“Farm” is a four-letter word.
What most back-to-the-lander hippies lead you to believe is that farming is “hard work but oh so fulfilling, away from the rat race, so close to nature and wonderful” blah blah blah, but that’s only the part of the story that passes censorship. Really, homesteading is a pain in the ass. Animals are douchebags, plants can frustrate you to the point of screaming without so much as moving and breathing, and Mother Nature is a prick. Still, some of us are masochistic enough to love and thrive on the chaos, the endless disasters and the immense amount of shit stuck to the bottom of our shoes. As circus folk put it when they are asked why they chose the crazy life they lead, it’s a disease.
The story of Douchebaggery Ranch begins 3 years ago, when I finally quit a decade of school-and-job-driven vagabonding and decided to settle in Nova Scotia. I bought an old trailer that came with ¾ acres of severely neglected land, and figured it was time to put this homesteading dream of mine into action. I proceeded to build a chicken coop out of an ancient swing set frame and scrap wood I found in my backyard (I should add that my carpentry skills at that point were limited to my teenage years of hammering nails into my bedroom walls in order to cover them with jigsaw puzzles, Star Wars posters and photos of my now-dead celebrity crush), bought 8 chicks and resurrected the small garden patch (so overrun with weeds and grass that the only reason I knew there was a garden patch there was the presence of actual soft soil instead of the usual Nova Scotian field of rocks).
3 years and half a midlife crisis later, I am able to officially call the place a small farm, and myself a nearly-full-time homesteader. And who am I? I’m a small person. I’m an immigrant. I’m a woman flying solo. I’m a recovering professional, working numerous part-time jobs that don’t add up to one full-time job, trying fervently to leave the profession that I invested half my life into (and that is now destroying my health and sanity), and wondering what I want to be when I grow up. I also have a habit of saying things as they are, so this is not going to be a G rated blog, as you’ve probably figured out by now.
This is the story of me shaking my fist at inanimate objects, inventing new cuss words and laughing at the crazy ass life I have somehow landed myself in. There’s quite a bit of bitching and moaning, just as much MacGyvering, and occasionally philosophizing. The truth is, I find myself too often standing and shaking my head, thinking, “Man, this is such an awesomely ridiculous moment, why is nobody else here to experience it?”. It’s my attempt at sharing those. Take it as you will.