I'm Getting Excited
Thursday, May 25, 2017
I was born in Moncton, New Brunswick at the end of World War II. My parents were both from the same community in Nova Scotia. When I was still a baby, we moved to Greenwood, Nova Scotia for my father's job. When I was 12, my father had the opportunity to buy a farm back where my parents were raised and where all four of my grandparents were still living. Apparently having a farm had always been my father's dream. I was so excited. (Perhaps I was picking that up from Daddy or maybe it was because I would be close to my grandparents.)
Those first years were lean years. When we look back at pictures of my dad, he was too skinny, perhaps because of his concern about getting his farm established while providing for his family. We had dairy cows and hens and he even tried hogs for a few years. He made it work (with the exception of the hogs. He didn't have very good luck with them and gave up.) I loved living on the farm, even when it was haying season, and with time, my father had a successful life there.
When I was 19, I had to leave the farm because it was time for me to start working. There were not many jobs in small-town Nova Scotia and after high school most of us headed to Halifax to find work. I had a good job but I looked forward to going 'home' on weekends. There was usually someone with a vehicle to carpool with.
I met a navy man and got married and when he got out of the navy we moved to Ontario to the city where he was born and raised and where there were better opportunities for finding a job. We had two sons, my parents only grandchildren (then). It was a difficult time for all of us. (How my parents would have loved Skype during those years.) My father made one request - that the children and I would come 'home' every year. And we did.
My parents are both gone now. My brother still owns the farm but it was not his dream and the farm isn't a farm any more. My sister still lives in the house we moved to back when I was 12. My brother is right next door in the house my father helped him build when he got married. The village is even smaller than it was when I left. The children and I were able to keep the promise of annual visits with a couple of exceptions. Late winter, early spring, I start to think about 'going home'.
This year was no exception. Himself and I were discussing the 'when'. (It has been tricky in recent years because he wants to have his motorcycle with us while we are there but he doesn't necessarily want to ride it which means finding a way to tow it.) The plan kept changing which frustrates me. Then daughter came to my rescue. She wanted to go with me. Himself was agreeable.
Saturday morning, Daughter and I will fly out of London, Ontario to Toronto and then on to Halifax, Nova Scotia. My sister will meet us. The plane is supposed to arrive at 12:03. We have a full weekend planned before we drive back to the farm. I am going 'home' and yes, I am getting excited.
Those first years were lean years. When we look back at pictures of my dad, he was too skinny, perhaps because of his concern about getting his farm established while providing for his family. We had dairy cows and hens and he even tried hogs for a few years. He made it work (with the exception of the hogs. He didn't have very good luck with them and gave up.) I loved living on the farm, even when it was haying season, and with time, my father had a successful life there.
When I was 19, I had to leave the farm because it was time for me to start working. There were not many jobs in small-town Nova Scotia and after high school most of us headed to Halifax to find work. I had a good job but I looked forward to going 'home' on weekends. There was usually someone with a vehicle to carpool with.
I met a navy man and got married and when he got out of the navy we moved to Ontario to the city where he was born and raised and where there were better opportunities for finding a job. We had two sons, my parents only grandchildren (then). It was a difficult time for all of us. (How my parents would have loved Skype during those years.) My father made one request - that the children and I would come 'home' every year. And we did.
My parents are both gone now. My brother still owns the farm but it was not his dream and the farm isn't a farm any more. My sister still lives in the house we moved to back when I was 12. My brother is right next door in the house my father helped him build when he got married. The village is even smaller than it was when I left. The children and I were able to keep the promise of annual visits with a couple of exceptions. Late winter, early spring, I start to think about 'going home'.
This year was no exception. Himself and I were discussing the 'when'. (It has been tricky in recent years because he wants to have his motorcycle with us while we are there but he doesn't necessarily want to ride it which means finding a way to tow it.) The plan kept changing which frustrates me. Then daughter came to my rescue. She wanted to go with me. Himself was agreeable.
Saturday morning, Daughter and I will fly out of London, Ontario to Toronto and then on to Halifax, Nova Scotia. My sister will meet us. The plane is supposed to arrive at 12:03. We have a full weekend planned before we drive back to the farm. I am going 'home' and yes, I am getting excited.
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