I Honor You

            I recently sorted through the old documents that provided the inspiration and content of this story, taking the opportunity to dispose of some of the material.  In this purge, I sent to the recycling bin pages and pages of correspondence between Augustin (Gus) and others relating to land transactions. There was correspondence about a sale of a portion of the farm, more about the provision of easements, others about people trespassing onto the farm.The flurry of land negotiations all took place around 1955, just under 10 years after Gus purchased his portion of the farm. 
        The greatest gift this last visit to the old documents gave me was a new appreciation for my step grandfather, Gus. We had been told by Gus that he was the central figure on the farm in those early years, but sadly we somewhat discounted his stories. Eddy was working off farm, logging and building roads all over the province.  By the time I was old enough to notice how the farm was working it was Eddy that was "in charge" of decision making around all the workings of the farm. The old documents are clear testaments to Gus's version of events All of the farm bills and correspondence are addressed to Gus. I had not fully understood the scope of the role that Gus had during those early years. I gained a deeper appreciation when I calculated his age. My father was 19 when he moved to the farm, and his friend, Gus, was 26. Gus was young to be entering into financial negotiations over the purchase of land. The buyers were much older and had the financial means to hire a lawyer to assist in the process. As I read over the documents I get a sense that Gus may have been at a disadvantage due to his inexperience, which resulted into the extended period of time, well over a year, to bring the land deal to a close. There were no realtors involved in any of these sales, and minimal lawyer representation, most likely due to cost. There was evidence that the letters had been first written out, edited and then typed, most likely by my grandmother. All of this made for a complicated time consuming process.            
          All of the people discussing sales and easements were living in either Vancouver or Calgary, returning to the Shuswap primarily in the summer months as tourists. Gone were the days of farmer selling to another farmer as it was when Gus and Eddy had first arrived in the area.  The farm expressed concern at this time to the Government about the rumour that owner of one of the properties of 2.5 acres was considering selling it as a campground. The government official reassured Gus that this was not the case. Gus and his father-in-law were concerned about the negative impact of tourists on the farm; scaring the cattle, gathering of firewood, and noise. This would be the start of the pressure of tourism, and the often-conflicting needs between farmer and tourist.  It is somewhat ironic as many years later it was the creation of an RV park next door to the proposed one in 1955, which we hoped would finally end the ongoing financial stressors of the farm.        

            This story has led me to reflect on the importance of acknowledging the work and contributions of others. I don’t believe this is a common practice. Perhaps there is a belief that it is your job, and there is no need to be thanked for doing it. Gus passed a number of years ago thus I am limited to acknowledging his version of the farm history in writing. I feel sad that I have not been able to express my gratitude in person, however the impetus for writing this story was to provide an accurate history of the farm thus it is a comfort that Gus’s contributions can be included in this record. The years have given me a different perspective of Gus; I have a better appreciation for his unquestioning loyalty to my parents and his efforts to support my father in all his endeavours on the farm. 
The photo below is Circa early 1950s. Eddy on his cherished bulldozer with Gus standing beside. Gus did his best to support Eddy on the farm by assisting in the various farm and off farm duties, as well as in the purchase of many of the machines and other related farm equipment. 

The bottom letter is the one that Gus sent outlining his worries about a campground going in next to the farm. The top letter is the response from the Minister of recreation and Conservation. 

