When I was a little girl on the farm, it seemed to me there were acres
that went on forever. A day was
timeless, with many hours to fill with play and wonder. My Mom was usually in the kitchen, preparing
good things for us to eat. Dad was
always busy planting, or baling hay, cleaning pens, or mending fences. The sound of him starting up the old Ford
tractor was always a comfort, because he was just always “there”. It was fun to watch the calves with their
Mama cows, leaping and running around with the other calves, the grown up
cattle grazing and content as they chewed their cuds. I was never afraid to walk the fields and pet
the ones that would let you come close.
I grew up counting “cow pies” and kicking the dry ones just for
fun. I took many “city” kids all over
the farm, teaching them our country ways.
We spent countless hours in the barn jumping from the high beams into
the soft, loose, sweet hay. There were
certain ideas about “farmers” that those kids had; it didn’t take much to
figure out how or what they thought about country folk. I won’t ever forget the surprised look on a
couple of faces when I invited them into our house and Mom had it gleaming and
spotless with a wonderful aroma coming from the oven. Further inside, the dining room table had
snow-white lace on it, and the biggest revelation of all was the beautiful, old
piano in the corner of the living room.
We didn’t have a lot of money, but what we did have was certainly
well-cared for.
We were taught right from wrong, and honesty was a way of life. I wasn’t very impressed when a little girl
from the city took home a pink, flowered top that I had sewn for my Barbie
doll. First of all, the blouse was
missing, which was strange, this being after having the girls over to
play. Then it was my turn to go over to
one of the chalets at Beaver Valley Ski Resort, and in the midst of our Barbie
collection, was the very same pink, flowered top. I knew my sewing of course. The new owner explained how she had “found”
the same material I had, in her Mom’s sewing box, and she had made the very
same top! Well, I knew better, but I
kept quiet and let it go. I had learned
that most of the time it was better to just let things be; she would learn in
time. My Dad walked away from silly
arguments, and just let on that the other person was “likely right”, when in
fact he knew better. What was inside
yourself was way more important.
As the youngest in the family, and coming along fairly late as I did,
I often felt pretty much on my own, with the busyness of the older ones taking
centre stage. I didn’t get much
attention, and being quiet and shy from the beginning, I don’t think that I was
demanding of any. But one visit stands
out, because “someone” actually “chose” to spend time with me! That person was my cousin, Stu.
Company was often unexpected, but my Mom always had her famous pies
baked and ready for anyone who might drop in.
I was pretty little and actually do not remember who all was present
during that visit. What I do remember is
that when I started to tell Stu about the Roars in the barn, he seemed really
interested! The more he paid attention,
the more story I told. When I asked him
if he wanted to come out to the barn and see the Roars, he immediately said
that he did! Well, was I ever surprised.
So, donning boots and jackets, out we strode, all the way to the barn
which loomed above me like a great mystery.
During our walk I continued to tell him all about these creatures that
lived in the hay mows, never actually coming out so that you could see
them! But they were there! Living, and eating, and growling, and liking
the fact that they had the barn to themselves at night, when they could come
out of the hay mows and Roar!! The more
I came up with something that they had done, the more Stu laughed. I was astounded at him actually enjoying
“just me”. He asked me, “Are they
really called “Roars”?”
“Oh, yes. They are Roars! They
really are called “Roars”!”
I spent a lot of time on the farm alone, the others getting married,
moving away, and just me left at home.
Looking back now, I guess this was all part and parcel in making me the
loner and the writer that I am today. I
don’t mind silence or solitude; in fact I thrive on it. I won’t ever be a city or even a town
girl. Country is in my blood and I am
proud of it. Those days of rambling over
acres, kicking up the cow pies, exploring the valley and the Beaver River will
always sustain me. I have many stories
to tell, but I will always remember that first time that “someone”, my cousin
Stu, was so enthralled with “just me”. He
chose to believe!, and he listened to all I had to say about the Roars in the
barn.
Today, when I park my car and ramble over to take a picture of an
old-fashioned, bank barn, before they are all gone and just pictures in
history, I can still sense them there, way up in the rafters, happy and content
they are…my “Roars”.
cailin raine
