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Published: December 3rd 2009
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In which I enter the Bible Belt, catch The Hini, and learn a valuable lesson.
The farm I arrive at is much larger than any of the previous ones I have visited, consisting of 60+ goats, 600 chickens, and a few cows and some turkeys. But it is the family - the farmer, farmer's wife, daughter, son and his wife - that immediately grab my attention, or more accurately their strong religious views. From the large "Jesus IS The Answer' sticker on the fridge, to the 'Highway Hymns' songbook on the piano, to the numerous 'Bless Our Home' wall hangings and related paraphernalia, it is clear I have unwittingly blundered into a Bible Belt. Add to this the various 'Vote Conservative' stickers also adorning the fridge door, and the cd of "The Gloryland Girls: We Pledge Allegiance" on the stereo (the cover of which depicts some earnest young women in hands-on-heart pose in front of the Stars & Stripes flag), and I feel as if I am in my own personal episode of the Twilight Zone.
But it was when I found the toilet reading material - a piece of creationist cartoon propaganda aimed at children - that I
Pastured Poultry
Properly free-range! begin to freak out a little bit. These people are obviously mental. What else do they believe? Maybe they still burn heretics at the stake in the Bible Belt. I'm in considerable danger here etc. They set off one evening to a prayer meeting, to which I am invited. I politely decline, mumbling something about not being 'overly religious', and get the sort of looks you don't forget in a hurry. Uh-oh.
Things go from bad to worse when after only one day's work, I am struck down with what is probably just a cold, but could be the flu. Since the doctors have said that the only flu in Nova Scotia is Swine Flu, or H1N1 as it is now called (pronounced 'heeney' here as a sort of nickname), I naturally assume it is that. I spend a whole day in bed, and from then on I am so tired and easily exhausted that I am unable to work very hard for very long. I become convinced that the family now believe I am a godless workshy freeloader, which makes me feel worse, and I begin to feel quite isolated out here in the middle of nowhere, the
Toilet Literature - Part 1
L'il Susy dares to question the evil teacher only non-believer in God's Country.
However, as the week goes on, I find I can help out a bit more, and begin to get to know the family a bit better. They are really very kind and likeable people, and the farmer himself turns out to be the pastor of their church. Hence all the religion. They are all by far the hardest working people I have met on this trip, with their day starting around 6 or 7am, and often not finishing until gone 9pm every night.
In order to get everything ready for the Saturday farmers market in Halifax, Friday night is especially hectic. Then the farmer gets up at 3am on Saturday and drives to Halifax (approx. 2 hours away) to set out and run the stall all day, and returns around 7 or 8pm. He then starts preparing his notes for the two services he gives at the church on Sunday.
This compared to my day, which generally consists of getting up around 8, arriving in time to help out with the chores (mainly milking and feeding the cows and goats), driving the cows up from or back down to the fields (I
Toilet Literature - Part 2
L'il Susy puts Timmy back on the path to righteousness appear to have overcome my fear of 'large land mammals') then stacking wood for a bit before collapsing back into bed for an hour or so, then stacking some more wood before stopping again for a rest, then helping with the evening chores, by which time I am exhausted. I attempt to assuage my guilt by doing the dishes after most meals.
One day they attempt to use a horse-drawn plough to work the small vegetable patch - a sort of training run, since none of them (including the horses) had really done this before. It was a slow and exhausting process, or at least it looked that way from the sidelines! Good to see though.
I also get to witness the slightly
uncomfortable (for me anyway) side of chicken farming. You know. The killing bit. A few people came out to help, and a little production line was established that saw over 40 chickens despatched in short order. They slit the birds throats, let the blood drain, then dunked them in very hot water to loosen the feathers. Then a 'plucking machine' ripped most of the feathers off the dead birds, with the job being finished by
hand. Then the guts and stuff were removed (who knew a burst gall bladder stains everything green?!) and the birds were packaged up and frozen.
They have only just started being WWOOF hosts, and the farm is not organic in any way, though they are very keen on traditional farming and nutrition. They are active supporters of the
Weston A. Price foundation, so I end up drinking a lot of raw cow and goat milk (not that I mind that much - tastes alright to me). TB or not TB? That is the question...
By the time I leave the farm I have grown very fond of the whole family, and can only admire their work ethic. Through them I have learned a lot about various aspects of farming and life in this part of Nova Scotia. I certainly know I don't want to have to work that hard for a living, anyway. When it comes to the final goodbyes in Halifax, the farmer's wife has tears in her eyes and I am deeply touched by their genuine affection.
Note to self: don't judge people entirely on their religious views (no matter what you might think of them). Here endeth
the lesson.
My trip is almost at an end now, and as usual I find that the closer it gets to the end, the more I am ready to return home. I have even been listening to Radio 4 whenever I get the chance, in order to get my BBC fix. I have really, really missed the BBC. I waste a day or so in Halifax, go to the cinema and see "Fantastic Mr. Fox" (which is great) then catch the plane to Toronto.
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anonymous
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How weird that when you read this you'll be back in the bosom of Melksham. Have loved the blog even though to my shame I rarely comment. will be good to see you and hear the highlights distilled from the whole trip. Janet