Mary-Ellen Kirby

By Mary-Ellen Kirby

Quite Contrary

Local Journalism Initiative

   We are less than 40 days into the new year and North America’s political players have somersaulted back and forth so many times already that trying to keep up with developments has given me a severe case of whiplash. The overheated rhetoric, snarled threats and fist-shaking are reminiscent of the orchestrated hype leading up to a WWE wrestling match, except that the only folks likely to end up knocked out flat on the mat at this event are the spectators. The ‘War of the Tariffs’ would be a great show if it weren’t so stupidly dangerous for the rest of us.     

   The personal fortunes of both Horrible Orange-Man and Captain Sparkle-Socks guarantee they are well insulated from any financial repercussions of their little grudge match. And I can’t help but think that grudge is part of the motivation here. Only the saintliest among us could resist the urge to retaliate against someone who has quite publicly mocked and maligned us and it is probably safe to say that ‘saintly’ is a highly unlikely descriptor of the POTUS. Even a blind shark can smell blood in the water, and #47 can see that our lame duck leader is about to get his trust-fund keister handed to him on a silver platter so, naturally, the Great Orange shark circles for the kill. Hard to fault him for that, obviously a shark’s gotta do what a shark’s gotta do.

   I have a harder time understanding our PM’s response to the tariff threats, though. At a time when extremely high grocery costs have caused escalating food insecurity and more than 2 million Canadians are relying on the strained resources of food banks,

Jr. thinks it’s a good idea to impose counter tariffs on the American-grown fruits and vegetables we import into the great white North. I find it unconscionable that the PM would choose to weaponize food; the disregard for struggling Canadians is shameful. But then again, I suppose we can’t really expect him to relate: he has never had to worry about where his next extravagant meal is coming from, has he? In fact, he seems quite comfortable expecting taxpayers to pick up his grocery tab.

 Trump & Trudeau…has a nice alliterative ring to it, doesn’t it? Almost like an old-time comedy duo. Except there is nothing at all funny about these two posturing playboys and the harms they are willing to inflict on their citizens in the service of their respective egos. However, there may be some not so obvious up-sides to the great tariff war. First, it seems more than three-quarters of Canadians have agreed on something: a recent poll shows that a vast majority of Canadians want an immediate federal election so that we can deal with the U.S. from a position of a strong four-year mandate.

This is an astounding number, especially when you factor in Quebec’s customary anti-federal stance. Evidently, Trump is good for Canadian unity. Whodda thunk it?    Secondly, a nascent ‘Buy Canadian’ ‘Buy Local’ trend has surfaced in the last few weeks and my social media feeds are clogged with earnest calls for Canadians to boycott products of the U.S.A. accompanied by long lists of various ‘Made in Canada’ goods as substitutes. Even The Globe & Mail and the CBC have happily hopped onto that bandwagon. 

   As a local agricultural producer, I truly appreciate the sentiment and intent of this movement. However, I have a couple of caveats: First, I distrust bandwagons. I have seen far too many of them abandoned in ditches when the wheels fall off. A case in point: the gardening bandwagon of the recent Covid years, when seeds were in short supply. Any small seed supplier that planned to invest and increase their catalogue based on that hyper demand is probably now sitting on an excess of inventory, one that is subject to decay and loss. Bandwagon passengers are notoriously fickle; it is best not to factor them into any business plan. This is especially dangerous ground for farmers because agriculture moves at Nature’s pace, not at the speed of the internet. By the time farmers could gear up for increased local demand, most of the demanders would have cooled off and gone back to Costco because, in the end, buying cheaper is more important to them than buying Canadian. We are among the blessed few to have a good, steady, appreciative client base for our farm products, but we won’t be expanding in response to this latest trend: it is too risky and unreliable for us to bank on.

   My second concern is this: why aren’t we already buying local and buying Canadian, in that order? It is quite demoralizing to be taken for granted and this farmer is here to tell you that the rule of “Use it or Lose it” very much applies to farms and farmers. If buying Canadian is truly important, then do it regardless of trade wars, bombastic rulers or social media trends. It is the only way to ensure that ‘Buy Canadian’ remains a viable option in the future. Please don’t misunderstand me: I am very much in favour of a grassroots ‘Buy Local/Buy Canadian’ movement. I just wish it came from a more generous and sustainable motive than flipping our collective middle finger to the big, bad Horrible Orange -Man.  

