Posts Tagged ‘farm’
from the pages of an old diary – cost of living
Some of the most interesting entries in my great-aunt’s diaries concern the cost of living. She often recorded the prices of food, goods or services they obtained. I read through her entries for 1954, 1955, 1957 and 1967 and noted some of these. By comparing the amounts for the same items in the 1950s and 1967, you can see that prices were on the rise!
| Date | Item | Cost |
| food | ||
| Nov. 22, 1954 | chicken | $3.00 per chicken |
| Nov. 10, 1967 | chicken | haircut (barter system) |
| June 30, 1955 | eggs | $0.40 per dozen |
| Dec. 14, 1957 | eggs | $0.50 per dozen |
| July 12 and July 14, 1967 | strawberries | $0.35 per box |
| July 19, 1967 | strawberries | $1.40 for 4 boxes |
| Oct. 22, 1967 | oysters | $2.00 per pint |
| Nov. 17, 1967 | box of chocolates | $1.29 per box |
| entertainment | ||
| June 5, 1957 | lobster supper at church | $1.00 |
| June 7, 1967 | lobster supper (community function) | $1.50 |
| November 1, 1957 | turkey dinner (community function) | $1.00 |
| October 25, 1967 | turkey dinner (community function) | $1.25 |
| Feb. 13, 1954 | Valentine Tea at church hall | $0.60 |
| June 22, 1957 | tea in church hall | $0.50 |
| July 9, 1957 | show (movie theatre) | $0.50 |
| goods | ||
| May 7, 1957 | T.V. from Simpsons | $269.95 |
| March 12, 1957 | ‘silence’ cloth for table | $2.00 |
| Sept. 10, 1954 | new shoes | $6.95 |
| April 23, 1957 | black Oxfords (White Cross) | $9.95 |
| June 14, 1954 | shingles for barn | $50.18 |
| May 17, 1967 | house shingled | $163.00 |
| May 17, 1954 | wood for stove | $40.00 (probably total for year) |
| services | ||
| July 8, 1954 | hair permanent | $4.00 |
| Dec. 16, 1957 | hair permanent | $3.25 |
| Sept. 20, 1967 | hair permanent | $6.00 |
| March 13, 1957 | tailoring – a ‘Black Watch’ skirt | $4.94 for material and sewing |
| Sept. 6-10, 1967 | vacation accommodation (room in house) | $8.00 per night |
| Sept. 6-10, 1967 | vacation accommodation (motel) | $14.00 per couple |
~
~
© Jane Tims 2012
a conch shell doorstop
Do you have a conch shell for a doorstop in your home?
If you visit a farm or home museum in the Maritime Provinces (Nova Scotia, New Brunswick or Prince Edward Island), look down as you enter the house. You will often see a large sea shell used as a doorstop. These are usually a conch-type shell (the Queen Conch is a large Caribbean sea-snail). The shells were usually brought to maritime doorways by seafarers who collected them on their travels.
My grandfather’s house had one of these shells, a large white conch with a pearly pink interior and whorls of spines. Always on duty at the door of the glassed-in porch, it was an imported marvel of the exotic seas.
I remember my Dad holding it to my ear, saying, “listen”. From deep within the shell came the steady hum of the ocean, like the sound of waves advancing and pulling back from the shore.
This shell was part of my Dad’s life, growing up in the big farmhouse. As an adult, Dad gradually built his own collection of sea shells, large and small, usually buying them at auctions. A couple of the large shells are now in my own home. When I am far from the ocean, I can still lift one of those shells to my ear and hear its eternal roar.
~
doorstop
~
kitchen door kept
open with a conch shell
stop
~
spines cropped
by incoming and outgoing
careless cousins
~
ignore
complaining ocean
captured roar
~
© Jane Tims 2011
Copyright Jane Tims 2011
the stone between farms
How do you show the boundary line between you and your neighbor?
At Ågersta Village in Uppland, Sweden, is a rune stone positioned to mark a boundary between two properties. The stone is carved with two serpent creatures entwined, their heads in profile. Each has two sets of legs, the forelegs strong, and the rear legs weak and helpless.
The stone was carved by Balle, a frequent carver of rune stones in Sweden, and raised by Vidhugse, in memory of his father. The boundry, established in the twelfth century, showed the boudary until 1856 when the property lines were finally changed!
