The Farm That Got Away

It seemed perfect.

It was 10 acres, close enough to town to bring in potential riding students, but far enough away that I couldn't see any subdivisions.

The house was gorgeous.  I mean, seriously, it was a dream house.  Built in 1881 of red brick with yellow brick accents, it was the perfect farmhouse.  It wasn't just the classic "Ontario farmhouse" style with one peak in the front with a gothic-arched window.  The front of the house had three peaks.  The centre peak had two windows.  This gave the bedrooms at either side of the upstairs hall their own little arched window.  Bliss.  On top of that, the bedroom at the back of the house had two more peaks.  Triple Bliss.  There was a tiny staircase down to the living room.  Sneaky.

There was a porch.  The door was the original wooden door with the big iron lock.

The kitchen was huuuge.  It was yellow - the colour I'd chosen for my cute little bungalow years ago.  Coincidence?  Apparently the cabinets were "dated" but they were all hanging together.  There was a sliding door to a small deck.  Jethro didn't like the deck.  He was already planning a new one by the time he left his first viewing.  The kitchen had its own entrance and a staircase to the cellar.  I pictured my winter coveralls hanging at the bottom of the steps.

There were two bathrooms.  The big one upstairs had a clawfoot tub.  And a laundry chute.

Four bedrooms meant an office upstairs.  Plus there were two big rooms downstairs.

So much room.

There were overgrown flowerbeds begging for my green thumbs to rescue them.

There was a shed with a cement floor.  I was visualizing how best to soundproof it and where we'd put the control room, how big the iso-booths would be, and what Jethro would see if he looked out the window while mixing a record.

He could be looking at the large sand arena where somebody would be riding, and beyond that, the hayfield, from which the Dutch dairy farmer neighbours would be bringing over a cutting each year in exchange for keeping a cutting.

There was an ancient hay shed, which I loved.

The barn looked small from the outside but contained 5 large box stalls, plus a run in shed, a wide aisle, and a big open area where a lawn tractor and a wheelbarrow had way too much room.

There were paddocks.

There were trees.

Lots of trees.

There were little pockets of overgrown bushy wilderness.  Prime tree fort material.  I pictured little trails to take the Pug for walks, and ride the horses, and maybe even set up some trail obstacles to make our rides more fun.  I had plans.

There was a tiny little wellhouse.

There was room for one of those inflatable pools and still have room for a kitchen greenhouse.

I was deeply in love.

The kids were ready to move in.  They were planning where our friends from town could sleep when they came to stay over.

The price was pretty darn good, too.  We had meetings with the real estate agents, then the bank, and the accountant, because even a pretty darn good price was daunting to us.

We first went to tour the place in late June, at an open house showing absolutely swarming with people. I starting getting an offer ready but backed out when I heard another family had moved to offer as well.  I was sure theirs would be better and at that point we didn't feel confident enough that we could really pull this off.  There were three offers, and none stuck.

July ticked by.  We started stalking the place.  Every time we drove anywhere nearby we'd detour past the little farm on our way.  I looked it up on google earth.  I'm not proud of this, but I did it.  I was obsessed.  I laid awake at might picturing my furniture in that house and my two Appaloosas grazing in the paddocks.  I wondered how much snow we'd get, and what the Dutch farmer would charge for bringing over his tractor and snowblower.  I called the school to find out if they had room for two new kids.

August came along.

The realtors were just as shocked as we were that the place had not sold yet!

We were crunching numbers and scratching our heads.  Could we do it?  How much could we get for our house?  What would the monthly payments add up to on a more expensive property?  Could we put in a lower offer?

The price came down.

We got another offer ready.  And got cold feet again.

We loved that place and all four of us figured we could be very happy there, but the chances of not being able to continue there were too scary.

At the very end of August,  just before the labour day weekend, the real estate agents called to tell us an offer had been accepted.  The place was not ours.

Jethro was afraid I'd be devastated but I knew there were no guarantees that we could actually afford to buy that farm.  It's just that I felt so good about the place.  It felt like home even with somebody else's stuff in it.  I knew that feeling, because I got it so clearly the first time I walked into that little bungalow in town.  With all the interest in that small farm, and the way it spent the whole summer not selling, I could convince myself that it was just waiting for us to get our act together and move in already!

Well, it wasn't meant to be.

Sigh.

