H A R V E S T H O M E !

Hanns F Skoutajan

“We plough the fields and scatter,

the good seed o’er the land,

but what comes up we know not,

it’s never what we planned.”

This spoof on the well-known Thanksgiving hymn has more than a grain of truth in it.

Farming entails a gamble. It is hedged by many factors not the least of which is the

weather. A promising crop one day may turn from hope to despair by a night of frost,

rain or as recently in Calgary, a snow storm. A bumper crop also has its nemesis as the

price of the produce plummets at the elevator. Years ago farmers banded together to

form co-ops to market their produce and thus to some extent control the price. Thus the

Wheat Pool of Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta came into being. They also set up

a Wheat Board, now scuttled by a pro business, corporation-loving government.

No, farming is not for the faint of heart. Today more and more crop production is in the

hands of large companies who are able to amass huge tracts of land, pay the ever

rising insurance rates and finance expensive farm machinery. The so-called family farm

where all members of the family were involved in its operation is quickly disappearing.

Children doing chores is condemned as exploitative and cheap labour.

My own experience with agriculture was thankfully short although I do not regret one

moment of it. By the time I was 11 years of age I was able to milk cows, harness horses,

drive them and ride bareback. We couldn’t afford a saddle. I was even growing some

muscles from tasks such as cleaning the barn and picking stones from the fields.

My parents and I along with several hundred refugees from the German invasion of our

homeland were settled on very marginal land in north-western Saskatchewan,100 miles

north of North Battleford. Another group of similar size was sent to the Peace River area

near Dawson Creek in British Columbia. We were settled on abandoned homesteads

and soon discovered why they had been abandoned in the depression. However, this

was the condition of our admission to this land of refuge.

Our farms were small, 160 acres, a quarter section. Mixed farming is what they called

it. Father preferred “ mixed-up farming” to better describe our furtive efforts. We started

with two cows, a team of horses, two pigs in high hope of procreation and 25 chicken,

housed in a tumbledown barn. Every four farms were supplied with basic farm

implements, second hand of course and needy of repair always at crucial times.

I recall a real feeling of envy when years later I visited Upper Canada Village near

Morrisburg, Ontario and beheld what our predecessors of the 19th and early 20th

century had to work with.

We lasted barely 3 years. Our final harvest was a disaster. The crop yield was 11

bushels to the acre of wheat. Even more devastating was the presence of wild oats,

little black kernels among the “golden wheat.”

In the turmoil of thrashing, the noise of the tractor and the roar of the thrashing

machine , the coming and going of the wagons from the fields loaded with sheaves, I

saw a boy arrive on a bicycle. He looked around and then came to me and showed me

a letter and asked me whether I knew the man with the funny name. It was a telegram

for my father. After handing it over to him the lad mounted his bike and rode off 15 miles

to the village, the terminal of the rail line, and as far as we were concerned, the end of

civilization.

Father opened the telegram from his friend and former colleague in the field of

journalism who was visiting Toronto from Britain. He urged my father to drop everything

and come to the big city where he had contacts for employment in the growing war

industry.

My father didn’t need much persuasion. The handwriting was on the wall. A few days

later we saw him off on the 4 day rail journey to the capitol of Ontario. The train ticket

used up most of the profits from our harvest. Mother and I continued on the farm

liquidating the live stock and all other possessions. It was the end of our farming

experience. Four months later we joined him in Toronto.

However, there were some success stories. In 2007, while with a film crew visiting the

area of our misadventure, I encountered a farmer who had done quite well.

Our crew stood at the intersection of two roads contemplating a dilapidated shack that

had once upon a time housed one of our immigrant families. Presently a truck churned

its way through the Saskatchewan gumbo, it was spring, and came to a halt. The driver

turned out to be a man who had been part of our group back in 1939. He was my age

and I had known him well. His parents had done reasonably well and remained on the

land while many of our fellow would-be farmers had fled to the city. He bought and

rented land from the new refugees which was, of course, dirt cheap. With much hard

work and luck he made a go of it. He expanded his operation and then turned it over to

his son who was standing with me on this muddy intersection, who had in turn

bequeathed the farm to his two sons. Theirs is now one of the best farm operations in

the district. There are several other success stories.

It is harvest time across this vast land. By the time you read this story “the sheaves will

have been gathered in, hopefully before the winter’s storms begin.” Canadians and

indeed all the people of the world are dependent on the fruits of the land and of the sea.

At a recent church service that I attended the ministers and their lay assistants sought

to demonstrate the biblical reference to bread, “I am the bread of life.” ( John 6 : 35.)

While the service was progressing, the readings, the prayers and hymns, the minister

made bread, mixing the ingredients and preparing the yeast. Members of the

congregation took turns kneading the dough. It was then taken to the church kitchen

and placed in the oven. Next Sunday the bread was shared with all the congregation. It

was a very memorable teaching occasion. The Word became alive and nurturing.

On Thanksgiving Sunday the chancel of churches will be adorned with corn stalks,

pumpkins, squash and other colourful fruit of the land. We will be reminded that our

food comes from the land and the sea, and requires farmers and fishermen involved in

often risky ventures to replenish our tables. 

Thus:

Come ye thankful people, come,

Sing the song of harvest home.

Spirit Quest 10/10/2014