Life on the Family Farm: My Grandparents' Stories

My experience with my maternal grandparents is sparse, due to their untimely passing at a young age. Nevertheless, their farm life left an indelible mark on my childhood memories, shaping my understanding of the rural world and the struggles of the early 20th century. This piece recounts my recollections of a farm fraught with work, love, and the occasional grim realities of life.

Rural Life and Farming Practices

My grandparents, Leslie and Jessie Harrison, were the stewards of a 100-acre farm nestled northeast of Toronto, in Ontario, Canada. They raised Holstein cattle for cream, specialized chickens for eggs, and kept a thriving flock of chickens for meat. This was a hardworking and bustling environment, filled with the rhythmic sounds and sights of daily farm life.

Grandpa Leslie milked his cows, not with modern conveniences like udder sanitizers, but with a simple and traditional method. He would tie a strap around the cow's neck to secure her in the stable. He then used a low four-legged stool to sit beside the cow, his head resting in the warm hollow where her belly narrowed toward the hind leg. The rhythmic squeezing and stroking of the teats alternated until they were dry. This process was not without its challenges; cows, being less hygienic creatures, often had bits of manure or urine clinging to their tails. Consequently, Grandpa Leslie would inevitably get a tail in the face from time to time!

Multitude of Animals and Life on the Farm

The farm was a vibrant ecosystem, teeming with various animals. Cats were especially ubiquitous, often more numerous than the farm's inhabitants. Over the years, numerous cats named Fluffy came and went; their numbers ebbed and flowed, being killed on the road, succumbing to diseases, or getting caught in machinery. When the barn was overrun with cats, entire litters were tied in burlap sacks and offered to the "pond gods." This practice was unknown to me until I was an adult, as it was a deeply ingrained part of farm life in those days.

Life on the farm was a testament to the inevitability of life and death. Chicken mortality was not uncommon; my grandmother would kill a chicken, pluck its feathers, eviscerate it, and serve it for dinner. Even the eggs we collected had a macabre quality; I can still recall the wonder of a fully formed, eggshell-less egg warm and translucent in the bloody cavity of a hens' abdominal cavity.

Challenges and Harsh Realities

The farm was primitive, lacking running water, electricity, and indoor plumbing. Cooking was done using a wood stove in winter and summers, while kerosene and coal oil fueled the lamps and lanterns. The outhouse, a two-seater approximately 20 feet from the back door, was romanticized in my young mind. Handcranked washing machines and wringers, along with hand-pumped water from the outdoor well, were all part of the daily routine. Without the modern conveniences we take for granted today, life required significant manual labor and resilience.

Memories and Letters

My memories of the farm are more vivid than those of my mother, who did not spend as much time there. I recall the love and work that defined our time together, sitting in a room that served as the kitchen, dining, and living room. Despite my grandmother's cancer and her inability to speak, we continued to exchange letters, a cherished form of communication.

Concluding Thoughts

The life I remember on the farm is not just a nostalgic tale, but an embodiment of the struggle, resilience, and deep-rooted love for the rural lifestyle. It is a story that underscores the hard work, simple pleasures, and cyclical nature of life on a farm, viewed through the lens of a child's eyes. Despite the challenges, there was an underlying respect for the land and its creatures.