Why?

Apr. 27, 2009–Why?

     We spent a humid, muggy Saturday working around the farm, trying to catch up on an endless list of tasks, as usual.  That night a fierce storm raged for hours, all lightning and loud thunder, pouring rain.  High winds shattered yet another window in the barn loft.  Sunday was spent working on repairing fencing which Macbeth (the goat-turned-escape artist) keeps getting through.  A friend came and worked away with me in the fog, our boots sinking in the swampy land caused by the storm.  As if working all Sunday morning wasn’t punishment enough for whatever offences I’ve committed in a past life, I then spent a vast amount of time in the afternoon, in the emerging hot, sunny weather picking up the shards of glass from the broken window.

     Muttering to myself, I wondered why I wasn’t on a patio, lounging in this blessed heat like other people.  I filled a bag with the glass fragments, amusing myself by recalling Dan Akryod’s Saturday Night Live character from the 70’s, the slimeball K-tel-esque man in a faux television ad who tried to sell the ubiquitous “Bag Of Glass” as a great children’s toy.  The bag jingled when I lifted it and I couldn’t get that sketch out of my head.  Then on to the labourous job of mucking the pigs’ stall.

     And thus I spent a glorious spring weekend toiling away with  mundane tasks.  Why on earth am I doing this, I wondered?   And then a friend showed up, returning the three cats I was having spayed.  Tagging along with her was a car load of boys.    My friend works in a group home, and these boys was under the care of social services. 

     They were enamoured with the animals, running from stall to stall.  “I think this goat likes me!” one would shout, or “I’ve never touched a real horse before!”  Their enthusiasm was beautiful.  They fed the goats and pigs and horses, pet chickens.  The barn cats, Steamer and Freedom (who normally hide when large groups enter the barn) allowed themselves to be held and cuddled, softly purring.   Whenever I had a quiet moment alone with one of the boys, they wanted to tell me about the pets they had back home, before everything went wrong in their lives.  I later found out they were all Crown Wards — that they would never be going home again to those cherished animals. 

     I asked each one of the boys what pets they might have when they grew older and had a place all their own.  I wanted them to know that they would have the final say in their fate, in their happiness; that they could have hope.  The boys enthusiastically talked about the animals they would like, and one boy promised to come back some day and adopt one of my stray cats.   My wish for these boys is that in their difficult childhoods they keep an eye on their bright futures, beacons of light in the distance — and that in time they find happiness.

     Later, the boys piled noisily into the van, beaming.  I suggested to my friend that she bring them out again– but I’ll be ready next time with snacks and some outdoor sports equipment… perhaps we’ll take them for a walk in the woods.  The van drove away with the loveless boys, claimed by no one, yet smiling.   I sat down to reflect and realized again, just why I love this farm.  It always offers hope, and quite often, more so to other people than to me.  I would not have traded today for a lifetime of leisurely weekends of daiquiries on patios.