Home Grown

Sometime in the mid-1970s, my parents found a little piece of paradise at the end of a long dirt road. In April of 1980, they packed up their yellow Chevy pickup and their 8 month old daughter and left the Vancouver city lights in their rear view mirror.
My early memories of life on the Farm come from a combination of stories and photographs. There is the time I spent wearing green rubber gloves and diapers while peeling logs for the fence. There is the summer I spent feeding the cows, aptly named Steak and Roast. There is the time my grandpa had an elaborate plan to shoot the resident black bear and ended up shooting my swing set instead. The swing set still swings today, bullet holes and all. There are memories of summer days building forts, cutting firewood and working in the garden. Memories of bonfires, "doing " chickens and harvesting wild mushrooms.
31 years later, we show up at the Farm with our 8 month old little boy. Quayden has now made 3 trips up to the Farm, but this one was the most fun yet. He had a bath in a wash tub on the porch and another one in the same laundry sink I used as a bath until age 5. He came with me to feed the chickens and clapped his hands with excitement as they pecked at the compost just in front of him. He napped on my back while we harvested a feast of morel mushrooms. And most importantly, he snuggled with his grandma, grandpa, great grandma and great grandpa.
I feel so fortunate to have such a wonderful connection to a place. To know every trail like the back of your hand. To be able look way up to see the tops of trees that you once knew as seedlings. To find your own small handprint in the cement floor of the 31 year old garage. And, I feel so fortunate that I can now share this piece of paradise with my own little family.