My life began on a small farm near Valleyview, Alberta, where my first twelve years unfolded in a lively mix of laughter, chores, and the steady rhythm of rural living. Summers were our season of freedom.
Summers on the farm were full of simple joys. We became eager berry‑pickers, gathering strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, saskatoons, and even mushrooms as if they were little treasures waiting to be found. We fried the mushrooms in butter, and they were delicious. Now, all these years later, I still cannot identify which wild mushrooms are safe to pick. Considering how expensive they are in the store, foraging feels like a wonderful idea.
The bachelor who lived east of us had acres of wild blueberries, and we enjoyed them as often as we picked. People from all around were welcome to come and gather berries for free — a generous gift to the whole community.
One of our summer chores was picking rocks from the fields. It wasn’t glamorous, but we made the best of it. We bent, stooped, and hopped around, turning the job into a kind of game. It felt like we were competing for a gold medal in “Rock Retrieval.” It was hard work, but we always found a way to have fun with it.
Our farm was like a cheerful little zoo. We had clucking chickens, fresh eggs, happy pigs, fluffy sheep, and gentle cows — all bringing smiles without any admission fee. Dad spent winters hunting, quietly tracking wild game while the deer and moose kept their distance. Mom’s garden overflowed with vegetables, enough to feed an army. Our big family helped with the work, though I don’t remember ever weeding. Judging by how healthy those vegetables were, someone must have picked weeds.
We were lucky to have a creek close to our house to enjoy as often as we could. When Dad had time, he drove us to a river or a lake, giving us even more chances to splash, play, and enjoy the carefree fun that kids love.
Our last day living on the farm was June 11, 1966.
