There was a time when I didn’t want to be a country girl. I had just turned nine and we had moved to my grandpa’s farm outside Clinton, in the south Cariboo. I was worried I would have to wear farmer pants, or overalls I guess they’re really called, and chew on hayseeds.
I’m not sure where I got that idea from although it was probably from a book. We had spent a lot of time up here when I was younger and all I really recall from those days are my Grandma’s pancakes, the sun shining over the big wooden table and hanging out with my cousins at the dam or in the clover field. And, the coup d’etat: being knocked over by the ram, right after we were warned to not to tease him. I swear I didn’t but I was a bratty kid so I probably gave him an evil eye or something.
For the record, I didn’t have to wear farmer pants, until I chose to when I was about 28. And the other day, on my birthday when I got them as a gift. But I probably should have since we lived a pretty country lifestyle: No electricity or running water, a four-seater outhouse, chores in the morning before we left for the hour-long drive into school, and piles of muck and in the spring.
I spent the next nine years plotting my escape. Sort of. And the next 40 pining for the outdoors as I toiled away in cubicles that couldn’t fit a pig.
And now I’m back, about an hour away from where I grew up, where my parents still live along with a few dear friends. We have all the essentials and are close enough to town to get supplies. But I won’t lie, it’s hard. My hands are soft. We have an acre of overgrown plants. I don’t know what half of them are but they keep surprising me with amazing flowers. On my first week here, my other half suggested I “rake” the yard to get it ready for planting. I had enough hay to feed a cow all winter (well … maybe a slight exaggeration but it was A LOT).
In the past two months, I’ve raked, yanked, weeded, scythed and macheted my way through overgrown foliage. We’ve put in a fence. And rototilled a space for garden. Made a home for our bees. And we’re still not done.
But I’m home. I know that because I don’t want to leave. I want to go fishing. And mountain biking. And can beets and make honey. And just be me, in my element. I guess it’s true what they say: you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country of the girl.
Welcome to my world.Posted byCariboo DiariesPosted inUncategorizedEditHome again, home again
Published by Cariboo Diaries
After 30 years in the city, I have returned to the Cariboo, to a wild overgrown, beautiful acre in 108 Mile Ranch. My life is full on, as I tend two cats, a fledgling garden and a pair of honeybee hives. Living sustainably I’ve found is harder than it looks but easier than it seems – and it turns out, you can go home again. View more posts
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