Finding Culture

I went back to the family farm last weekend.  I call it the “family farm” because it’s where my dad grew up, but it should be mentioned that never once did I actually live there.  I’m a city girl through and through, so there’s always a strange tension as I head up that long driveway lined with “kissing trees” (as Dad calls them) and riddled with pot holes; I drive past the shed where my farmer uncle supplements his income by working as a part-time mechanic; I turn right, past the giant weeping willow that holds the tree house that I used to play in with my cousins, and I carry on up the hill, parking in front of the big white farm house.  I open my door slowly, careful not to hit one of the many dogs who have been chasing my car since I turned onto the property, and I have to remind myself not to lock my doors -- no one locks their doors at the farm.  It’s that moment, that reminder, that deep breath preparing myself for the “other world” I’m about to enter into, that brings the tension.  It’s tense because I don’t belong here... and yet I totally do.

My family are all Canadian.  Like, really Canadian.  I’m pretty sure our ancestors on my mom’s side came over on the Mayflower.  When my teachers made us study our “culture” in elementary school, I was always rather embarrassed, because the food of my people was... back bacon?  Maple syrup?  Nanaimo bars?  I felt as white and uncultured as I could be.  And I was always a little jealous of my friends from the Philippines who brought homemade pancit for the class to try.  So exotic, so interesting, so culturally rich.  These kids could go home and ask their moms and dads about their culture; and in that conversation, they could create a part of their identity.

I never got that.  I’ve always felt devoid of any sort of cultural identity, and I’ve always been a little disappointed about it.  But now, as an adult, I’m learning that there is a huge part of me that I never even realized existed.

I am a child of farmers.  My father’s people worked Canadian land, raised Canadian cows, and developed a property to pass on from generation to generation.  On my mom’s side are war nurses, airplane pilots, and pioneers in Canadian broadcasting with the CBC.  My mom’s uncle was a wine and cheese expert; my dad’s aunt created quilts for the Mennonite relief sale.  Throughout my lineage are people who have done things; who have created a legacy and have shaped a small part of the woman I have become.

So it's true that at the family farm, I feel tension.  There's a pull in two directions -- an aching to participate in the traditions of my cultural history, yet a knowledge that I've travelled a long way from there, as a city girl in the buzzing metropolis of Toronto.  I don't know how to plant asparagus or milk a cow, and I find myself constantly checking my shoes to make sure they haven’t gotten too dirty.  But last weekend I walked through the garden with my cousin and my grandma.  And grandma held our hands as she told us about all the crops that were planted on that land, and I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself.  And my shoes didn’t get too dirty, and I picked some asparagus and held a chicken, and I took selfies with a baby cow.  And as I headed back to Toronto to post the pictures of my farm visit on Facebook, I felt a little richer.

I may be a city girl, I may prefer trains instead of tractors and blogs instead of hay bales, but the culture and the history of my family will always be a part of me.  And as a seventh-generation Canadian, I’m pretty proud of that.

Blue Bow-ties and City Living

There's this house in my neighbourhood, just on the other side of the bridge.  It's a cute little house, a bungalow, and it backs out onto a bit of a community green space, on the edge of a ravine.  This house is already magical on account of its location.  My street runs directly parallel to arguably the biggest, or "mainest," street in the city -- and it's a big city -- but on my street, just one block away from the hustle and the bustle, there is nature.  There are deer and bunnies and people walking their dogs.  And there's this house.

Two people live in this house.  They're old, and they're adorable.  I love walking through my neighbourhood and seeing these two watching the news together in their TV room, whose window overlooks the street.  I love driving by their house and seeing their kids and grandkids walking up the driveway to pay them a visit. I love how I feel like I know them, even though we've never spoken.

Last Easter, on the Sunday morning, I happened to pass this couple's house just as they were heading out.  They must have been going to church, because they were looking extremely dapper.  She was in a lovely peach blouse and a pleated skirt, and he wore navy slacks and a white dress shirt with the biggest blue bow-tie I've ever seen.  I'm embarrassed to say that I actually drove slower past their house so I could watch as he carefully helped her into the passenger side of the car.

There's something about this couple that gives me hope.  There's something about their house that brings me peace.  When I walk by this little house, and I see the flowers in their garden that she no doubt planted by hand... well, there's just something about this couple and the way in which they live that makes me sure that love exists.  It's a simple kind of love, but to me it's profoundly beautiful.  And as a woman who seems to be growing more and more cynical with each passing day, I can't begin to tell you how thankful I am for these two.  I'm thankful for their love.  I'm thankful for their peace.  And I'm thankful for their cute little bungalow, just on the other side of the bridge...