Small farmers are among the most observant people I know. They must be, if they have any hope of lasting in the craft. Because they juggle so many projects in a day they must be alert to everything that is happening around them as well as those things that aren’t happening. Psychologists call this a ‘cueing instinct,’ which simply means you pick up instantly on changes in your surroundings, like when the barn well pump is not shutting off. This reminds you that you left the hose running in the sheep trough earlier in the day and the sheep will now be wearing snorkels and flippers.
I’m not certain if the cueing instinct is something that can be learned or if it has to be installed at birth. But I am convinced someone who does not have this instinct will find life on the farm too frustrating and painful to stay at it and enjoy it for very long.
The most regular advice I received as a youth from my adopted uncles and grandfathers on the farm was “use your eyeballs.” I was taught to pause in the doorway of the barn every morning and listen for unusual sounds. A cow with a new calf makes a soft, throaty grunt. A hen with chicks will make an indignant shriek. A sheep trying to hang itself in a wire gate will give a brief, plaintive bleat. A pig holding the water bowl lever down to flood the stable will receive raucous encouragement from his pals. These events all require prompt attention by the owner. The guiding rule is: Look for and Expect Calamity. Besides standing guard over flocks and crops, the small farmer meets daily threats to his own life and limb and must always be on alert. Again, the voices of childhood speak to me as I go about my daily rounds:
“Don’t walk behind that horse without speaking to it.”
“Never turn your back on that ram.”
“Don’t raise the loader any higher than your nose when you’re travelling over rough ground with a load.”
“Never touch the clutch on a hill.”
“Never hire a man with untied shoes.”
To identify threats promptly, the small farmer must possess Napoleon’s ‘coup d’oeil,’ the ability to grasp the situation at a glance and take action. This is the only way to cope when it feels as if the entire natural world is hatching a plot to put you out of business, whether it’s coyotes, foxes, hawks, weasels or the neighbours’ dog. As the British statesman 1st Baron Courtney once said: “The price of peace is eternal vigilance.” (Courtney was considered a radical and a stern critic of empire and raw power but when I read that line I thought, ‘this man has clearly spent some time defending a henhouse.’)
The most observant person I have ever known was my next-door neighbour Hughie, who farmed beside me for nearly 40 years. He divided his working life between the supervision of 20 sows, 30 cows, five acres of apples, many crops and five children. No visit from him was complete without him noticing a soft tire, a missing bolt on the snowblower or a sheep off its feed. He was also very quotable, and his quips are everywhere in my plays and books. When he died, it was his youngest son who took over the farm, the only child who inherited Hughie’s remarkable gift for observation. Hughie said you could have 12 children and there would only be one that wanted to come with you when you went to the barn.
I only had one myself and she, too, was the youngest. From the age of five, Hannah was the one who would dive under a ewe and make a lamb latch on. She was the one who could trim a horse’s hoof or dose a stroppy ram with a drench gun. There was never any hope of her staying home to continue my work because this place isn’t big enough to offer a decent living. But she has gone on to work as a camp cook in the Rocky Mountains, drive a rock truck in the oil sands and try a career as a parts person in a car dealership. She has finally settled into a social media business doing work that hadn’t even been invented when she was in school. Wherever she goes she always lands on her feet because she knows how to use her eyeballs. Something she picked up growing up on a small farm.