I love you so terribly much

        In our new home far away from the ranch I recently encountered a demanding box of old paperwork that I have been neglecting to sort through. It has many of the photos, documents and letters that formed the basis of this blog. When I started sorting through the material many  years ago it spread over an entire home office. I think I missed my true calling as a museum curator as most people would have delegated the papers to the burn pile. The papers had been stored in my grandparents attic. My grandparents did not prescribe to the legal requirements of keeping documents for 7 years, but rather a lifetime.  I have farm receipts dating back to 1952. My great-grandmother Caroline was a postcard collector. There were stacks of postcards carefully tied together with string. Many of them had not been written on, bought for collection purposes. There is a folder of letters and cards of condolences that my grandmother received on the passing of her son, John, in 1951, including the telegram informing her of his car accident. They are all in the original folder, labelled John. There were even some notes of the kind that would be left on a counter top. The most heart wrenching is one that my grandmother wrote to her husband Gus, informing him that she had to go to town to see her brother who was not well. She told him that there was soup on the stove for him, signing off with "I love you so terribly much". Included is even a note that I wrote myself, on the back of a map of the farm, titled "Caroline's Pie". My grandmother was a gifted pie maker which started me on the path as a pie lover. I had the greedy tendency to reserve leftover slices for myself.
        Over the years I have sorted and discarded items from this collection. It is hard to throw things away that have been kept so long and with such intention, but on a practical level there is just not enough room to keep everything.  Unlike my grandparents I don't have an attic where I can put things and then forget about them. Our town house has painfully little storage room, unlike the days when we lived on the farm with out-outbuildings and a large house with eaves, perfect for putting boxes of things that you did not know what to do with. In my latest effort to diminish the collection I went from a large plastic tote to a small suitcase. There are some things that I can not yet bear to throw out although I probably should. The old diaries and keepsake photo albums are so intensely personal, but yet I continue to keep them. There is a journal that is ineligible, due in part to the faded hard to read script, but also some of the writing appears to be in code. I don't even know who the journal belongs to. Part of my motivation to reduce the amount of material is thinking of my children one day being faced with deciding what to do with all detritus of my life. There is not the volume now as there was in the past with photos being digital and letters mostly replaced by emails. I wonder though if some of that history will be lost. For a number of months this blog disappeared due to the webpage expiring. It was complicated to retrieve it and made me reflect on how impermanent the digital age is. After the blog incident I made a digital will to share with my children in an effort to preserve the photos and written history.
           I am the curator of the farm history, a role I have invested hours of research into. It is a story I never tire of.

Gus and Renee's attic. Circa 1990s, taken just before that part of the house was destroyed. This is where most of the material used for this story was stored. Photo credits Gordon Milne. 

The collection now only takes up a table top instead of an entire room.

What remains of my great-grandmother's postcard collection.

A reminder of my childhood greed for pie. 

The photo albums and diaries. 

There was a much larger assortment of old receipts, but I kept only those that are the most interesting such as the one on top from the Salmon Arm Farming Exchange, dated 1952.

The unknown author of this diary had difficult hand writing to read, and may be writing in code.

Coming Home

I recently was able to access this video that was made by Dan Redekop as a marketing tool to sell our home. The version here is edited so that it could load properly. The full version can be viewed on the facebook page Shuswap Lake Ranch.
It is not an easy piece to watch for anyone that has lived at our place. The sale meant that we were free from living in trauma, although the impact of that experience would continue for years after, but also meant the perception that we had lost our home. This loss impacted not only our family but many other people that had shared our home with us.
When we were looking for a new place to live we initially made attempts to duplicate somewhat what we had lost, but found that it was not possible. Finally we settled in a house that had a Lakeview. The biggest impact between moving from rural to urban was the loss of the animals, especially the horses that I desperately missed. The lack of land and the closeness of the neighbours was also a significant challenge.
What I did find though that came about due to this loss is that home is not tied to a physical space. It is for me that feeling of sense or security that comes within the self. This realization has allowed me to detach from the farm and adapt more of an acceptance for the impermanence of life.

Coming Home

        

Tell me dear friend, what is your home?

A feeling, the intimate and knowing smell, or bright light from window,

welcoming at the end of the day?

Home for me, at one time, was a long exhale of relief, to be there.

Dirt, long sun baked and hard.  Or after rain, sweet and smelling of leaf and wood.

Everywhere I could sense the lake, water with the long embrace of cool.

The pull to the shore on a hot day, or in winter gazing at the blue, grey icy shoreline.

There were secret places known from childhood, deep in grasses, deliciously hidden caves,

streams with miniature water falls.

The place held bones from those who had walked alongside us, laid with love under stones.

Their stories remembered as tools were used, a road crossed, the hay crop brought in.

Endless hills to climb, forests to wander, paths to follow.

All of this shared with animals, birds, friends.

The house etched with names, messages, gifts from those who loved us.

All of it was never finished, always a nail was needed or a weed to be pulled.

Tasks without end so that work was a constant companion.

Stories started at this place, and are still told.

Then it was all gone, and grief told me I had forever lost my home.

That was not true, our thoughts are not always good guides.  

All that was home has found me, but with no place.

It is now a knowing, a feeling of belonging, that happens everywhere.

Nothing has been lost, but much gained.

I am in this moment safe, and enough.

Welcome, dear friend, to my home.