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.
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.