   If Trump & Trudeau were pugnacious little banty roosters, riling up the citizens of the barnyard and upsetting the production of the hens, then I would know exactly how to deal with them. We have a down-home, made-on-the-farm solution: it’s called Mean Rooster Soup, and I wouldn’t waste any time sharpening my axe, either. Since that is not an option here, I will have to satisfy myself with a heartfelt “BAH!! A pox on both their houses!”

Photo: courtesy

By Mary Ellen Kirby

Local Journalism Initiative

   Could we have a moment of silence, please? I think a brief acknowledgement of the passing of giants is in order. It is a melancholy thing to wander the back roads of the Eastern Townships this summer and count the increasing number of stalwart old barns falling to wrack and ruin or simply disappearing altogether. Time and gravity have ravaged many; they have succumbed to vicious winds or punishing snow loads. Others have been scavenged, the bones picked apart, reduced to pricey plunder taken away to be repurposed as décor in city homes. Truly, I mourn their loss. It seems to me more than the simple loss of a building; it is also the loss of history and culture those grand old barns represent.

Some barns sit derelict, surrounded by cropland, like ghost ships adrift in a sea of waving corn tassels. Some are still attended by dilapidated farmhouses and decaying outbuildings, so at least they aren’t dying alone. Some have lost various parts of their anatomy, have listed sideways off their moorings or bear the indignity of trees growing through their roofs. They remind me of nothing so much as wounded soldiers, shamefully abandoned on the battlefield. And make no mistake: scraping a living from the land was indeed a battle back when those barns were built. A good, sturdy barn – or the lack thereof – could make or break the farm and the farmer.

   In those days, erecting a good barn was not farmed out (yes, pun intended) to various experts, engineers, architects and contractors. Farmers were both the brawn and the brains behind barn construction, relying on the life experience of older farmers and the willing hands of neighbouring farmers to get a barn raised. At least one winter would have been spent cutting and hauling out the logs to mill into the lumber needed, and a barn of any size at all needed a lot of lumber: no steel trusses or beams in those days. Many barns would have been roofed with cedar shakes, only replaced with sheets of tin as the farmer could afford it. Here in the Townships, many a barn foundation was built of field stones, painstakingly picked by hand, hauled by a team of horses and a dray or stone boat to the rock pile, where they waited patiently for future repurposing. A starkly different proposition than calling the closest cement plant for delivery of already mixed, ready to pour cement, I wager to say.

   Barn design was different in those days, as well. Cavernous hay mows were needed to store a winter’s worth of loose hay, pulled up into the mow with big rope and pulley operated hay forks. Far above our heads in the old barn that houses our sheep, the rusted steel track for the hay rig is still affixed to the cobwebbed ridge beam; it bears mute witness to a way of life that no longer exists. Hay mows are dim, dusty places, redolent of summer sun-warmed grasses; they are full of mysterious shadows, secretive, skittering noises and dust motes dancing in sunbeams slanting through cracks in the wall boards. For generations, hay mows have been beloved by farm kids looking for a dry place to play hide & seek on rainy days, barn cats hiding a litter of kittens, nesting barn swallows and the occasional farm boy intent on stealing a kiss from his sweetheart. Today’s modern barns have dispensed with hay mows as the hay is stored chopped and blown into a silo, stacked in a separate hay shed or left outside wrapped in plastic against our weather. Modern barns are long and low-slung, clad in shiny metal and they sport multiple enormous fans to circulate the air; new barns slouch and sprawl, while the old-timers stand tall and proud: beaten but not bowed. Old barns have tall wooden chimneys at either end. The chimneys were equipped with doors that could be opened or closed at floor level inside the barn and this simple system allowed the farmer to regulate the flow of hot and cold air manually, providing good air flow for the comfort and health of the winter-stabled livestock. Old barns have unique shapes and characters, and no wonder: each one was conceived according to the individual needs, tastes and budget of the farmer. Juxtapose the quirky individuality of ancient barns with the cookie-cutter models that seem to be popping up all over farm country these days; the new ones seem to be much of a muchness in their blandly boring uniformity. Yes, yes…I know: ‘efficiency’, blah, blah blah…’progress’, blah, blah, blah. But have we chosen to trade efficiency and progress for the very soul of the farm? If that is the case, I can’t help feeling it was a very poor trade indeed.