Yeah, we still did some light stalking.

Curiosity got us, and for awhile I felt really ripped off that the sand arena was growing in with weeds.  There were no horses!  Somebody bought a place with fenced paddocks and big box stalls - I mean sliding doors and everything - and they didn't even have horses!

One evening we drove past at night and realized that the lights from the city could be seen from there.  Maybe it wasn't so perfect after all...

A few months ago, I had to drive my kids to school in the morning.  Just for old time's sake, I went a little out of my way and took a drive down that tar and chip road.  I was following a school bus, and sure enough, it stopped in front of that farm I'd memorized almost two years before.  I counted four kids hop onto that bus.

I liked the idea of four kids growing up there.  I noticed the trampoline behind the house as I waited for the bus to go again.

Soon after that, we noticed sheep in the paddocks, and a young Holstein heifer.

Kids, sheep, and a cow.

You know, I have no business getting all possessive about a property I never lived on - I have no claim on the place whatsoever.  But I just really loved finding out that this home got a good home.

(Ours is out there.  The current owners aren't quite ready to move on yet, that's all.)

The week that Got Away

Hello.

Today's the first official day of summer vacation.

This week on Hick Chic I'll be writing about Things That Got Away.

And that's all I can say for now.

I would really like to think you wouldn't see this kind of STUPIDITY out in the sticks

I don't really pay much attention to the news, other than the entertainment news, because I'm shallow that way.  Lately though, here in Ontario, we can't get away from this thing called THE G20 SUMMIT.  There's also a slightly smaller shindig called a G8 SUMMIT.  Apparently this involves getting a whole bunch of world leaders together.  (Sadly, all I can think of is a puppet in a khaki uniform singing about being so rone-ry.)

Anyways, the news has been packed full of stories about security fences and protestors wearing dirty bandannas around their heads, and something about a fake lake for reporters who didn't get up to Huntsville to see all the pretty real lakes in cottage country.  You know, like, welcome to Canada, we'd show you our lovely scenery but we don't have time so here, look at what our scenery would look like if you were seeing it for real.  But this is fake.  Hope you like Canada.

Also this is costing those of us who pay taxes (which I fully intend to do this year, honest) a large amount of scratch.  Like, lots of money.  I think 2 billion.  Or maybe 47 trillion.  Just a whole truckload of theoretical dough.  Which we will have to fork out in taxes.

So blah blah blah.

Today my daughter turned on the TV and what do we see?  Burning police cars.  Officers in full riot gear.  Black clad anarchists bashing the hell out of anything in their path.  Worst of all: people standing around watching this all go down like it's highly entertaining, grinning, pointing and taking pictures, apparently unaware that burning cars have a nasty habit of EXPLODING.

Welcome to Canada?

Is this just a big city thing?

Is this a result of getting a bunch of world leaders together, bringing out the frustrations of the easily frustrated and annoyingly vocal?

Are some people just determined to make a mess of everything?  Anarchists... do they just need something to do? Because I've found, seriously, that a lot of possibly destructive angst can be dissipated with a baseball bat and an old fibreglas truck cap in the back yard.  Breaking bottles against bricks?  Not good, fun, or smart.

I don't get it.  I don't understand politics.  I have never joined a protest.  I don't know if I'll ever get why you'd want to make a conspicuous nuisance of yourself to make a point.

I'm just pretty embarrassed, is all.

He'll have to come up with a new Favourite Thing To Do

One of the great things about dogs - and there are so, so many - is the enthusiasm.  Dogs don't just like stuff.  They LOVE IT.  Walk?  YES! Scratch?  YES!  Snooze? YES!  Car ride? YES!  Dinner?  YES!  Barf?  Poop?  Roll in stinky stuff?  YES, YES YES!

The Pug gets really excited whenever he hears the word TRUCK.  Especially when it sounds like, "Dobby...?  You wanna go in the... TRUCK?!?"

I like to bring him with me to the bus stop when I can.  Since the weather's been nice now, I roll down the windows and let him sniff that wonderful country air, with all the different flavours of smells.

I put this rag rug on the seat in an attempt to keep the pug hair from getting stuck in the upholstery.  It helps minimally. At least he's smart enough to wait for me to put the Pug Rug in before he jumps up into the cab.

