Musings on Becoming a Baleyard Princess

Alas! I have arrived on the Blog scene, and only several years late. But really, that is pretty good if you consider my genetics. Our dear G.G. (Great Grandma Watermelon to you) is perpetually late. Christmas would not be Christmas without her rolling in 3 hours late, driving her little red Ford like her hair is on fire. At a recent surprise party she rolled in 10 minutes after guests of honour and the great "SURPRISE". In true G.G. fashion she flung the door open, smiled from ear to ear and threw up her arms to announce her arrival with her own gutteral shout of "SURPRISE". Later, gasping for breath and she covered her mouth and guffawed in her deep G.G. fashion, she jokingly explained that she'd be late for her own funeral. She giggled at the thought of the hearse sitting roadside with a flat tire while family and friends sit wondering how a person could possibly be late for their own funeral.

And there you have it. Its in my blood. "SURPRISE!" Here I am, I've arrived at last. I may be late, but its been a helluva ride to get here.

So where is "here" exactly?? Hmmm, now that is an interesting question, one that I consider with both a guarded joy and intense trepidation. Yes, it is true. I am a Baleyard Princess.

As kids we'd always joke about "settling down in the baleyard" like so many farm families in our area. Ma and Pa have the "big house" while Jr. and family nestle in and get cozy in a (gasp) singlewide trailer, raising babies and dreaming of a day when they'll get to ride the tractor and go to bed in the "big house" rather than biding their time opening gates and battling frozen water pipes in their singlewide during the winter. Of course WE'D never settle for a fate like that. No, settling would never do. One must reach for the stars! Follow your dreams! Move out and move on. I had my sights set on bigger and better things for MY life.

Fast forward a few years...and here I am, baleyard bound. But really, its not as bad as you might imagine. You see, I did move out and move on. I moved all the way out to the bald headed prairies with the vision of vet school firmly in my mind. My first night off the farm I met a young Biology student, a Saskatchewan farmboy with a gentle nature and big smile. I suppose the rest is history. My dreams of vet school didn't materialize. I don't suppose it was failing and not realizing my dream so much as re-evaluating my priorities and discovering new dreams I hadn't considered before. I suppose part of new dreams is that they are often brewed up when you have someone to share them with.

Five years after landing on sacred Sask soil I completed my BSA degree in Animal Science. I suppose I'll perpetually be known as "almost, but not quite" a vet. Yes, it makes me grit my teeth and does sting a little when a well-meaning local asks for the umpteenth time "You're a vet, aren't ya?". I suppose its my own fault for broadcasting my grand plans to the world. My dear Sask Farm Boy (SFB for now) finished his MSc in Biology. At this point we were married and ready to take on the world. We started job searching and lo and behold SFB landed a job not far from my old hometown. Why not? Seemed like a great idea at the time.

We moved to a small town in central AB that was close proximity to SFB's work and my Ma and Pa. What an absolute desolate wasteland of small town it was. It was booming, economically. It had the appearances of a thriving, bustling community. But it suffered from a plague that haunts many small towns these days. It was merely a parasite, a blood sucking mite, if you will, of the neighbouring busy metropolis. The people who lived in this small town didn't want to be there. In their hearts they lived in the city. They worked in the city, their friends were in the city, they played in the city. This small town was all they could afford, but God help them if they'd let it take their souls. So these miserable creatures lived in a town that was a constant reminder of what they couldn't have, couldn't afford. You are "almost, but not quite" well enough off for the city. Dozens of young families and struggling middle-aged labourers found refuge in this small bedroom community, eagerly looking north towards the glow of the big city, a barren sadness on their faces. Does this sound like the kind of community to open you with open arms?? Hell no. In the entire year we lived there we did not even lay eyes on our neighbours across the street. It was only with a bit of cunning and my adept hunting skills that I was able to properly introduce myself to our next door neighbours as I rushed from the bushes to thrust my hand into their clammy palms and introduce myself with a pasted on smile and my own brand of small town barren sadness.

And the cats!!! If it weren't bad enough that we were living in the virtual gluteus maximus of the province, there were cats, multitudes of cats, rampaging the streets. They'd shit in our bushes, taunt our frantic simpleton terriers in the window and fornicate under our window at 4 am, yowling incessantly. In rage I'd grit my teeth and silently curse them. Why should the cats be the only creatures thriving joyously in this town?

