I am allowed to grow a small number for my own use, but if I tried to sell the eggs or the broilers in any quantity, I would be visited by a chicken policeman in a big black Ford.
For the longest time I had the gnawing feeling that something was happening somewhere and I didn’t know about it.
I was hoeing the garden when Dillinger suddenly came around the henhouse, trotting along like he was on his way to the bank. He was sunburned and covered with dirt.
I bought my own farm, married a farm girl from the next township, and settled down to a view of Georgian Bay and the life of a hunter-gatherer, or “freelancer,” to use the ancient Ojibway term.