He's very happy here.  Very happy.  Riding in the Jetta isn't quite as much fun, because he has to ride in the back seat.  He'd prefer to be right up front, in the girlfriend seat (the middle) where he can stick his nose in the air vent and then rest his chin on my leg.  (He loves me.)

A couple of weeks ago, the farm across the road from the bus stop put their young heifers in the pasture. 

So the Pug was just hangin' and enjoying the nice breeze...

...when suddenly his ears perked up.  

Check him out in the mirror.  Those strange black and white critters needed to be barked at!!

He barked alright.  He barked until the cows shuffled into the bovine version of a dead run.  He sure showed them, he did.  That'll learn 'em to respect the power of the Pug.

As you can see, it's a good thing I bring him with me sometimes.  I mean, Jethro can't always be around to protect me from... well, them.  With their spots and udders and all.

His days of waiting in the truck for the school bus might be short lived.  Not only does school end in a few days, but this whole bus stop routine might not be happening at all next year.  If I'm lucky I'll get the kids on a bus route that stops right in front of our place.  I mean, that would make my life so much easier.  

I'll have to bring him with me to other places.  I know he's welcome at the TSC.  But then there's always his favourite place to go in the TRUCK.  

THE DUMP!  

WANNA GO TRUCK DUMP STINKY TRUCK WITH ME?

YES!

Fixing up the place!

I figure with all the rearranging and cleaning up and heavy lifting I've been doing at the Old Homestead, I might like to change things on the Old Blog.  Change is good, right?

So much of what I look at is like this: dirty, messy, ugly.  Let's face it, the former burn pile site ain't pretty.  Neither are my fishbelly-white legs.  (They glow in the dark and the light!)

I'm still making a few changes, which is tricky because after more than four years of blogging I still struggle to operate this newfangled "computer" thing.  I don't give up easily though.  I keep at it, slowly, just like flinging scrap metal into a truck box.

Suggestions for this virtual imaginary interior desecrating project?

THIS IS WHAT 26 TIRES IN A PICKUP TRUCK LOOK LIKE

Any questions?

You know what? I think I'm BACK.

To be honest, I kinda feel like I've been phoning it in lately.  I could trot out plenty of excuses: too busy hauling junk to the dump, eighteen loads of laundry a day, horses need to be massaged, really wrapped up in staring at the wall thinking about my next novel, catching up on sleep, really frickin' bummed out about whatever.  That'd all be pretty much true.  It's been Blog Lite around here for way too long.

However.

I might be getting my groove back.

I'm feelin' it people.  I don't know why -- the meds are working?  summer?  -- but something's slowly clicking into place... nothing visible, nothing drastic.  The last 12 months have been a hard slog.  Like walking through mud every day.  The last six months in particular have been ridiculous, in a "When is this going to END" kind of way.  Just one crappy thing after another.  And I'm tired.  

But I survived. I'm surviving.  Still breathing.  Got all my appendages and teeth.  Sometimes it comes down to that, the simplest of gratitudes, and that's good enough.  

I can't afford to celebrate by dying my hair pink (man I would love to dye my hair pink right now, wooooo hooo) but I could shake things up here at Hick Chic.  

Thinking of a little redesign.  

I'm so fond of the clean white background and pink headings, but I'm considering something different.  

What do ya think?

I have no idea why it's so important to me that people I may or may not know should read all my rantings.  But I like it.  

I have uncovered the breeding grounds of the SCRAP TIRES!

They are extremely sneaky creatures, but my eradication mission is surging forward with great success.


Here we observe five magnificent adult tires in a resting position.  More accurately, four decent specimens and one gnarly individual which the others appear to be protecting.

On closer inspection, they are all well past their prime.  There will be no mercy shown them when I cull this herd!!  (The lone tire on the ground is actually a domesticated tire which is used as a bumper guard on the tractor.  Best if you don't ask, or second guess my counting skills.)

Once the tires have been removed from their rims, they will be loaded into my truck and shipped off to the place where junk tires go.  TO DIE.

Where do they all come from?  This is the question I'm regularly asked.  Even the guys at the disposal, the guys who know my dog on a first name basis, have asked me where all these tires come from.  Well there is really only one explanation, one which until last week was merely a theory and has now been proven.

They find their way into the long grass and MULTIPLY!  It's the only explanation that makes sense.  To keep the tire numbers down, the males and females would have to be carefully separated.

