Five Days as a Farmhand: Thoughts and Stories from a City-Kid on the Dusty Plain

Part 4 of 5 - "Boredom, Farm-Speak and The Second Floor"

Another morning in rural Saskatchewan! On this particular day, I intended to sleep until 7 AM and go about my business as usual. This plan was short lived, as my Grandfather woke me up at 6:30 to attach the packers to the tractor and help him grease the tractor. With my father already out in the field (he usually wakes up at about 5-5:30 every morning and starts working. Insane) Grandpa went out to pack the soil down on the fields that were recently seeded by my dad, and I went inside to eat breakfast and read my book for a few minutes. This was to be my last full day of work, as my plan was to head back to Regina the next morning.

After driving out to the field to help my Dad fill up the air seeder, I loaded up the half-ton with another 15 bags of canola and got back to sorting bolts and organizing tools in the shed.

"Fighting Boredom"

As brainless and easy of work as it is, I have always been bored as hell when given the task of sorting tools or bolts in the shed. This particular day I decided to tune into a radio station that I often listen to from Yorkton (94.1 Fox FM). They play the weirdest variety of music. I remember a few years ago while picking raspberries in the garden they played the most random play list known to mankind: Volcanoless in Canada (sweet!), Jessica Simpson (wut.), Coheed and Cambria (cool!) and finally Creed (uhhh.). I remember standing in the raspberry patch looking around me after the sequence of songs had played, searching for someone to confirm that my ears weren't playing tricks on me. Alas, only our dog, Lucky (RIP) was around to stare at me excitedly.

The farm has always been a place of quiet isolation. It serves one purpose: Work. We didn't even get cell service in the yard until about 2-3 summers ago. In my world, the farm consists of 4 individuals: Myself, Grandpa, my Father and Lucky (RIP).

I do remember one particular incident when I was around 8 or 9 years old. My Dad and another neighbouring farmer organized a "play-date" at their farm one day. I was VERY excited, as they lived at this farm year-round (we only inhabit ours during the summer) and I anticipated that they would have some really cool toys to check out. I arrived that morning, and the other kids and I set out to explore the various toys and games that they had.

Everything was moving along as I had imagined, when something similar to the following exchange occurred:

Oldest Son: "It's 11 o'clock Nick, it's time for 100 Huntley Street! Put the toys away guys!"

Me: "Uhhh, what is that?" (as the other siblings hastily put away the toys)

Other sibling: "Only the greatest TV show ever! We watch it every day."

Me: "I thought the Simpsons was the greatest show ever? Or Tin Tin.."

Oldest Son: "No no no, you've never watched 100 Huntley Street before? Man you've got to check it out. It's the best worship show EVER!"

They rushed to the TV and insisted I joined them on the couch as they anxiously recited the name of every upcoming segment on the show. I've seen people get pumped up about TV shows before, but they were bouncing off the walls and literally jumping up and down on the couch with excitement the entire time. It was really weird. That terrible TV show occupied most of our play-date, and I sat on the chair and sadly watched the dormant toys in the corner. That was the first and last play date I ever went on at the farm.

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Right before lunch I got a call from my dad out in the field reporting that he had a flat tire on the cultivator. I grabbed a few jack hauls from the shed and some boards that we would put under them so they wouldn't sink into the soil when we lifted up the cultivator and I helped my Dad take the tire off. He took the rim to the Bankend Co-op for a new tire, and I went back to the house for lunch.

 "Farm-Speak"

Dad and Grandpa in deep, farm-related conversation

After I was done eating, I made my Dad a few sandwiches (he didn't get to eat lunch due to the trip to Bankend) and as I was driving out to the field to deliver them, a Cargill truck was driving by our place and stopped as I approached him. Rolling down my window, he tossed a cold Mountain Dew into my window (random, right?) and we struck up a conversation. Now, one does not simply speak conventional english when in the country talking about farming. There is a regional dialect called "Farm-Speak" that I am semi-fluent in. I quickly shifted languages to try and blend in:

Truck-Guy: Hey there! Hard at work, buddy?

