Meet the hyphenation

What is a farmer? He’s that one guy, wearing the bib overalls and chewing on a piece of straw… yeah, no. Call me what you’d like but color me pink a farmer looks just like you and me. Yep, you. Turn on that camera and look at the pretty/handsome face.  It just so happens that their job is not nine to five with weekends off and two weeks vacation per year. (I’m speaking to my US people here, those Canucks they just don’t seem to work too much with August long weekend here, May long weekend here and so on. I can poke fun, mostly because A) I don’t understand ‘long weekend’ yet and B) as a farmer on either side of the border, what’s a weekend again?) A farmer, in my so lofty opinion, is a steward of the land. A steward tasked (of him/herself) to grow as much food as they can with that land while maintaining the quality of the soil, if not improving that soil. In a basic, squirrel meets nutshell, kind of way. Their job follows them everywhere, long hours, the bookwork, the consultations over seed types or with soil nutritionists (they’re called agronomists but their job involves more than soil nutrition).

Circling the wagons back on that tangent, my family are farmers and I’m a fifth generation farmer. I didn’t set out to be a farmer although I wanted to be ‘just like dad’ when I was younger, I did not go to university for agriculture. It’s something I enjoyed as I grew up and that fascination with agriculture has stayed with me. That’s a story for another time. 

To the hyphenation. Why? Well, I met my prince charming on his white steed (turns out it was a miniature donkey with attitude, guess true love is blind) and he’s Canadian. Eh, you say? I say, uff da. 

‘No worries, mate’ is the refrain I often hear from the new hubby. Yes, he’s Canadian but likes to speak like an Aussie at times AND he’s a Filipino/Dutch hybrid. Uff. Da. (He’s been to Australia, the lingo really spoke to him I guess.)

Well, we fell in love and we crazy kids decided to go and get married. Eloped. 

No, really, we did the whole date for a year, engaged for six months (plan said wedding, who can’t sit by who?! drama/fiasco/happy!/sigh of relief it’s over, thing (which happened right after harvest). Challenge, accepted, done ma’am done!

Then we got down to the brass tacks. Moving. Who’s moving where? His place, her place. Canada, United States. Farming. How to do it, which side of the border? Who gets to learn everything all over again? 

As in, how to do life in a new country. 

I kid, we figured that part out before we got married, makes the honeymoon a tad more enjoyable. Unless, of course, you’re stuck in a cabin in the middle of Wisconsin in end of November, early December (with snow) and the other half can’t sit still (meanwhile I’m dreaming of an all-inclusive warm, lazy beach resort somewhere NOT in Wisconsin) while wondering how I got talked into this when my permanent resident paperwork hasn’t been mailed in yet. 

A story I’ll reminisce on later, maybe when on a hot summer day when the A.C. beckons.Or when I feel like procrastinating on bookwork. (I mean, really, who wants to sit down and organize numbers so they jive and do the whole 'A+B=C kind of thing?)

As the cat escaped the bag here above, yes, I got to move to Canada. Canada. The land of the flag with the maple leaf on it. And really, really flat. Like my grandma’s Swedish pancakes kind of flat. What province am I? I like my privacy and maybe I just like to riddle you this and that by making you think for it. :) Oh and by the way, the water flows northward here. SoDak water tends to flow southward.  Uff da.  Big change, like huge. 

When I say move to Canada, I mean more like slowly (molasses in Antarctica slow) export myself. The paperwork, the information hunting, the almighty government website that holds all the answers (which really tell you nothing you wanted to know), the paperwork part two, the scary photos of yourself to submit with paperwork (no smiling :( resting b**** face anyone?) and then waiting. And more waiting.

But this is me and this is my story. Current, past, real-time or fond memory (like that one crazy aunt fond, eh?)

No worries mate, in due time, due time, I'll share my exploits of exporting myself and importing, I mean, integrating myself into a new life, culture and farm style.