My passion for farming began at the age of ﬁve, when my dad took me to a farm in Langley. It was owned by a friend of his at work and we went for a barbeque. I don’t recall the dinner at all, or anything about the people on the farm. What I do recall is the cows, the big red barn stacked with hay, seeing for the ﬁrst time a cow-pie and not knowing what it was, climbing into the loft of the big red barn and looking out over the pasture. I loved it all: the space, the smells, the sounds. I recall hounding my dad every now and then, “Please can we live on a farm daddy? Pleeeeeease.” Alas, my pleas went unnoticed and I grew up in the city. I never really felt at peace in the city. Now as an adult, I am giving myself the rural life I wanted as a child, and when my dad comes to visit he admires my creations (oh–and he also likes to ﬁsh). He even helps build things, including my very own big red barn.
So now I’m a farmer. A farmer with a big red barn. Actually, it is not really that big by barn standards but that is not important. What is important is that I have one. A red barn of one’s own. I don’t know why it is, but in my mind you’re not a farmer unless you have a big red barn.