There is one stubborn neuron in this neighbourhood’s collective brain that will not die and it makes people refer to my house as The Old Currie Place.
Apart from the little tufts of dental floss sticking out of her head, she looked pretty good.
My son came home one weekend early last spring and asked, “Why don’t you plant some grapevines here on the farm, Dad?”
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.
The men in your family remind me of a dog I once had. He was very good at letting you know what might happen.
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.