An Interpretation

Farming in the Heart of the City
by Cliff Therou

Bio detail: After growing up on a farm, Cliff Therou became a farmer at the University of Alberta's agricultural research land in south Edmonton. He is also a poet.

Introduction:

"I am often uncertain how to answer the question: 'What do you do for a living?' I would like to answer simply, 'I am a farmer'...This is a farm with a city skyline. When I am working in the field at night the stars compete with city lights for attention."

A farm has survived within our city called home. The land continues to grow crops, while the city that surrounds it grows neighbourhoods.

This farm is my workplace. In the spring, I am able to ride my bicycle to work. I ride through Strathcona past the old armoury, now a nightclub; past the bus barns, now a popular farmers' market and theatre. I stop at the Second Cup in the Varscona Hotel where the old Inn on Whyte once was. Then I ride past Corbett Hall, once the normal school for teacher training, and now the Faculty of Extension. I continue on through Belgravia to the north entrance of "the Farm." This is the University of Alberta property that is given various names: Edmonton Research Station, University Research Station, and recently, South Campus. People around here know what you mean if you just say "the farm."

As I travel slowly along the central gravel roadway, I notice a few sheep in a small pasture eating peacefully, the barns emanating the fragrance of animals and straw, and then the open fields just awakening for another season. The rural custom of greeting an oncoming person with a wave, whether just a slight movement of the fingers from the steering wheel or an open hand, is practiced here. To offer and receive a prairie wave acknowledges my successful transition from city street to country road.

For most of my working life, I have been privileged to be the custodian of this land. I feel a kinship with others; perhaps a caretaker in a church, an attendant at an art gallery, or a curator of a museum. Over time, aspects of our respective workplaces take on a sacred reverence. To me, the farm is a sanctuary adjacent to residential properties, surrounded by the ever-present hum of city life.

This location of the University research farm is 84 years old. It must have been quite a spectacular move from the first farm location at Windsor Park. The move included herding 400 pigs through the Belgravia bush to this present site. I can imagine what the farm must have been like many years ago. I still find harness straps and buckles in the fields and, occasionally, rusted and worn horseshoes from big draft horses. There are two wooden barns still remaining on site. One is the former dairy barn, with shiplap siding; and cupolas along the long spine of the roof that provided venting for the hay stored in the loft, with the old milk house/office still attached. The other old barn was for the horses. The horse barn is a similar structure to the dairy barn with the traditional gambrel roof line, with cupolas along the roof, but with dormers built into the roof line as well.

For years workers have stacked hay and dragged the bales across the hardwood floor, leaving the hay loft like a smooth dance floor. If I stand quietly in the loft for awhile I can almost hear the stamping of the big hooves coming in from the field, the sound of men's voices full of dust, the smell of sweat and leather with the sweet scent of hay and damp old wood. The men's stories about this farm would be different than mine, but the dust in their lungs, the soil under their fingernails and perhaps the emotion in their hearts would be the same. Essentially, we speak the same language.

I removed an old fence line along the north of the West 240 this year. The "West 240" is 240 acres of open farmland, purchased in 1930, accessed from the main farm site by crossing 122nd Street to the west. It is bordered by the residential districts of Grandview north and Lansdowne south. This fence line was in disrepair and the subject of regular complaints. As I pulled the old posts I was aware that this was a farm fence when Grandview and Lansdowne were still open fields. These hand-cut, square shoulder posts had rotted evenly around their circumference underground from eight inches to one. I could easily sense the men tamping each post and the open fields all around. Edmonton was then far across the river, Strathcona a few miles away.

