The Accidental Farmwife

By Diana Leeson Fisher

In 2007, Diana Leeson married university professor Jim Fisher. As they did not live together before marriage, the fact that he was also a farmer seemed to have slipped her mind. She woke up on the farm after her wedding, to the sound of a donkey braying. Suddenly she realized she was a farmer’s wife.

As she made herself at home on

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Dec 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781772570625

Book preview

Preface

This book is a compilation of columns published in Ottawa Region Media Group newspapers between 2007 and 2014. The Accidental Farmwife continues to run in up to six weekly publications in the National Capital Region.

Often funny, sometimes sad, but always heartfelt, these stories read like a month-to-month journal entry of life on the farm. The Accidental Farmwife does not profess to be an expert on any aspects of farm life, so do not rely on this book in any way as a guide. And although it is a non-fiction book, the Farmwife never lets truth get in the way of a good story. Although based on true events, some incidents may be embellished for the sake of creativity.

Fans of the Farmwife compare her work to the stories of British veterinarian James Herriot, or the Ottawa Valley’s Mary Cook. The author is often invited to speak at agricultural conferences, literary events, and at seniors’ homes, where many in the audience were once farmers’ wives themselves.

Introduction

When I grow up I want to be a librarian. Or a housewife. I’m already halfway there, you see, because I have a boyfriend.

Diana Leeson, aged 10, 1978.

In August 2007, I married Jim Fisher. He was a university professor, but he was also a sheep farmer. I didn’t give that much thought until after we were married and I moved in with him on the farm. The morning after our wedding, I awoke to the smell of manure and the sound of a donkey braying and I suddenly realized: I’m a farmer’s wife.

My eldest daughter, Milena, was already living with her boyfriend and attending college when we married, but my middle daughter, Anastasia, moved to the farm with me. My youngest, Paulina, joined her about a year later. Jim’s daughters Sarah and Amy lived with their mother but they visited often, as they still had their rooms on the farm. It was rarely an empty nest.

Because nothing is really an accident

Feb. 14, 2014

Occasionally, I am asked to tell the love story that turned me into an Accidental Farmwife. Well, you might have heard it before, but in honour of Valentine’s Day, here it goes again.

I first met the Farmer over twenty years ago, when he arrived in Kemptville to teach at the college. My mother, who worked as assistant to the director at KCAT, told me about the long-legged cowboy who had arrived on the scene. I saw him a couple of times in passing at college events, and was always impressed by his big, warm smile.

Fast-forward several years, and both our respective marriages had ended. He was in the throes of single parenthood and I was coming home after three years in Asia. About two months after I arrived home, I saw him in the parking lot at the Kemptville Mall. I waved on my way into the store, where I was heading to try on swimsuits.

Two hours later, when I emerged from the store, his truck was still there. My heart did a little flip. I knew he must be waiting for me and I was so not ready. I quickly got into my car, sliding down into the seat. He suddenly appeared at my door, his lanky height lowering down to a squat beside my window.

Hey. I know you’re real busy with kids but if you want to get out and talk to an adult sometime, I’d like to take you for a coffee.

I sputtered something about not being ready to date yet after just arriving home, reuniting with my kids, trying to find a job … and suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of all the challenges before me, and the shock of someone asking me out on a date, I started to cry. The Farmer slowly backed away from the crazy woman in the car.

Okay, well, if you change your mind, give me a call …

To this day, if you ask the Farmer, he will tell you that I said no. I did not say no. I said I wasn’t ready, and that’s an entirely different thing.

Over the next two weeks, I drove past the Fisher farm a couple of times, and spent a few minutes a day staring at the Farmer’s photo on the college website. Finally, on a hot, sunny afternoon in June, I picked up the phone and dialed his office extension. He picked up on the first ring.

Hi. It’s Diana Leeson. I’m ready to go for that coffee now if the offer is still open.

Do you do lunch? he asked. I told him of course I did, and then he said to meet him at the Edgewater Restaurant in ten minutes. I hung up the phone and looked down at myself. I had spent the morning weeding a flowerbed. I was covered in sweat, dirt and pollen. As I headed to the shower, I yelled to my daughter that I needed help picking out something to wear.