Me: Ohhh yeah, you know just goin' hard while the rain holds up!

Truck-Guy: Heard that! Dad's got ya runnin' seed hey? You stayin' out of trouble??

Me: Haha yeah yeah, given'er beans. (lift farm cap, put hand through hair, put cap back on with the beak slightly more elevated than before) Dad gives me all the shit jobs. Y'know how it is this time of year hey!

Truck-Guy: Yessir, so how many acre's you guys get down? Last time I came by your dad was goin' hard with the fertilizer.

(This is where I broke character. I quickly contemplating making up numbers on the spot, but I know absolutely NOTHING about acreage. My only option was to slip back into "City-Kid" mode.)

Me: I honestly have no idea. My dad just tells me to do stuff, and I don't question what it's for or how far ahead we are until he tells me we're done.

(The gig was up. Truck-Guy realizes I'm not a farm-boy.)

Truck-Guy: Uhhhh allrighty.. Well you just tell Al that (name I've forgotten) from Cargill stopped by. I know he deals outta Balcarres but he'll know who I am. Better go get that seed to your pops there.

I consider this a failure of a "Farm-Speak" interaction. Usually I do much better. As his white F150 drove off into the dust, I took lunch out to my dad in the field and spent the rest of the afternoon sorting bolts and tools in the shed.

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Whiskey after a hard day of work.

Not long after I was done organizing the shed, Grandpa came back to the yard and we had some whiskey in the house (Dad was still out in the field). This was always one of my favourite activities once I was old enough to partake. It was almost like a rite of passage in my eyes: Having a drink with my Dad and his Dad after a hard day of physical labour. After the drink, Grandpa drove home to Kelliher. I mopped the farmhouse and had another rye and coke as I waited for the floors to dry, listening to the only sound in the house, the ever present ticking of the clock on the wall.

”Upstairs”

Vintage finds upstairs.

After the floors were dry, my Dad came home at around 9:30 and we ate supper. As I often do on the night before I leave the farm, I climbed the stairs to the second floor to explore and search for cool vintage clothes, trucker hats, belt buckles, artifacts, etc. As the years have passed, I have become familiar with the majority of the contents upstairs and I have almost exhausted it's bounty.

I have found that things that were once not of interest to me have become more interesting as I age and my tastes change. In High School, I was on the hunt for belt buckles and trucker hats. I have also discovered many useful vintage suit jackets that I often wear. This time around I took interest in some retro cuff links and tie clips (particularly useful to a business student required to frequently dress formal), some good records (I set up a turntable that was also discovered at the farm last year) and an '89 Grey Cup Champions hat, which I will likely wear to Rider games this year.

I also found a shoebox full of my Dad's Polaroids, transcripts, student cards and other random memories. It was a remarkable feeling to look through significant items from my fathers life that were gathered neatly in a red and blue Reebok shoebox.

I asked my dad about his earlier days out at the farm. He explained that he took two years of Commerce at the University of Saskatchewan before he decided to take a break and move to Regina to take an Accountant Clerk position. It was here while working in Regina that he met my mother who was working and taking classes. After working his way up to a full fledged accountant, he began to complete the CMA program and was approximately 75% completed when he decided to move back to the farm and focus full time on farming (while completing tax returns for clients in the winter months). My mother and father were married in 1984, and they lived in the farmhouse for five years until my birth. My mother moved back to Regina to complete her degree and work in the city and my father would split his time driving back and forth from the farm and the city.

When I look at my father's life path, it really just reaffirms my belief that it is difficult to look ahead and plan for the future. There are so many unforeseen intangibles that can affect life when you least expect it. As someone who is currently trying to find his own way and develop a life path, seeing these family artifacts and hearing stories about the different times in my parents' life is reassuring. Change is ever-present and it is better to adapt and embrace life's journey, wherever it may wander.

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After I was satisfied with my pillaging upstairs, I went back to my room, gathered my belongings and packed my bags for the journey home the next day.