The peace of the gentle cows, the familiar groups of geese stopping by with the passing seasons, the fragrance of the land opened in the spring, new growth, the order and slow maturing of the crops, the sound of the wind in ripe fields of barley, or its dance across alfalfa in flower, the fragrance of fresh cut hay, these are all familiar things of the farm. Perhaps there is a prairie gene hidden in our DNA that is expressed intrinsically in a sense of connection to the living earth when we encounter these things. Neighbours, and those who frequent this farm regularly, would be comfortable in a rural coffee shop with conversations that might include: "We were late getting on the land this spring, too wet." "Second cut alfalfa looks poor, too dry." "The wheat looks good this year, just enough rain in June." "How are the grasshoppers out your way?"

I am aware of people's acute interest in farm activities when a man calls out to me in the aisle of the Strathcona Farmers Market. "Well, did you get your wheat off?" Another example is when I responded to a noxious weed notice by mowing and ploughing with the intent to plant more acceptable vegetation, only to find a bold headline in the letters page of the Edmonton Journal that reads "University destroys frog habitat!" While recovering from surgery a number of years ago I was in the hospital over Christmas. With my mail, I received a card from someone named "Rocky." I don't know anyone named Rocky, but the card said, "Thank you for the grass paths and fields where I take my humans for a walk." I haven't met Rocky yet, but I like to think of those thoughtful and considerate dogs who might think to send a card, running where they should, as "Rocky."

From the tractor seat mostly, I have come to know the regular visitors. I notice people tired from a day at work return to their parked vehicle stepping a little lighter after following their happy dog around the fields on the grass paths. I see couples, engaged in conversation, holding hands as they leave.

I recall a women who began coming to the farm a number of years ago. She would walk or ride a little bicycle very slowly, her head down, eyes looking away. She appeared to be so very sad. There was never eye contact or an opportunity at least to offer a friendly wave. I worried about her and hoped that she would overcome the sadness she carried to the farm. We used to pasture the dairy cows in the fields adjacent to my workshop and I would see her occasionally sitting often at sunset in this pasture. She would sit there for a long time. With greater attention to disease concerns, and closer monitoring, the cows are no longer let out to pasture. I have removed the fences and crop these fields now.

The woman doesn't sit on the little hill anymore, though I am happy that she still comes to the farm occasionally. It seems right somehow that we have not spoken or acknowledged each other. Can my presence in the field and the rows of planted crops be as predictable and comforting as the cows in the pasture? The land is a living entity that continues through all natural tragedy, storms, drought, hail, winter blizzards, whatever may come, the land lives. I see her occasionally; she still rides her little bike, but faster now. She is accompanied by a companion sometimes. Her eyes look up and it appears the sadness has lifted. I hope the farm has been a part of her healing.

Another of the regulars is a neighbour of the farm, a man who would walk his yellow dog along the fields. He would wave a friendly wave to me in the field and we became familiar from this distance. We talked occasionally and I was aware of his interest and close observation of the various farming activities.

He walked with some difficulty and his dog appeared to move with respect for him and with care for its own aging body. It had been awhile since I had seen him on the farm and wondered if he had moved away or something had happened. At the Sunterra Market nearby, where I often go for lunch, he approached me one day.

"You're the farm guy," he said.

"Yes, hello." I reached out to shake his hand. "How have you been? It has been awhile since I have seen you."

I wasn't ready for his reply, and found a lump in my throat as he said: "Yeah, I know. I have had some hip trouble and besides I haven't felt much like walking since my dog died." I shared his loss.

The farm I know is sunrise and sunset, spring planting, autumn harvests, summer's growth and winter's peace - predictable rhythms - and I realize that he and his old yellow dog had become a part of this rhythm.

This is a little farm surrounded by a big city. With each generation growing up in the city "remembering the farm" is a fading opportunity. In the early days of the University farm the board of governors made decisions about pasturing cows, purchasing and selling livestock and machinery - all farm boys, I expect, with some direct farm connection. The South Edmonton Rotary Club once managed the annual Harvest Fair event at Fort Edmonton Park. I would designate ten acres of wheat just for them. In the fall, I would cut the wheat with a McCormick binder and leave the bundles in bunches on the ground.

