Originally published August 3, 1998
From our side of the fence: the farm wife’s perspective “A farmer’s holiday means you have to drive.”
By: Karen EmilsonLike most good farm wives I silently bring my hands together and ask for good haying weather.
He thinks I’m doing it for the benefit of the farm. You know, so that the summer will be less stressful and so that we’ll have plenty of feed for the winter.
But in fact, I just want to take holiday.
First, I ask for good weather so that haying will be finished in time. Once it appears that will happen, then I begin praying that we might actually fly to our destination. Unfortunately, the farmer wants to drive. The nature of his occupation means he has more practice at praying than me and his request offsets mine.
I swing it pasty my employer who usually wants to know when I plan on being away. “The next time it rains” doesn’t narrow it down much.
I raised the subject of our annual holiday just last week with Mark.
“We haven’t driven through Saskatchewan for awhile,” he said. “Maybe we could do that.”
I start praying some more.
“Please, God,” I whisper. “Not that again.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I said, ‘they’ve got a lot of grain.”
“Yeah,” he smiled. “And there’s no trees or mountains blocking all that scenery.”
Oh great.
Over the years I’ve discovered that farmers have rules about vacationing.
SINCE 1998
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The first rule is that you must drive. That’s just in case things dry up enough, you can turn around and go home and start hauling hay, manure or whatever else might need hauling.
Rule number two is that you must go somewhere relatively boring and where cowboy hats or caps acceptable attire.
Rule number three is that in order to get to your destination, you have to pass through the largest farm implement dealerships in Western Canada.
There are no other rules except if you have to go the bathroom, you’d better do it now.
I remember our last road trip. I wanted to go to Banff and we ended up in Yorkton. The pick-up truck capital of the world. Farmer town. I should have known when he packed two pair of new Lee Bootcut jeans and his wool work socks.
On our second morning, I awoke in the motel to find that Mark was gone. I assumed he went for coffee but when he didn’t return for over an hour, I began to worry. Just as I was beginning to think he’d left a gate open at home, he drove up to the motel.
“Where were you?” I asked as he entered our room carrying a little bag.
“Went for coffee,” he said. “And I found this great store.”
Mark went shopping? Without being forced? Aliens must have landed sometime in the night and taken my real husband prisoner.
“I went to Mr. Tool,” he said, opening the bag. “Look what I bought.”
He pulled out a socket, seven-eighths inch wrench, a file and a few other items you’d never find in a ‘woman’ store.
“now THIS is a REAL farm town,” he said proudly. “Let’s go eat and then we’ll drive to Regina.” I decided it was Mark afterall.
We drove past Mr. Tool so that I could see the store for myself and then turned south. My farmer was among his own kind as he accelerated past tourist attractions and slowed down to 20 km when approaching an implement dealership. This is socially acceptable behaviour in the famer-belt between Yorkton and Regina. In fact, it is encouraged – you can tell by the wide paved shoulders along the highway. I believe this has saved a lot of lives.
The highlight of the trip was a visit to ‘Canada’s #1 Tourist Attraction’ at the time. No, it wasn’t a tour of the Parliament Buildings or the Art Gallery. Not even the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Museum.
We went to Dick Assman’s Petro Canada Station. The boys even posed for a photo in front of Dick’s sign and we would have asked for an autograph but Dick wasn’t actually there. Unfortunate as that was. So, we got ice cream and checked into a waterslide hotel.
Having covered all the crucial elements of a farmer’s vacation, we headed home the next day.
And now he’s talking about going again.
I just hope Mr. Tool is still there, otherwise we’ll both be disappointed.