50 Acres.

(from a work in progress, The Beaver Diaries)

Passing a scattering of houses amidst the farmlands, the east-west concession road crests the highest point of the landscape to come upon the 50 acres tucked into its many folds. To the south a line of dense trees and undergrowth screens the view. From there, the property dips into the ravine, crosses 160 meters of the even before climbing steeply to regain the lost elevation. On top, the scene opens up again, tilted slightly to the south-east, catching sight of the town of Bradford creeping over the rim of the valley.

The width-to-depth ratio is 2 to 7, with the front third covered with reforested pine and fast-growing softwood to hold the slope from slipping into the soggy bottom of the ravine. The rest, divided into three fields, is planted with rotating crops of hay, corn, soybean and winter wheat. The farm is edged by a tree line, catching the gaze and returning it to the viewer. The neighbouring fields are rarely glimpsed through the gaps where wild grapes vines have pulled down a tree by their amassed weight.

To the east a hobby farm occupies 35 acres with a modern split level overlooking an artificial lake in the embrace of hardwood trees. A retired couple maintains three horses that graze along the barbed wire fence, stretching their necks, begging for apples from passers-by.
To the west are 80 acres with a dilapidated barn but no farmhouse. The surrounding fields, however, are intensively worked, mostly growing varieties of corn. The fields are table flat, easily workable.

Across the road to the north, a vegetable grower makes a living on 100 plus acres. A collection of farm buildings crowd the lane that turns in a wide circle to allow the big trucks to navigate.
Almost exactly bisecting the road frontage the narrow access lane descends sharply under an archway of ageing maples. A loose gravel surface leads the visitor sharply down the incline. Bushes reach in from the side greeting every car. Reaching level bottom, to the right a water wash winds its way through the trees, crossing underneath in a steel culvert, to feed the pond on the left. Reeds, water lilies and algae choke the water, infrequently glimpsed through a curtain of bushes and wild apple trees. The tire tracks worn into the laneway lead the runoff water to collect here, to soften the ground, creating a twin necklace of potholes. The lane then tackles the uphill in the shadow of more maples and pines that serve as a snow fence. On both sides rusting wire fencing links the trees, the strands half-swallowed by the trunks over the years. At the top reaching level ground again, the path passes by a cottage on the right, crowded by bushes and perennials. Most times the grass is cut, holding back the wilderness. 60 yards farther on, the farmhouse appears, overreached by more sugar maples. These are giant trees, the largest on the entire property. The century has not been kind to the place; brickwork is often pitted; the paint is peeling from the door and window frames, exposing the sun-weary wood beneath; the red metal shingles on the roof are faded to dull brown. Signs of a wraparound porch still show on the weather-worn facade.

The lane then loops around a tired machine shed leaning 8 degrees from the weight of many a winters’ snow and from the pressure of the prevailing wind from the north-west. Rusting farm machinery hides in the surrounding tall grass. Coming fully about, the path turns its back on the tall barn with its silver boards sitting on a concrete foundation. Rust-stained sheet metal covers the top surmounted with several lightning roads stabbing at the clouds. To one side of the barn ramp towers the grey mass of the silo, an empty cylinder aimed at the sky.

These buildings form the very centre of the 50 acres. Passing the barn, the old lane is choked off by thick grass and bushes. Fields extend to either side further south to a triangle of bush where a creek cuts through the corner of the property.

What’s it like living on 50 acres? With no neighbours, surrounded by a green mote, with no curtains on the windows, at the safe distance from a rushing world? Peaceful.

Not all honey and sweet though. In winter the snow piles up and the tractor finds no place to push the accumulation. From time to time the car is caught by the bank and pulled into the ditch, plugging the access like a cork in a bottle. In spring, melt water floods the lane and a summer downpour carves twisting ruts into the gravel path.

But even worse, in spring, the manure is spread on the fields and the stink of pigs poisons the air and I quickly lose my appetite.

Still, the sounds we hear are of birds and insects, the howling of coyotes from the hill woods, the barking of a fox in the undergrowth, the screech of a hawk cruising above the field.