By Jim Hagarty
2014
I grew up on what was called a “mixed farm” although almost all of the varied things that were raised and grown were gone by the time I came along as my parents had switched to beef cattle solely. But even though they were gone, we would play in the empty henhouse where the chickens had been. There were unused beehives sitting beside the garage. I know we used to have geese as my Dad was attacked by one when he was five years old. We had once had pigs, cows, and beef cattle along with the geese and the chickens. No goats or sheep that I know of. Workhorses, of course, were a feature and very important part of the operation.
And in a 10-acre field west of the house there was a large orchard, all the trees in neat rows, though the fruit was never taken care of in my day and was often scabby. There were lots of apple trees of many varieties from red apples (maybe macs?) to yellow harvest apples and these huge “cooking” apples that were terrible to eat – very pulpy – but good for making pies and cider. The darned things were half way between a very large apple and a small pumpkin.
There were also some plum and pear trees in the orchard though the season was usually too short for the fruit on those trees to ripen. The branches of the trees hung low and when a friend brought his pony around one day and I got on it to ride a horse for the first time, the little dickens headed straight for the fruit trees at a fair clip knowing the branches would scrape me off its back, which they did.
My favourite fruit tree of all was a cherry tree located near the road. I remember the red cherries would be ripe by the last day of school in June and I would climb up there and fight the birds – and sometimes my siblings – for them. The birds were easier to chase away than the siblings. Even when the cherries were gone I would sit up in the tree and watch people come and go on the road. I always thought they couldn’t see me so that was kind of thrilling and mysterious.
All of these things were features of the way my grandparents farmed and they gradually went out of use when their day passed along with the mixed farm. One thing that did remain was a massive vegetable garden. That was a great place to go with a salt shaker. I’d pick tomatoes, wet them with my tongue, cover them with salt and eat them. Heaven.
The mixed farm is long gone almost everywhere now (I assume so, anyway, though I might be out of touch) but can still be found in Mennonite Country north of Stratford. It isn’t just their clothing and horses and buggies that harken back to a much earlier, simpler, quieter time.
Not easier, but slower.
