Winter, when it is not too cold and chores are done, is the best time for farm folk to reminisce. When it is bitter and the wind blows the drifted snow about in vast, blinding gusts a farmer must tend his flock. Ditto for those who dig out driveways and tend to tasks that freeze fingers.
But our current winter is not a typical one; at least for this part of Ontario. The temperature hovers above zero and snow shovels stand rusting in garages. Bags of salt are un-breached! Driveways are bare, the asphalt glistening black in the dew like rain.Perfect weather for those who have moiled tilled soil, struggled to grow crops on land that is rich and deep. For that matter, it is perfect for those who simply want to chew the rag, as well.So there we were, three guys who have worked the land, stoked hay and guided a blade through spring's damp soil. Randy is the pro! A guy who grew up in Bruce County on land that was less than forgiving. Rocks and obstructions, hydro towers demanded a sober, sensible hand to guide the tractor.In the lull of an easy afternoon, unburdened by deadlines or schedule, he regaled Wilbur and I with tales of his past. He and his brothers followed their father's ways and eked out annual crops that paid little by the ton but demanded a ransom in sweat to pay.Some time ago he and his brother Dennis escaped to the city life. Left father and mother to savor nature's whim, watch as yet another hydro tower line inch its way across their farm. The money paid for the right-of-way is never adequate for the encroachment it represents.Wilbur, on the other hand, recalled endless days helping a grandfather struggle to maintain his 80-head dairy herd in the Ottawa valley. A day off, even when ill, rarely ever came.Yet both had fond memories of days past and family members who made the farm a place to long for in today's world. There was little money then and less now. But a farmer is his own man and follows his own dream.As for me, well summers spent on my uncle Edwin and aunt Ethel's farm, first in Langstaff, and later in Markham is treasured. As a city boy I could never wait for summer and to be with my cousins George, Barbara, Bob and Eunice. Our work began at sunrise. But after the day's duties were done we played and tunneled through the hay steeped high in the barn. Or we swam in streams never thinking of pollution, e-coli or whatever. A night we played hide-and-seek or simply ran like demons to catch fireflies, to bask in the light of a full moon and sky brimming over with stars.The shadows lengthened, memories faded and the city folk straggled in. The Green Dragon filled! Stools squealed as people settled and the taps poured golden nectar. Country talk and its memories drifted away. Randy, Wilbur and I grew quiet.How far away are those days of yesteryear? Yet in the quiet of a winter afternoon, in a season that is less than expected, we exchanged tales and recalled time spent in a pastoral life.Whether this is a bonus for us, a gift we are not sure. But we enjoyed the company and recollections. Time tends to soften and round the edges of fact.