How Is It I’m Still Alive
Farm life is a little tougher than suburban life
Some of my fondest memories of my father are the times he and I would spend out on the farm together, but I do have to wonder how it is I’m still alive.
When I was twelve / thirteen years of age, I would often go out to the farm with my father during school holidays. I was there to help Dad and I learnt some great lessons in life, from the time spent out there.
Our farm was a wheat farm and didn’t have suitable accommodation to live on the property, so we lived in the closest small town.
The accommodation was a tin shack, just big enough for a cupboard, kerosene fridge, dining table, chair, old bench car seat and a wood stove. The dining table became a single bed for Dad at night, with a mattress hosted on top of it. My bed was the old car seat in front of the wood stove.
The stove had to be lit every day as it was the only means of cooking — my job — breakfast and dinner. Lunch was a sandwich of some kind, so we didn’t need the fire lit.
There was no electricity or plumbing to the property, therefore no toilet facilities, either inside or out. The toilet consisted of a shovel and a roll of toilet paper, pick a direction and dig a hole. I think you get the gist of the rest.
