G for Grace

Yes, G is for grace, goodness, god, garrulousness and granola. But today I am grateful for Geese. Growing up in Canada is pretty special. Although I was born in the tropics, I spent my childhood in view of the Rockies, but as soon as I could leave Cowtown I did and travelled all across this large country, marvelling at its distances and bare bones beauty. One place that always took forever to get through was Ontario, with its lakes, forests, dirty towns, space station landscapes, and those big old birds.

When you see the geese in March you know that the season that smells like dog shit is upon us. Spring in most of Canada is a tortuous affair, where small flowers creep out of the snowy ground and blind you with their bright determination to be alive. The geese have increased in population recently, but they still fly south in the fall and north in the spring.

When I had a farm, we had a filthy pond where the geese lived. Family myths among the kids grew in that pond, daring rescues from near-drowning. When we would argue, which was often back then, the geese would take up the spirit of the screaming match and they would start to holler too. The kids tell me now they were afraid of the geese, but I never was. They knew I had the upper hand, in the form of a rope and a sharp knife. Mama kills.

Our geese on the farm were big and white, with bright orange feet and beaks, not like the dark and smaller Canada geese of our home.

WWOOF Italia

I got a call from Ninni the other day. She was the first Italian Wwoofer we had years ago on our farm. Her and her boyfriend drove up from Sicily, held hands while they picked stones from the wheat, which I then ground and made our bread and pasta, and were generally a lot of fun to have around. Even though I could hardly understand a word of what Ninni said when she got excited and slipped into full Sicilian.
Talking to Ninni got me reminiscing about WWOOF Italia, and thinking about volunteers and the difference they can make to people’s lives.
We bought a crumbling stone farmhouse and seven acres of land, part vineyard, part wooded, with a pond and a spring, when I was expecting my fourth child. What a time those boys had! When we were in the fields or up on top of the roof, they were fighting battles, rafting in the goose-ridden pond, and making wooden schooners next to the chicken coop.
We had many helpers over the years. Our youngest was a seventeen year-old from England who came, took one look, and asked to be taken back to the station. Our oldest was a lovely woman who had done with family and children, and wanted to explore the world. They helped weeding the garden, picking grapes, building stone walls, cutting hay, … in return for a place to stay and three good meals a day.
Wwoof has changed over the years. In 1991 there were two or three hosts, now there are hundreds. The typical host was like us: lots of children, a small mixed farm, no money, and lots of energy and determination. There are still many hosts like we were, but there are also large “agriturismos”, which use volunteers to change beds and set tables.
And the volunteers have changed too. Back in the day, they were mostly travelers, or people in search of a different lifestyle, or curious about farming, or wanting to get away from their city-based life. Now, especially in the summer, we are inundated with young tourists, who are looking for a cheap place to stay, and consider a little farm work to be a good way to get some exercise. Winter is generally better, when tourism is down.
Still, it is a good way to get experience, and a wonderful way to meet people, and learn or practice languages. The hosts still benefit from a helping hand, and tolerance and generosity are generally the order of the day.