This was not a good summer to go near an emergency department, renew a passport, get a driver’s test, buy a vehicle, fly anywhere, or get anyone to answer a phone. But it remained a completely routine summer for my small farm.
Anytime we stepped away from the sideroad we ran into confusion and shortages. My wife had a heart issue and lay on a gurney in the ER for two days because there was no staff to attend to a bed on the ward. My daughter took a meandering flight home from the west and arrived without luggage. I sat on the phone for hours to any number of government agencies waiting for help with online applications that didn’t work. Strange gaps appeared on store shelves and nobody seemed to want to come to work. Even the paper to print this magazine has become scarce.
Then my beloved 12-year old farm truck died. It blew a radiator hose and overheated in about 15 seconds. By the time I got it shut off there was an ominous rattle up front. We towed it to the dealership here our mechanic sadly informed us the engine was pooched. Then he also sadly informed us that a replacement would cost $5,000, if he could find one and another $5000 to put it in. (My 4.6 litre V-8 is a bit of a rarity.)
“Ten thousand would make a healthy down payment on something newer,” he suggested gently. Except that it doesn’t. The average price of a new truck has now hit $50,000, a jump of 15% in the last three years. New vehicles have now officially moved into the luxury category in North America. The dealer had a single used truck on the lot, only one year younger than my own and with only slightly lower mileage. It listed for $20,000, much more than I paid for my truck seven years ago.
I already have an old truck, I thought. I’d rather pay ten than twenty for it, and besides, mine has an eight-foot box and crank windows, something we will never see again. So, I decided to put the new engine in.
Except it’s not a new engine. Just an old engine pulled out of a wreck in Alberta, one of three available across the country. Couldn’t say when it would be delivered or if they would have the staff to install it. Maybe a month or so. While I was struggling with the decision, someone else snapped up the engine I was looking at. Now there were two.
In the meantime, I raised my chickens, lambs and pigs, found hay and straw, coaxed bushel baskets of vegetables and fruit out of the garden and orchard. The well survived the dry weather. No interruptions or shortages distracted us from stocking the freezers and shelves with another season’s produce and piling three bush cords of firewood against the side of the house.
For once, this little farm seemed like a well-ordered place compared to the rest of the world, which should not surprise us. Small enterprises have always been more resilient and reliable when the world hits a series of speed bumps. My wife has been restored to her garden and kitchen thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, a reminder that science and the modern world has given us a lot to be grateful for, not least of which is hearing your name called a lot during the day.
That other engine finally arrived from Quebec this morning and chances are the truck will be back on the road before school starts. With that news comes the sudden realization that for the first time in decades it makes more sense to fix a vehicle rather than throw it out. Could this be the future? And is it a bad thing? My last two farm trucks went off to China and came back to us as cheap lawn furniture and a lot of bad air. Surely, we’ve had enough of both.
When I look at the day’s news it feels like the world is broken. But when I look at the farm it feels manageable, fresh and full of promise.