exaggeration - about what they have and haven't done so far. Retirees meet up with each other, enjoying the change of scenery, change of coffee, and change of games. People like me – neither a farmer nor a retiree – simply like to show up to get a deal on something they may never use.

Somewhere in that mix of men I believe there are actually people serious about buying something for (next-to) nothing.

I would say there were approximately 99% males there today, with a few women scattered here and there. I also think there were about four kids present. Why they weren't in school, I have no idea. Maybe the auction was part of their Economics 10 class. Hardly any better place to see free enterprise flourish. Or at least gasp.

It is really hard to stereotype a typical "auctionaholic" (my word). (However, that certainly has never stopped me before.) They seem to come from every strata of life. They are old and young, heavy and trim, focused and oblivious, well-dressed and, well, sort of dressed.

The mood is definitely upbeat and casual. There seems to be an air of devil-may-care, of determined enjoyment. I enjoyed my five hours, roaming from lot to lot, bumping into a variety of friends that I have connections with, through my web of relationships. I had more than one person give me a second look, then come over, and greet me like I was one of their own (which I am). They hadn't actually seen me in jeans, hoodie, baseball cap before (standard auction ware [or wear?]). I must confess I did the same: They weren't in their pick-up, so how could tell who they were?

I just had to be careful not to gesture when talking to these guys, or else I would have bought a pump.

Auctions are so Canadian because they are so unpretentious, so transitional. Unpretentious carries with it the thought of no airs, no pretending; transitional is the idea of passing from one state or place to another, from one generation to the next. I think, in a fairly academic way, that is what being a Canadian includes. (Notice I said "includes,"; I didn't say "is all about." There is more than the metaphor of an auction to express the true Canada-esque spirit.

Maybe the writer of our national anthem had auctions in mind when he stated the following words: "...God keep our land, glorious and free." Good: keep our land for more auctions. There is nothing quite as "glorious" as an auction in southern Alberta; and if anything comes "free" or close enough to appear so, so much the better.

Now if Schlenker's could just bring back that "glorious free" breakfast...