About twenty minutes later, I arrived fashionably late for our lunch date. For the next hour, we laughed and chatted about our children. I felt instantly at ease in his presence, so when he asked for a dinner date the following night, I said yes. And the kiss he gave me at the end of our lunch didn’t hurt, either. It just about melted my kneecaps off.

Those first few months of dating were a whirlwind as we juggled young teenagers, work, and farming schedules, and I settled into a new home in Kemptville. But the following spring, the Farmer asked me to be his wife. I was totally taken by surprise, and spent a couple of hours arguing with him, telling him I wasn’t a very good investment and asking him how we would manage with five daughters between us. He let me rant then got a yes out of me. We were married a few months later, on the farm.

I don’t know what made him ask me out that day, but I’m glad he did. He jokes that I was one of the only eligible single women in town so when I arrived he thought he’d better scoop me up before someone else did. He also says, You can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket. Well, the joke’s on him. I feel like I’m the winner, here.

Rainbow butts

October 5, 2007

Waking up to the sound of a donkey braying, I must admit, is far more pleasant than waking up to the sounds of several dozen taxis honking on the crowded streets of Taipei. The Taiwanese believe that joyful noise will scare away evil spirits. I’ll risk the boredom of peace and quiet in Canada, any day.

I am proud to say that after one month on the farm, I now know how sheep end up with multicoloured behinds. But that, I’m afraid, is the extent of my farm knowledge. My parents moved to Kemptville from Ottawa in the ’60s. Dad started teaching at North Grenville District High School the same year, and Mom soon took up her post as director’s assistant at Kemptville College. I was born at Kemptville District Hospital in 1968, when my parents lived in the apartment above what was then Anderson’s Ladies Wear. We moved to George Street and lived there until I was about eight, then Carl Norenberg built us a wonderful house out in the country.

We were in one of only a handful of houses on Johnston Road. You could hear company coming as soon as they pulled off Highway 43 and onto the gravel, over a mile away. We climbed trees (pushed the neighbour’s son out of one once … those ambulances are pretty good at off-roading), borrowed kittens from the Williamses’ farm down the road, and even learned to ride horseback through the quarry that is now Oxford Heights subdivision on Abbott Road. But we really knew nothing about farm life. School friends who were members of the mysterious 4–H Club knew what farm life was all about. But to the rest of us, they were simply the boys who could dance a mean two-step.

My husband jokes that the city folk are very entertained by life on the farm. Our Ottawa relatives come out to the farm, sit on the porch, and watch the sheep, fascinated by their habits.

I remember driving down County Road 43 with my daughters in 2001, and we passed by a sheep farm. One of my girls yelled, Hey! How come some of the sheep have green butts and some have red?

Hmmm …

I was trying to come up with a creative answer to her question. The best I could do was, Green means ‘go,’ so … the green bum sheep are ready for slaughter, and the red ones aren’t ready yet. Maybe they are too small or something. Silence prevailed while my daughter processed that information. I looked back in the rear-view mirror to study her expression. I could see a thought coming …

But … they can’t see their own butts. They have to go around and ask each other what colour they are!

Yes! I replied. And maybe they are lying to each other! One sheep with a green bum comes up to his friend and says, ‘Hey —what colour am I?’ And the other sheep says, ‘Red, man, red. Nothing to worry about.’ And then he turns to the other sheep and whispers, ‘Oh, man … he’s green …’

Sheep don’t like to breed in the summer, apparently, as it is too hot for such behaviour. They prefer the fall, around Thanksgiving, which, unfortunately, means they are ready to birth in February. When it’s minus 30°C.

My husband was perhaps too happily ensconced in honeymoon mode himself to notice that it was time to let the ram out to mingle with the sheep. But the bunch of heated females leaning on the fence reminded him of the season. In fact, one jumped the fence to be with her man (well, everyone’s man, actually). Farmer Fisher went and got a brand-new harness (a jealous donkey had shredded the last one) and block of red crayon to strap on the ram. Properly equipped, the ram set out to do his business.

