As farms go, it doesn't seem all that big when you drive up the road. A farm house with a medium sized garage, a separate tractor bay, a barn for the cows, a rusted silo that is dwarfed by a more modern silo and of course, a couple of shacks.
Once you start making your way to the back, a gated fence separates the back of the barn with the pasture fields. Honestly, it still doesn't look that big as the cows never seem to go to pasture all that far away from the barn.
But what do I know? I'm just a suburban boy.
I've been visiting my in-laws' farm for half of my lifetime. My earliest memory of this place was being introduced to my wife's extended family as "the boyfriend" so it was always a more formal (and terrorizing, as an introvert) affair.
As I grew older and with the passing of my wife's grandpa (due to natural causes thankfully), I began to realize that the farm would most likely fall out of family hands with my in-law's generation. I've been trying to document it little by little as I visit with the kids.
I have a lot of memories of this farm. Of trying to go to the bathroom up stairs that are just a bit too steep. And then onto the second floor, which always felt slightly claustrophobic and tilted. Of unsuccessfully trying to nap in the upstairs room. Of the sickly orange hue in the main living room and the uncomfortableness of that couch.
Of how there was no air conditioning. Of the swarms of houseflies in that house that would laze about in the windows. Of how cigarette smoke would curl as it ascended to the ceiling and then scattered away, pushed by the ceiling fan. Of visiting my wife's grandfather and telling him that we had bought a house.
That slightly sweet smell of manure. Having a stand-off with the cows through a fence, as we eyed each other.
Of watching my kids play in the barn, jumping on top of hay bales. Hearing them shriek in joy as grandpa takes off with them on the 4-wheeler.
There was and still is life in the farm. But I see it dwindling and am rushing to document the farm but also the farmers running the operation more out of love for farming and keeping the farm in the family than profit.
I acknowledge that I am waxing poetic but I don't mean to be naive. It's a hard job and as I start having conversations with other farmers, it's disheartening to realize that being a farmer in Ontario is difficult. I hope that I'm able to do this . . . The scope seems to expand everytime I start looking at this critically. But I did say to myself that I would document it. My father in law and great aunt aren't getting any younger after all.
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