   I realize my prejudice is showing, but I won’t apologize for that. I prefer grizzled old veteran barns with stories to tell, stouthearted barns whose hand-hewn beams are infused with a century’s worth of memories, generous barns that offer shelter and succour to both man and beast. New barns don’t have time for any of that fanciful nonsense: they are much too busy proudly proclaiming their efficiency. I think their bright and shiny, new and improved allure is a poor substitute for the comforting countenance of an old barn. New barns are brisk, business-like structures; they more closely identify with an industrial setting than an agrarian one. They unapologetically make no provision for mama cats and kittens, fledgling barn swallows, courting farm boys or, most sadly, children at play. If small children can’t exercise their imaginations in the safe embrace of an old barn, how can we expect them to imagine themselves as the farmer? I have been accused of harbouring overly romantic notions about farming and perhaps that is true. Again, I make no apologies. But it is very difficult to fall in love with sprawling industrial facilities, no matter how efficient they are. And, at the root of it all, it is love that makes a farm – and a farmer.

   I am grateful that the old barn I grew up in is still standing resolute; that it still hears the lowing of cattle, the rustle of barn swallows, the mewling of kittens and the laughter of children. Does it still provide the romantic setting for a stolen kiss or two? I’m not telling. The dying barns dotting our countryside haven’t been occupied in decades; they are unequivocal proof that the adage of ‘use it or lose it’ still applies. Most old barns still in use have been modernized: electric lights in lieu of lanterns, mechanical barn cleaning systems replacing pitch forks and wheelbarrows, automated water bowls instead of lugging endless pails of water. I am not opposed to bringing 21^st century function to 19^th century structures; I just wish the iconic character of old barns could remain intact. I wish the solid legacy of those barns, and their builders could be honoured by continued purposeful use. Those tough old barns and the resourceful, determined farmers who built them, are the rock-solid foundation this country was built on. With the neglect and destruction of every old barn, goes a piece of our history, a piece of our culture. It is a very sad day when another giant topples.

   I wish I could launch an old barn rescue mission. I wish I could save them all, give them the respect they are due. I wish it was contagious, this passion of mine for the weary old warriors still standing; maybe then we could reverse the distressing modern trend of abandoning these monumental old heroes. Oh well…if wishes were horses, then beggars could ride, as the old saying goes. And if my wishes came true, the horses would have beautiful old barns to live in.      

By Mary-Ellen Kirby

Local Journalism Initiative

     Have you ever – literally or figuratively – painted yourself into a corner? I will never forget the first time that happened to me. As a very young and much too-cool-for-the-country adolescent, I made the mistake of complaining to my mother about how tragically bored I was, stuck on our stinky farm with nothing to do. With a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and a big smile, she assured me she could solve my problem. She left me sulking in my corner and disappeared. I was sure she would come back in clean clothes, ready to take me shopping in Sherbrooke. I could almost hear the exciting, new Carrefour de L’Estrie mall calling my name! When she returned a scant few minutes later, not only was she still wearing her chore clothes, but she was also carrying a broom and dustpan, a pail of hot, soapy water and a rag. Still beaming her big smile, she confessed that she was glad to hear that I had so much free time on my hands. She explained that because Dad needed her help outside so often, she had gotten behind in the housework and the living room floor was in desperate need of a good scrubbing.