Last year, the Farmer had two rams. One wore a blue crayon, the other red. One of the girls (we have five between us) was jumping on the trampoline the first morning after we let the rams loose in the herd. Do you see any blue or red bums? the Farmer asked.

Well, I don’t see any white ones, she answered. And some are kind of rainbow.

We are hoping that this year’s ram, who has to take care of business all on his own, is up to the task.

The Resident bad ass

October 19, 2007

On the subject of the farm, it’s time to introduce the resident bad ass. Donkey, as he is fondly known, is a necessary evil on our sheep farm. Having grown tired of losing sheep to coyotes over the years, the Farmer decided last year to add a new beast to his menagerie. Some sheep farmers employ llamas for this purpose. The sheer size —and smell —of the animal keeps the predators at bay. But Donkey was cheap (and he doesn’t spit), so he was loaded into the back of the pickup truck and added to the population at the farm.

At first, everything seemed to be running along smoothly. Donkey led the sheep out to pasture every morning and herded them back to the barn at sunset. The coyotes stayed away, because Donkey gives off a scent, he looks menacing, and he leaves piles of droppings in strategic placements around the field. Then we noticed that Donkey has a mean side.

Allow me to use the analogy of a bad biker boyfriend. The gang is safe from enemies when they are around their fearless leader, but they aren’t always safe from him. When Donkey is in a bad mood or feeling sexually frustrated or just plain bored, he likes to chase and bite the sheep. Occasionally, he causes fairly serious injury.

When under attack, a ewe will lie down and play dead. One day, the youngest Fisher was jumping on her trampoline, and the Farmer was out on a duck hunt. The young lady called to me in the kitchen: Diana! Donkey is staring at me. I think he’s trying to tell me something.

I went outside. Sure enough, there was Donkey leaning on the fence, staring at Amy.

I think he killed that sheep! Amy suddenly yelled, pointing beyond the donkey to a pile of white fluff lying on its back in a gully. Incensed, I grabbed a piece of wood and let myself into the field, Donkey following close behind me, as he likes to do. I walked over to the sheep, to assess the damage. Donkey was a little too close, so I spun around and wielded my stick over my head. Gaaaaaaahhhhh! I yelled.

That worked. Donkey headed out to pasture at a gallop, as the aforementioned sheep awoke from her trancelike state and sprung out of the gully, fully recovered. I marched back to the house, triumphant. But that was not the end of Donkey’s reign of terror.

Our bad ass likes to lure his prey with a sense of false security. He stands at the fence, looking cute and curious, and waits patiently for someone to fall under his spell.

My sister, a graduate of the Wildlife Resource Program at McGill University, is a lover of all animals. On her first visit to the farm, she decided to go wandering into the barnyard to meet the beasts. About half an hour later, the Farmer and I realized that an ominous quiet lay over the farm. Have you seen Cathy lately? I asked.

Suddenly, a low, billowing cry spread out from the field. Help!

I panicked. My sister doesn’t scare easily. Something unspeakable must have happened. We ran to the field, and there she was, holding Donkey’s muzzle away from her at arm’s length. The beast had been gentle enough when she was petting him, but as soon as she turned to walk away, he got ugly.

The Farmer showed the animal lover how to wield a stick, and all was well. Donkey took the insult and passed it on to an unsuspecting ewe.

But I don’t want to give you a completely negative impression of Donkey. He is a character, after all, and everyone has a good side. Donkey is very curious, and he loves to meet people and be entertained. The only coyote kill we’ve had since we acquired Donkey, actually, was on Thanksgiving Day last year when Donkey spent the majority of the afternoon watching the teenaged relatives playing football instead of guarding the sheep.

When we take the ATV down the lane through the back of the property, Donkey likes to follow on our heels like a loyal pup. And if the Farmer is working on the temperamental tractor engine, Donkey is right there, breathing hotly on the back of his neck. Having never been very comfortable around horses, the Farmer would prefer that Donkey stay on his side of the barnyard.

The only person who seems to be completely unchallenged by Donkey is our middle daughter, fifteen-year-old Anastasia. Annie has the beast running up and down the length of the fence after her, kicking up his heels. He lets her get close enough to kiss his nose, and occasionally he will even bray on command. She is our self-proclaimed donkey whisperer, and her love and attention may just be the saving grace for our bad-tempered beast. If Donkey can learn to behave himself, we might not have to trade him in for a llama after all.