A year passed as slowly as if I'd been hired to watch toenails grow. It was excrutiating. One day in passing Ma and I started "what iffing" our living situation. What if, lets say, we moved out to the farm? We could build a house perhaps. Hmmm, wouldn't that be nice. Selling our house in the horrid bedroom community would alleviate some debt. Oh, and lets not forget that at this point we are expecting Baby. Who could stand to raise their offspring in such a negative, empty community? We quickly put plans in motion to sell our house and relocate out at The Farm. It would mean a 56 km commute for SFB each day, but what is a little driving when it comes down to true happiness?

In we move with Ma and Pa. The months start to trickle by faster and faster. My giant egg shaped abdomen keeps on expanding. Plans are not progressing with establishing our own humble abode. The current communal living situation is growing more stifling by the day. I begin having frequent nightmares of Baby's arrival while we are still "homeless". Baby is relegated to a laundry basket in the corner, tightly packed between the stacks of boxes and suitcases we've been living out of.

In desparation I find a trailer to buy. Its 10 years old, but in good shape. It will have to do. Baby will be here soon. Now where shall we put it? We scope out many locations. A beautiful hilltop near the forest with a view of the river? That won't do. Baby could fall in the Raven and the cost of services would be far too high. What about the small wooded grove across the river? Well, that would add to SFB's long drive, and we'd sure have to do a lot of work to build a road to access the private piece of paradise. Baby is coming, let's hurry up! We finally settle on a bare patch of land in the poplar bluff 400 yards from Ma and Pa's. Its flat, open and close to services and the road. Oh yes, and lets not forget, its close to the baleyard as well. Damned close. But Baby is coming! So who cares about the blasted baleyard. Lets get that trailer moved in there and get on with our lives.

That was a little over a year ago now. Its hard to believe we've been "squatting" here in our singlewide just a stone's throw from the baleyard. From my kitchen window I can see a makeshift bale moving trailer, a rusted old army Jeep and a whole cavalry of old busted up vehicle carcasses. 100 m from our front gate stands a massive pile of brush, trees, decaying shed bits and shingles, accumulated there since the last time Pa burned it (and nearly burned out the neighbours as well). Oh Lord, its good to be home.

For the most part I'd say I am quite pleased and proud of where we are now. I realize now that baleyard squatting, although not glamourous, can be quite pleasant at times. Who says that success must be measured by the distance away from home? Perhaps spreading your wings and flying is the dream of some, yet it took me 5 years to realize that sometimes the best place to be is right where you came from.

Baby is now a robust, vibrant 14 month old. He has his own opinions of this world and how it works. He spends his days playing on the faded beige carpet of a singlewide baleyard trailer. Yet, when the sun is out we venture out around the farm, taking in sights and sounds that most kids his age only read about in story books. How many little boys can say they have their very own collection of "minis" right outside their back door? He will grow up thinking that daily adventures with pygmy goats, pot bellied pigs, mini horses, mini donkeys, dogs, cats and cows are normal. He will know what the stars look like in the pitch darkness of night. He will know what fresh mown hay will smell like, and he will see the miracles of life and nature unfolding outside his bedroom window everyday. That is the way I remember my childhood. I am filled with a warm oozie heart buzz at the thought of my Peanut having a similar fate.

This evening my bro (Uncle Momo) and I were driving home from the big city. For some ridiculous reason I enrolled Peanut into a Kindermusik class for $118. Once a week we get up early and drive an hour into the city so that we can sing, play and frolic with other little ones. The theme is farm animals and I can't help but see the irony. It occurs to me as I am rolling around on the floor "oinking" with socks on my hands alongside the other overly enthusiastic mothers that Peanut will probably have much more of an idea than any of these people as to what a real pig sounds like. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when he looks at me with that wise-beyond-his-years bemused look. He knows the score. He falls asleep as soon as we leave the city lights, unencumbered by any troubling thoughts or schemed, innocent and baby soft. Uncle Momo and I to reminisce about days gone by and our childhoods. We realize now that our "normal" childhoods were far from normal. There are some life experiences and freedoms that can't be experienced anywhere but from the unadultered rawness of the farm. We learned a lot about love, birth, life, responsibility, pain, suffering and death. There were many times our lives were bursting at the seams with joy, excitement and adventure. There were also times that we felt great loss, sadness, grief and curiosity when the life came full circle, our animal friends perished, returned to the ground they were born upon. Growing up on a farm has made my life so rich, and it took leaving the farm to realize it.

And that is that.

I sit here, Princess of my singlewide baleyard trailer, and I can honestly say, without a doubt, that this is where I'm supposed to be.

Take care,
Tams