   “Move the furniture and give the floor a good sweep, then wash it and when it dries, you can wax it, too. The floor wax and cloth are under the kitchen sink.” Stunned into silence, all I could do was nod. In those days, children simply did not talk back to their parents. That floor got the best sweeping of its life: the more I swept, the madder I got. I sloshed that hot, soapy water around and scrubbed till the pattern nearly came off the old linoleum, my sense of injustice building by the second. By the time the floor dried, I had worked myself into a fine lather of martyred indignation. In high dudgeon, I grabbed the can of floor wax from under the kitchen sink and, mumbling and muttering under my breath about the unfairness of it all, proceeded to power wax the living room floor. On my hands and knees, oblivious in all my righteous fury, I laid down a goodly coat of paste wax in warp speed – from the kitchen door right into the proverbial corner. So, there I sat: seething – or “stewing in my own juice” as my father would have said – waiting for the wax to dry enough for me to escape my self-imposed prison. It was a formative moment.

    I have been pondering painted-in corners and self-imposed prisons frequently of late. When I contemplate the subtle but alarming changes to the pastoral landscape of my beloved Eastern Townships, I get that same sinking feeling of rueful recognition. It appears obvious to me that we have been painting ourselves into a corner – agriculturally speaking – for quite some time now. Many of the picturesque villages and quaint hamlets set in gently rolling hills that make the Townships so attractive seem to have fallen on hard times; they are mere ghosts of their former bustling selves. In the village where I attended elementary school, there were two schools, two grocery stores, two hotel/bars, two banks, two gas stations, four churches, a post office, a grist mill, a lumber mill, a doctor’s office and several other small enterprises. Today, the only things still standing are one school, one gas station, one hotel/bar and the post office. We have added a depanneur and a restaurant and while three of the four churches remain open, their congregations have shrunk considerably.

   The decline is obvious, but what is not so obvious is the underlying reason for that decline. To grasp the root cause, a trip into the surrounding countryside is in order. In a five-mile radius around that village were 30-40 small dairy farms. The farm children went to school in the village, the farmers bought fuel and rubber boots and nails and baler twine and fencing wire and animal feed and groceries in the village; they went to dances on Saturday night and church on Sunday morning. The farmers sat on town council, volunteered at church, school, charitable and civic organizations, contributed to fund-raisers and organized events: they were the backbone of that community. In that same five-mile radius today, I can count the dairy farms on the fingers of my two hands…and still have fingers left over. So, where did all the farmers go? Like many simple questions, this one has a complex answer. I think one factor was the burden of increasing government interference: many farmers simply quit because they got tired of jumping through ever more onerous regulatory hoops. The rise of the Parti Québécois also played a role: some farmers just packed up and headed for more Anglo-friendly jurisdictions. Then there is the sad fact that fewer farm kids wanted to take over from their parents so that retirement-aged farmers had no option but to sell off the family farm. The pressures – both natural and man-made – exerted on farmers are formidable, no wonder there are so few applicants for the job.

   In our current agricultural landscape, small family-friendly farms have largely passed away and with them, our once vibrant village life. The farmland itself hasn’t disappeared; it has merely been swallowed up by increasingly larger farms who practice the ‘bigger is better’ business model. But the economic spin-offs from one large farm/farmer simply can’t make up for the loss of numerous small farm families: not in our schools, not in our churches, not in our villages. When numbered companies and foreign investor groups with deep pockets can swoop in and buy up large swaths of agricultural land, it prices our own real farmers out of the market.   Not so long ago, buying a farm – becoming a farmer – was an attainable goal in the Townships. A young farmer could be reasonably certain, that with good management, the farm would pay for itself and could be passed down to the next generation. Alas, this is increasingly rare.

   I was never very good at math, but it seems to me that when it is no longer feasible to buy a farm and pay for it by farming it, we have a huge problem. Land speculators produce nothing edible. When Townships farmland leaves the hands of real Townships farmers, our food sovereignty is diminished, our communities contract and ultimately, these beautiful Eastern Townships are tarnished by the losses. And so, dear reader, I think we have arrived at the corner of this conundrum.  We can see our predicament and we can even see how we got in this mess; what we can’t see is an easy way out of this uncomfortably tight corner. Whatever the answers are, I’m certain it won’t be as simple as waiting for the paint – or wax – to dry.

Mary-Ellen KIrby writes from her small farm in Bulwer, where she lives with her husband (a.k.a. the Shepherd), their dog, assorted barn cats, a motley collection of sheep, chickens, pigs and a donkey named Millie.