The Donkey saga continues

November 23, 2007

I didn’t know donkeys could read. The day after I filed my previous column, about our not-so-well-behaved donkey, the main character decided to write a new chapter.

We had turned in early that night, because Farmer Fisher was planning to go duck hunting at sunrise. At eleven p.m., however, our rest was interrupted by Donkey braying a tune directly beneath our bedroom window. Thinking that the beast had busted a hole in the fence and led the sheep into the yard to eat the garden again, we bolted for the door.

There were no sheep in the garden, but Donkey had somehow made his way into the yard, and was standing at the foot of the porch stairs.

We looked for the sheep, but they were nowhere to be found. I put the dog leash on the wild-eyed Donkey and coaxed him back through the gate into the barnyard. My husband started up the ATV and drove the fenceline, looking for any exit that the sheep might have used. When he returned to me, we both realized that Donkey had disappeared.

Come on, he said, and I swung a leg up over the four-wheeled steed.

We drove back a couple of fields down the tractor lane and then suddenly we came upon Donkey standing beside his girls, who were on the other side of the fence. The sheep had found a hole in the fence that Donkey couldn’t pass through. They had grazed there contentedly until sunset, when panic began to set in. The ewes were not smart enough to find their way back through the hole in the fence when darkness fell. Their fat, fluffy butts were trapped in coyote territory, on the wrong side of the fence.

Slowly we came to the realization that Donkey had gone all the way back up to the farm himself, brayed for our attention, and then jumped the fence into the backyard of the house, just to tell us that the sheep had gotten themselves into trouble. He was a hero, of sorts. We had to admit that Donkey is smarter than he looks. He does serve a purpose. We gave Donk an apple, patted him on the head, and helped him herd his ladies into the barn.

A few days later, at seven o’clock on a weekday morning, the neighbour showed up, leading Donkey by the halter. That’s the first time I ever saw a donkey in my backyard! he laughed.

Farmer Fisher searched the fenceline again, hoping to find the spot where Donkey had broken through. He found nothing. We decided that Donkey was either a descendant of Houdini, or he had summoned the energy and coordination to once again jump the fence.

The next morning, Donkey brayed at three, four, and five a.m. At 5:20 a.m., another neighbour led him home. He’s making the rounds, grumbled the Farmer.

On my way to work that morning, I met the new neighbour who had just moved in a few weeks earlier, jogging down the road. I warned her about Donkey. Oh, we’ve met, she said. He was standing in my laneway when I went to get the paper one morning. I drive the car down for the paper now. I apologized for the behaviour of our unruly charge. Obviously, Donkey had a new hobby. He had developed a fondness for wandering at sunrise.

Farmer Fisher decided that Donkey needed to be handicapped with some sort of device that would deter him from jumping the fence. He hung a length of chain from Donkey’s halter, with the hope that the animal would knock his knees on the chain and therefore be discouraged from jumping.

That night, the Farmer went out of town for a hunt, and I had a girls’ night in. Several friends stayed over, and we watched movies, drank wine, and chatted over snacks until the wee hours. We were none too pleased to be awakened at seven a.m., by the sound of Donkey braying in the yard. There he was, attempting to drink from the swimming pool, covered from head to toe in burrs. He was a sorry-looking beast.

I scolded Donkey and removed the useless chain from his halter, along with the bulk of the burrs. He hung his head in shame, and wandered off to bite a ewe.

Later that day, my father showed up to visit Donkey. He and the animal communicate telepathically, I think. They seem to understand each other. Anyway, on this particular day, which started, if you remember, with Donkey being scolded for his behaviour, the beast decided he wasn’t feeling very social. He ignored the calls for his attention, and wandered off to pasture with the sheep.

I went to the kitchen to get an apple, and crossed the barnyard to the edge of the pasture. I held the apple high and waved it while calling Donkey. He can spot a piece of fruit from quite a distance. Donkey slowly wandered back to the house and carried out a proper visit for the price of one Macintosh apple.