The inscription reads, in part: Hiær mun standa stæinn miđli byia – “Here shall stand the stone between farms.”
from my imagination and not the rune stone at Ågersta Village
stone between farms
(rune stone in Ågersta Village, Uppland)
Do not move your neighbor’s boundary stone…
– Deuteronomy 19:14
~
ninth morning already
irate I rise
gather my tools
trudge to the hillside
~
stone waits for me, Balle
(master carver of runes)
shadows pulled into dragon
compete with guidelines
‘what is not’ more complete than ‘what is’
~
another fair day
Vidhugse to the west and south
Austmadr to the east
surely their bickering over boundaries
will cease
~
by noon the sun
embroils the rock
streaks my brow with sweat
floods the serpent creature’s clever eye
lip lappets drip
~
mosquitoes dither about
the creature’s profile acquires
the look of an insect head
reckless slip of the rune tool
could end its smirk
~
hill of rock dust
settles on my shoe
birches stir the air
odor of leaf layer
memory smell of Birka
~
© Jane Tims 2005
under the haystack
In our area, late summer is haymaking time. During the past two weeks, almost every field has been at some stage of mowing, bailing, or gathering. Farmers tried to bring their hay in before the August 28 tropical storm (Hurricane Irene), so most fields are now cut and cleared.
Haymaking is a picturesque activity. The cut hay is formed into parallel windrows in the fields, an artist’s lesson in perspective. The cutting and bailing and drying of hay are all fascinating to watch.
In the 1960s, at my grandfather’s farm, hay was gathered loose into a horse-drawn hay wagon and stored unbailed in the barn. One summer, I was thrilled to be asked to help ‘tramp hay’. As the fluffy hay was forked into the wagon, our work was to compress it by rolling and stomping and jumping.
Haying methods have changed, of course. Collecting loose hay is almost non-existent. Even the smaller square bails are hard to find. The most common are the cylindrical ‘round’ bails or the white plastic-wrapped silage bails.
The round bails look like plump shredded wheat…
and the silage bails are giant marshmallows.
At sunset, the shadows of the round bails make musical half notes on the fields.
'half notes'
Summer Song
~
Sunbury County
sings in its sleep
purple vetch
hop clover
bluegrass
at the roadside
~
hay in rows
a staff
empty of song
awaiting
round bails and their shadows
half notes for an oboe
~
honey bee
ditty in the pink and red-hipped
old fashioned roses
bid country roads
enter the covered bridge
glimpses between planking
rock music on the water
tires drum on loose boards
~
deer look up
cattle low in the meadow
owl to whitethroat
counterpoint
goldenrod pollens the air
rushes by the Rusagonis River
north and south
~
over Sunpoke
big moon crescendo
~
trembles of aspen
diminish
~
Published as: Spring 1995, “Summer Song”, The Cormorant XI (2)
(revised)
© Jane Tims
the glassed-in porch
My grandfather lived in a big white farmhouse. It had rooms and rooms, but the focus of life was the kitchen. On rainy days, we could play there quietly.
Sometimes we were allowed to spend the afternoon in the glassed-in porch just off the kitchen. It was whitewashed, and had filmy white curtains and wide window ledges.
On those ledges was a fastinating collection of knick-knacks and trinkets. Examining these items was very entertaining although we were not really allowed to touch anything.
I have tried to emulate this magical jumble of artifacts in my own home, but some spaces are impossible to duplicate.
a collection on a window ledge
glassed-in porch in rain
~
rainy day glassed-in porch
tall windows and white step
down from the kitchen
to linoleum wicker table a cot
~
never-used porch door
at the windows, white ledges
keepsakes and trinkets
‘look but don’t touch’
~
big clock in the kitchen ticks
red-eared slider frantic against
the frosted sides of his bowl
rain taps at the window
~
irresistible urge to give the turtle
respite, lift the curtain to admire
the rain, lift the velvet lid
of the purple box, Port Maitland
~
iron pyrite safe inside, encourage
dippy bird to tip and drink
from the glass of water, blue tulips
and a chip in its rim
~
nudge the red and yellow-flocked
parrot above the cot, swing him
on his metal perch, rearrange ceramic chicks
to peck at whitewashed window ledge
~
focus rose bowl ruby light
on china pig, puzzle out flowers
and holes on his back, turn the bud vase over
‘where is Occupied Japan?’