Clearly, for the past five or twenty years or so, the males and females have not been carefully separated at the Old Homestead.

The problem, however, is that the genders are incredibly difficult to tell apart.

Mike the Vet brought over a load of hay for us on the weekend.  (It's gotta be good hay if I buy it from the vet, right?)  As it turns out, Mike the Vet has had a small problem with pickup trucks breeding behind his barn.  But that's another story, another zoomophological expedition, another blog post.

Anyways.  We asked Mike the Vet how best to tell the males from the females, in order to keep the population down.  It doesn't really matter, since I fully intend to ERADICATE THE ENTIRE HERD but I was curious.

"Oh it's simple," he said.  "The females have a big hole in the middle."








I suspect Mike the Vet could be yankin' my chain here.


Tire reproduction appears to be a mystery.  I am working on a new theory that paired tires are not even necessary to create new ones.  Maybe it takes multiples of two, as pictured, which suggests that tires are not very choosy and do not mate for life.  I generally lean towards my first theory: tires do that asexual or whatever it is thing, like worms.

I'm pretty sure I'm right about this.  One tire left under a tree can sprout into three tires in less than a year.


My ol' man made a discovery in the bottom of the yard the other day.  He was weedwhacking, because I do NOT do any weedwhacking, what with it being loud, and with my hatred for the exhaust from stupid little engines. As he was trimming the long grass, he came across a nest of small tires!

Ha!  We've got them now!  Totally unfazed by their small size and diminutive cuteness, we moved them to a location more easily accessible by pickup truck.  

They will be taken off to the disposal yard before they mature and have a chance to spawn more!!

Don't look at me like that - it's not cruel.  They are not an endangered species.  At least not around here.

But they will be soon, as I continue on with my quest to make the Old Homestead into an Tire-Free zone.  After this, any strays will have to move on to a Wild Tire Sanctuary if they know what's good for them.

It's not like it's a global holiday or anything.

But anyways, Happy Depp Day!

I'd have to say 47 looks pretty good on him.

Moe the Barn Cat is my HERO

Two weeks ago, he dragged his broken butt back to the farm and plunked himself down beside the south barn wall where we'd be sure to see him.  One emergency vet visit later, and twice daily doctorings by me, and he's up and at it!

He may be hobbling around on three legs, but he's leaving his little bed in the empty horse stall, sitting up on his own, and trying out his right hind to see how much weight he can put on it.  He has been the BEST patient I've ever worked on.  I've had to stuff pills down a cat's throat many times and he's the easiest ever.  He let me clean the wound on his leg, scrubbing the scabs off and all, without flinching or mewing.  Only in the last two days has he tried to pull his leg away; I take it as a good sign that he's gaining strength!  On Saturday evening he took off with his new strange gait before I had a chance to work on him.  By the time I let the horses out of the barn, he was out of sight.  

Just a couple days before that, I got Bucky to bring him out of the barn for some sunshine.

Soon after, he recovered enough to squeeze out from under the stall door and start wandering the barn aisle.  Oh my gosh, we're just so proud of him.  I think cats in general are pretty good at doing their own physiotherapy.  They get up and move when they feel strong enough to.  What really impresses me about this guy though, is his attitude.  He's totally agreeable.  

And has possibly the strongest will to live I've ever seen.

If a cat is close to death, he'll crawl away to a dark hidden corner and pass on.  Not Moe.  Call me sappy, crazy, sentimental, accuse me of anthropomorphizing this critter, but I am so sure he wanted us to find him and help him.  I am convinced he knew enough to let me scrub away at that ugly wound, that it was part of the healing process.  

There was a time when our barn housed up to 20 cats.  Some lived to adulthood, some didn't.  Sweetie and I tried to name them and tame them.  If they got a taste for fresh warm pork, they didn't stay.  We didn't buy kibble for them - they ate our leftovers.  They never got rabies shots and nobody got neutered or spayed.

Now with just Moe and his little brother Larry, the folks can afford a little better to spend some cash on them.  These two are superb barn cats.  They keep the varmints in check, and they always have time for a cuddle.  It still feels a little silly to spend vet money on a barn cat, but man, every time I look into Moe's beautiful eyes, I feel like he's worth every penny.

Alright, Car. Give it up... SPILL YER GUTS!

Yup.  Everything's completely normal around here.