When Farmer Fisher returned from his hunting trip, Donkey got a new piece of jewellery. He now has enough chain hanging from his halter that not only will he not be able to coordinate jumping over a fence —he also won’t be able to run after the sheep.

And he does a mean impression of old Jacob Marley, rattling his chains in the morning mist.

The arrival of Betty and Ginger

December 7, 2007

The sheep can only eat so much. They need help keeping our 200 acres neat and tidy, so Farmer Fisher decided we should get … beef cows. They would keep the grass down for us, perhaps keep the coyotes at bay with their sheer size, and they might even make good pets for the next eight or ten years. That was the plan.

So off we went to market. My husband was thinking Black Angus would be nice. The cows are typically smaller in size, and the beef garners a good price. We arrived at Leo’s Livestock Barns early on Saturday morning and wandered around, looking at the numbered cattle. There were only about five black cows, so we recorded their numbers on our list and went to take a seat in the auction gallery.

It was a full house. I had been to auction once before, when the Farmer sold his lambs. But I had never been on the bidding end of the deal. The auctioneer rattled off the details of each cow, in both official languages. John Michael Montgomery’s Auction Song kept running through my head: she’s an eight, she’s a nine, she’s a ten I know … I tried to focus. Most of the chatter around us was in French, and we struggled to keep up with the numbers.

The cows were sent in two at a time, and one of the workers walked the ring with them, smacking them none too gently with a wooden cane. I realized that it was necessary to turn the cows so the spectators could see them from all angles but after the first ten minutes or so, I wished that just one of the beasts would step on his foot. Most of the cows went for between six and eight hundred dollars, depending on their size and breed.

Then two of the Black Angus cows were up. The bidding started at 700, and Farmer Fisher jumped in … 750, 770, 800 … these cows were going to go for much more than the other breeds, he suddenly realized, and promptly dropped out of the race. The same quick bidding happened with the next three black cows and, before we knew it, they were all gone. We looked at each other. Black Angus were going for $1,200 in the newspaper. Eight hundred dollars? Not so bad. But we had missed our chance.

A few bids later, we bought a Hereford mixed with Limousin (I had been studying —she had white curls on her brow, and she was a bit oversized …) and then, very soon after, we became the new owners of another Hereford, a bit smaller. My head was spinning from the excitement. I sat on my hands to keep from clapping them (which would have clearly identified me as a newbie, if it wasn’t already obvious).

Herefords are nice, I comforted my husband, who was sulking over missing out on the Black Angus. I told him he probably only wanted the black cows because he has a black dog, a black truck, a wife whose hair is almost black … and he is a creature of habit.

We went to the catwalk and looked down over the cows, searching for our numbers. There were our girls, two red and white cows from different herds, penned together. Already they seemed to be communicating with each other. The smaller one looked at us. She seemed suspicious. The big one looks like Ugly Betty, Farmer Fisher declared. I warned him that such talk would not be permitted in the presence of our animals.

Later that day, our cows were delivered. The drover got his truck stuck in the mud, and Farmer Fisher had to pull him out with the tractor. The cows peeked out between the wooden slats of the truck, their eyes crazed with fear. I made soothing noises in their general direction, in an attempt to comfort their jangled nerves. I was the cow whisperer. We set up the barricades and opened the truck. The cows calmly walked into the part of the barn that would be their home for the next week. We can’t let them into the yard just yet, or they might try to run away. They need to settle in first.

We have five teenaged daughters in our blended family, but they aren’t all farm girls. In fact, most of them are more at home in front of the computer than in the barnyard. I brought the girls into the barn to meet the new additions. Most of them pronounced the cows smelly and ugly. Annie pronounced them Ginger and Betty.

Every morning, I check on the girls. I fill up their water barrel and make sure they have access to fresh hay. Betty, the bigger breed, is a heifer. She hasn’t had a calf yet. She is in for a surprise come April, as she is now three months’ pregnant. Betty is more trusting, also, coming up and licking my hand with her sandpaper tongue. Ginger is pregnant, too, but she has been through this before. She is the older and wiser of the two.