~
pour buttons from the jar, sort
and match Meteghan sea glass, marbles
in a coffee can, take a ship with scallop shells
for sails along the sill
~
trace paths of hesitant rain
droplets on glass
~
© Jane Tims 2011
a map of my grandfather’s farm
“My grandfather’s farm was like a community itself, a miniature village of buildings. They included the main house, the big barn and various out-buildings. In my memory, there were about eight buildings in all, each with its own purpose, and its own sights, sounds, smells, tastes and stories.” (August 1, 2011, on my grandfather’s farm)
a farm near Moncton ... like a village of buildings
Below is a map of my grandfather’s farm, as I remember it.
The buildings were in a setting of the spaces around them – the orchard, the pastures, the barn yard and the garden.
Some of the buildings, the barn, the house, the mink pen, the garage and the bird loft, I remember very well. Other buildings, the wagon shed, the machine shed, and the shed beside the pasture, I remember only a little. Since my brothers and sister don’t remember these last three at all, or remember other configurations, perhaps these buildings are part of a manufactured memory.
a simple map of my grandfather's farm (not to scale)
an apple tree like the one I remember, with a branch made for sitting and reading
water from the well
an old-style water pump
water from the well
~
taps in the house
running water hot and cold
why did my grandfather
carry in from the well
two pails of water each day?
handle pumped
well primed
~
he filled three buckets
one he poured
half into Dandy’s bowl
half he left beside the well
for the next day’s prime
~
two he lifted to the narrow step
set them down
opened the screen door
with a squeak
shut with satisfying thunder
~
carried the pails into the entry
set them down
settled his cap on a hook
row of hooks made of wire
hangers bent double and painted
~
carried the pails to the white door
a narrow door
with a latch
set them down
opened the door and climbed the stair
returned in a minute or so
carried the pails
into the kitchen
~
set one next to the sink
by the inside door
where I brushed
my teeth in the morning
enameled metal
narrow mirror
one tap for warm water, one for cold
wire basket for a bar of soap
and a bucket of water
cold from the well
~
set one pail in the pantry
narrow room by the woodstove
lined with shelves
counter where my grandfather
kneaded his bread
rolled the crust for pie
metal canister for sugar
ice box for milk and eggs
and a bucket of water
cold from the well
~
© Jane Tims 2011
my grandmother’s eyes
Although my grandmother, my Dad’s mother, died shortly after I was born, she was always a part of our summer visit to my grandfather’s farm. Her photographic portrait, taken when she was a child, hung in the kitchen, above the cot where we played board games on rainy days.
I think about her sometimes, working in the kitchen, gathering apples in the orchard, making quilts for winter. My Dad, who called her Mama, told me how she made warm quilts by sewing wool squares from old sweaters to a blanket ‘backing’.
I know so little about her. I wish I had asked my Dad to tell me more.
my grandmother (photo taken in 1954)
Her Eyes Follow Me
~
1.
~
my grandmother
the one I never knew
was a portrait
a life-sized photograph
under curved glass
blurred at the edges
hung in the kitchen
~
she leaned over me
her eyes followed me
a child’s eyes
though she died at fifty
~
2.
~
the three of us
played a game
my brother watched her eyes
and I would creep
along the wall
~
leap out
~
her eyes found me
in an instant
~
3.
~
I know her eyes were blue
though the portrait was grey and white
~
4.
~
she is also
~
her last card at Christmas
a paper poinsettia
in the branches
of our tree
~
the dim photo of a mother
in a faded housedress
some unknown cousin
gathered in her arms
~
her last letter
love to the baby
~
5.
~
to say I never knew her
is a kind of lie
~
I knew her eyes
and they have
followed me
~
Published as: ‘Her Eyes Follow Me’, Winter 1996, The Antigonish Review 104:59.
(revised)
© Jane Tims
abandoned spaces
When I drive through the countryside, I am drawn to the sight of abandoned farms or houses. I wonder why they have gone from being loved and used, to being alone.
abandoned farm buildings
Sometimes, the leaving is from economic necessity. Sometimes the last one who lived or worked there has died or moved on. Sometimes the government decides it can’t provide services anymore to out-of-the-way places. Occasionally, we are just seeing a moment in time, and new tenants and new life may be just around the corner.
an abandoned house
During the Depression, in the 1930s, many farms out west were abandoned because the combination of eroded land and poor economic conditions made staying impossible.
