The Village Squire, 1981-06, Page 9One Day ata
You can take the boy
out of the country,
but....
If you were born and raised on a farm.
you needn't bother trying to fool others
into thinking you weren't.
No matter how hard you might work at
becoming sophisticated and city -wise, 30
seconds after people meet you, they're
going to know that you're a hayseed.
A farm background is like the colour of
your skin- it doesn't make you superior or
inferior. but like it or not. it does stay
with you all of your life.
To people who never leave the farm.
their country roots never cause them a
minute's anxiety or embarrassment. To
be black in Africa is a heck of a lot easier
than it is in North America.
But there's a big, wide world out there
and even the most contented farmer- or
farmer's son- can't sit on the back porch
whittling sticks of wood for 70 years or
more without once in a while wondering
where that road at the end of the lane
leads.
It's when he gets up from his rocking
chair, strolls down the lane, turns right
onto the road and keeps on walking that
the farmboy discovers just how different
he is. Chances are. he also won't be long
in discovering exactly how good he's got
it at home. but he simply can't know that
for sure until he sees for himself how the
rest of the world lives.
In 19691 landed. like a refugee in a new
land, on the richly landscaped grounds of
a big university. Walking from office to
classroom to cafeteria surrounded by
16.000 other students. I was more alone
than I would have been if marooned on a
desert isle. My first night there. 1 turned
my face into my pillow- so my roomate
couldn't hear me - and I cried.
The days and months that followed
were difficult ones for me. Every new
situation 1 was thrown into hurled me
back into the by now familiar emotions of
fear. panic and obsessive self-conscious-
ness.
But as time went on. 1 found out that
city kids seemed intrigued by some of my
tales about what it was like to grow up on
a farm. They looked at me in much the
same way they'd have looked at a
prehistoric caveman, if one were brought
back to life. when 1 described my early
education in a one -room schoolhouse.
More than one of them simply wouldn't
believe my elementary school had no
by Jim Hagerty
flush toilets, or that there were only 23
students in eight grades (with nobody in
grade sevens or that we used to have to
bring drinking water in,from a handpump
at a well outside.
Little by little. my roots became. not a
cause for embarrassment. but a tiny
source of growing pride. And others
accepted me- even liked me- for what 1
was.
Which brings me to the story l wanted
to tell you.
Last week. a friend from the city and 1
were out driving in the country. We came
across a falling -down house and a barn in
similar shape. though the barn was still in
use.
My friend wanted to explore the place.
so we hopped the fence and walked up
the lane. As we headed for the barn, with
me in the lead, 1 noticed right away that
the front yard was a huge swamp of
mushy stuff the farmer's cattle had been
leaving there all winter. 1 realized too that
the warm weather had sort of dried off
the top of that swamp. making it appear
solid and safe.
With no second thought, 1 carefully
stepped my way around the mush. taking
a wiser path on higher ground. My friend
laughed at my cautiousness and won-
dered aloud why I'd taken the long way
around.
1. uh, forgot to tell him.
With typical city directness of purpose.
my friend headed•straight for the barn in
his brand new. expensive loafers. and
soon waded up to his knees in the
deceptive manure pile.
What he couldn't understand was why
I broke down into such a prolonged bout
of uncontrollable laughter. He himself
saw the humour in the incident and
chuckled along with me. but why. he
asked. did I find his manure -covered
shoes and pants so hilarious?
I didn't bother to explain. He wouldn't
have understood anyway.
But that laughter was directed more at
me than him. and it washed away a lot of
pain. 0
Jim Hagan), is a freelance journalist and
former reporter for the Strat/brd Beacon
Herald. Responses to his columns may be
forwarded either to the Village Squire or
Box 456. Mitchell.
Arlene and Jan Kok
Welcome you to
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finer things"
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The Village Squire,
Box 10, Blyth, Ont
VILLAGE SQUIRE/JUNE 1981 PG 7