Soon after, perhaps the next weekend they would appear. Big, newer model cars would arrive and men who spent much of their careers in suits would appear in jeans or coveralls. Such men as Ralph Shirley who would often be glad to operate the binder if I had not been able to cut the crop for them.

They would stook the bundles one weekend to let the sheaves dry. They would return when the grain was dry, and load wagons to take the bundles to "the fort." They would store the sheaves in a barn for next year's harvest fair. During the harvest fair event they would pitch these bundles into various stationary separators they had lovingly restored. This group was doing something that connected them to their rural past This farm providing bundles of grain to "the fort" always seemed right somehow.

The University Farm provides a space for many animals. Deer find their way up the Blackmud creek to the fields of new crop and grasses. I usually do not see them in daytime, but often at dawn or dusk. Coyotes are common visitors and may occasionally raise a litter of pups.

Red fox have raised families too. Many rabbits, gophers and mice, of course, thrive even with the constant presence of many different predators. I watch the interaction of hawks, crows and, blackbirds when I am out in the field. When I plough old hayland or pasture, the gulls will follow the tractor feasting on plentiful fat mice.

I watch many bird battles between hawks and crows over food and territory. I think of Jonathan Livingston seagull or the Red Baron, diving and turning with every acrobatic move possible. I am always aware that farmers from Brandon to Peace River are also out in their fields, watching similar activities.

Research is the focus of the field crops grown on the farm. I am able to plant different crops in rotation such as wheat, barley, canola, clover, alfalfa. Feed is produced for the research work involving livestock.

Field crops research has included potatoes, canola, forages, and cereals. We have had ornamental flowers and an orchard at one time. Some agronomic work is being done now in organic production methods. The acreage available for crops reseeds each year as it is being nibbled away with each new building project.

I am often uncertain how to answer the question: " What do you do for a living?" I would like to answer simply "I am a farmer." I can adjust an old Cockshut combine to change from barley to canola to wheat, or repair the knotter on our John Deere square baler, but I know I am still a "citified" farmer. I receive a steady paycheque regardless of the weather or the price of barley. I can eat a supper in the field at harvest time that might include pizza, dessert from the Highlevel Diner and a latte to finish. This farm is "citified" too.

I maintain grass walkways around the many small fields for joggers, moms with carriages, dogs running, or friends just out for a stroll around the fields. There is a constant chorus of observers. This is a farm with a city skyline. When I am working in the field at night the stars compete with city lights for attention.

From the hill on the West 240 I can see West Edmonton Mall looming on the western horizon, another hill to the south at Ellerslie road, downtown buildings to the north and residential houses planted to the eastern horizon. Although the call of a coyote is possible, it is likely that the sound of a siren in the distance will be a reminder of the city that surrounds the farm.

When we drove by two fields staked for new construction this fall, my former supervisor, Brian Cameron, said to me: "Those were two good fields. Prime land this. We've had some good crops from them."

Now these fields are viewed as prime development sites. Just a different perspective. I was asked to meet with an engineer early this spring prior to construction of a new building for the university's Physical Education department. I greeted the young man climbing down from his truck. "So you're the one who has come to pave paradise?" He looked at me quizzically and said plainly, "No, it will just be gravel for now."

Sometime in the future, I know, someone will ride a bicycle past the new buildings and think: "There was a farm here once."

My friend, George Betts, came home to Edmonton from Ottawa for a visit. We hit some familiar haunts, dinner perhaps, a few beers maybe, I don't quite remember, but I recall ending up out in the field at the West 240.

We talked; George read some of his poems, and I returned with something of mine. He laughed. "Isn't this a classic Alberta scene, two old friends, leaning on a pick-up truck out in the field, reading poetry?" Later, George interrupted when I was talking about the farm and said, "Cliff, let me know when you are just talking and when you are reciting poetry." This urban farm - the University of Alberta Farm - is a unique place where such an Alberta scene can happen.