The poem below was written to remember one such place in southern Alberta. In the 1960’s, we went there once with my Dad, on a drive to explore the prairie roads.
Why do we abandon the spaces we know best?
The Reason for Leaving
~
1964
~
I remember the place
without texture
a line drawing
plainly coloured
~
two tracks on the prairie
one to come
and one to go on
~
a grey house
on a rise of green
(not grass, just green)
the door fallen away
~
a brown canal
still, without depth
sluice gears and flood gates
making the most
of insufficient water
~
and a bridge, also brown
boards laid without nails
~
~
1933
~
the truck
heavy on the driver’s side
steps down from the bridge
(the bridge ironic)
(three years, the Creek’s been dry)
~
in the rear-view mirror
a wooden house
on a low hill
a thin brown wind
and thirsty grasses
~
only the young ones
turn to stare
~
home
now hollow
stripped of voice and windows
the door left open
for tumbleweeds
~
Published as: ‘The Reason for Leaving’, 2010/2011, Canadian Stories 13 (76).
© Jane Tims
on my grandfather’s farm
a haybarn and its out-buildings
When August arrives, I always remember the summers of my childhood. One of my favourite places to visit was my grandfather’s farm in Nova Scotia. It was a place of rambles, exploration and discovery. I looked forward to returning there each August, to reconnect with the farm and my extended family, especially my cousins. I was a city kid and loved the country life, picking berries, tramping hay, playing in the hay mow, and going for picnics at the lake.
My grandfather’s farm was part of a small community that included my aunts and uncles, and, of course, the cousins. These were families that depended on the forests, fields and lakes for their livelihood. Food was mostly local, grown on the farm or gathered from the fields and woods.
The farm was like a community itself, a miniature village of buildings. They included the main house, the big barn and various out-buildings. In my memory, there were about eight buildings in all, each with its own purpose, and its own sights, sounds, smells, tastes and stories.
The best was the big barn, built by my great-grandfather, with a high pitched roof, two lofts for hay, a central alley between, and back stalls for the cows and horses. The chicken coop was under the hay loft of the barn, sheathed in chicken wire and stuffed with new hay. Across the yard, closer to the house, was another bird coop, a loft for the more exotic birds my grandfather liked to keep: ring necked pheasants, a golden pheasant, and fantail doves. Another out-building, the noisy mink pen, was kept apart from the house, in the pasture, to hush the noise and keep the rank smell at bay.
The other buildings hover just at the edge of my recall. I think there was a lean-to beside the barn, cool and dark, housing the hay wagon, its big wooden wheels as large in diameter as I was tall. I also remember a machine shed, smelling of grease and oil, its doors always open.
a machine shed with the remains of a garden and its old fashioned day lilies
The farm included a large acreage of pastures, fields and woods. These were also spaces to explore. My favourite was the apple orchard, and one particularly crooked tree, made for climbing. There was the farm yard with the chickens tottering about, squawking and annoying one another. Beyond the farm were the pastures, blue with berries, and the fields, edged with Black-eyed Susans, sturdy Rugosa roses, and other wild flowers. Our wandering usually followed the road, a winding way through mossy woods, leading to the lakes. Past the farm, it was a mere cart-track. Bordering the track was a fence with a swinging gate, perfect for sitting and dreaming. At one of the lakes was a favourite place for swimming, with a wooden diving board and a mythically deep pool, so clear you could see to the sandy bottom.
Farming can be a hard life, but viewed from the point of view of a child, my grandfather’s farm was a place of magic and wonder. I have tried to spend my life in surroundings that remind me of the farm. The experience of the small family farm is disappearing, but each day I try to recapture something of the feeling. I keep my garden wild, growing day lilies and Creeping Jenny at the edge of the lawn. I look forward to picking blueberries in the early days of August. And I roll down the car windows to catch the smell of new mown hay.
I wonder if your childhood included a farm and if you remember it well. Is the farm you knew still standing, or has it been abandoned with the years?
an old hay barn
nichepoetryandprose 