Year: 2020

  • EPISODE 103 MUSKRATS….PEST OR CREATORS OF OUR WORLD

    EPISODE  103    MUSKRATS…PESTS OR CREATORS  OF OUR WORLD


    alan skeoch
    August 2020






    IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS  ONLY WATER…THE GODS LIVED ON TOP OF THE CLOUDS





    THERE were four to them cavorting in the swamp.  Young  kits.   Muskrat kits  that
    I had no idea were living and thriving in a hidden swamp  on our farm.  Only  made
    visible because I have been clearing  brush to get a better view  of the glorious
    little swamp.   Once they spotted me they arched their backs and dove down.  
    Muskrats can stay submerged for as long as17 minutes…longer than my patience
    it seems.  I waited and  waited.  Were they some kind of  mirage?   Not so, their
    home is likely under the submerged roots of some cedars and the four ran  home
    to their mommy.

    I was elated.  Our swamps, of  which we have four, seemed sort of  empty of late since
    the frog population has  been  immensely reduced and  even the leeches (bloodsuckers is
    a better word) have disappeared.   A  pair of Canada geese raise a  brood each year
    but once the little ones are big enough, they disappear somewhere.

    So  it was nice know the Muskrats have been thriving all the time.  But unseen.


    THE SWAMP…UNSEEN  FOR 20 YEARS…NOW VISIBLE…AND ALIVE.


    I  am partial to muskrats but the internet sure is  not.  The word ‘pest’ is used
    a lot.  Why?  Well they can punch holes  in dams but more serious is the presence
    of rabies and  other diseases.  Scary.  But the  presence of rabies  is  not
    exclusive to muskrats.  So do  not get your underwear in  a twist.  The internet
    goes  on to suggest poisons and  traps  to kill or capture the Muskrats. 

    Largely herbivorous, Muskrats like our human gardens.  They are nocturnal raiders
    whose presence can  be deduced by the tracks … four small feet about size of
    a cat and a long streak of the Muskrat tail in between.   That may account for the 
    anger some of us have towards muskrats.

    SOMETIMES we forget Woody…he waits knowing we will remember him


    Personally I think  these little beavers (related) are rather smart.  One late afternoon
    a few years ago we were driving home and had to turn around  to go  back to
    the farm.  Maybe  we forgot the dog, Woody.  That happens occasionally.  When
    we drove in the farm lane, there was an adult muskrat on the pathway.  He or she
    must have waited  all day for us to leave in order to get from one swamp to another…particularly
    to the hidden swamp.

    (I prefer the  term pond because it sounds  so  attractive.   But, that word,  implies  a wetland
    that has been changed into a place for goldfish.   The word swamp  is  better…allows  for
    wild things that are not controlled by human hands.)

    The muskrat stopped,  looked at us, and then turned around and disappeared into the
    mass of goldenrod that clothes  much of our open  swampland in summer.




    Why  love a  muskrat?

    A few years ago I wrote a  book on our indigenous people.  It was written with good  intentions
    …to highlight their depth of culture and the wrongs that have been committed.  The book was
    a failure.  Publisher went bankrupt the day  the book  came out.  And, worse, I was accused
    of appropriating indigenous voice.   True.  I had not considered there was a danger in my main
    protagonist using first person voice.  Writing exposes a writer to  criticism.  Painful always.

    Which gets me back to the muskrat.

    In  Mohawk legendary tradition the origin of our world is explored in a charming manner.
    Elements of this legend are also found in other First Nations explanations of how
    humans first appeared  on earth.   The Christian Adam and  Eve explanation is most
    common to Canadians.  Would that the Mohawk explanation was equally familiar.

    The legend comes down through the generations in spoken form. Thus  there
    are changes since storytellers  often like to make the story ‘better’.

    Yes, the muskrat will be featured.  Don’t get so anxious.

    This is my interpretation of the Mohawk legend of creation.  The basic elements conform
    to the tradition.   We are not dealing with something absolute.  Not Holy Writ you might say.

    “In the beginning, the planet was  covered in water.  There was no land…no earth. All
    water.  Above the earth was an envelope of clouds where the gods lived.  One day
    there was an opening in  these clouds and a  woman we call  Earth Mother peeked
    through the hole.  In order to get a better view,  she leaned  over too far and fell
    through the hole.  She was  tumbling head  over heals through the sky.   A loon noticed
    her and flew under her thereby cradling Earth Mother.  But the loon could  not hold her
    forever.  The loon called out to the creatures below, particularly to the big snapping
    turtle. “Can I let Earth Mother land on your back?”  The snapping turtle agreed and
    before long Earth Mother found herself  standing on the top of the great snapping turtle.
    Even though the turtle was  large it was not large enough to hold Earth Mother forever
    so the big snapper called all the water creatures together saying “we need some mud
    from the bottom below us.  If  we can get mud we can build a  home for earth mother
    on my back.  

    “So all the creatures  tried to get some mud…some earth.  The beaver dove down
    as deep as it could but never reached the bottom.  Died trying.  So the otter then
    tried but also died trying.  All  the water creatures tried and failed.  Then the big
    snapping turtle turned  to the little muskrat who had been ignored because it was
    so  small  and insignificant.  “Will you try?”  The muskrat agreed and dove down
    deep deep down.  It was down a long time.  Had  it drowned  like the others?

    “Then the little muskrat come to the surface.  Was ti dead or alive?  We do  not
    know but there clutched in a little paw was  a  handful of mud  from deep below
    the water.  When that handfull of mud was  spread on the great snapping turtles’
    back it suddenly began to expand  and expand…got larger and larger until the land
    we know of as our earth was  created.

    “All this happened because of the lowly little muskrat had an ability to live underwater’
    for a long time.  Without the muskrat none of us would be here.”

    NOTE:  Legends  of human origin are common to most cultures.  But the First Nation
    legends, particularly this one have some striking features.  The snapping turtle’s
    back, for instance,  fits the modern scientific of plate tectonics.  The crust of the
    earth is broken into huge plates that float snd clash. Below is a sea  of molten magma.
    To me, the Mohawk creation legend has  another feature.  All the  creatures of
    the world  helped Earth Mother survive.  Among the Mohawk the great Snapping
    Turtle is given much  credit…but most credit goes to the tiny Muskrat. There
    is a recognition that all the creatures have value.

    There are other features to this legend which I will not explore because my
    story is  about the muskrat but it is worth mentioning that Earth Mother was
    pregnant when she fell.  She  bore two sons.  One was a good son, the other
    was  a bad son. They fought. (as dud Cain and  Able in western legend)
    The good  son just barely squeaked victory
    but his victory is never secure.   Rings true to the Adam and Eve legend.  But
    foremost in the legend is the role of Earth Mother.  Among the Mohawk and other
    Iroquois women are given great prominence.  The Society of Matrons have been
    traditional leaders and decision makers.   It took a long time for British and 
    European ‘discoverers’ to understand that.

    Bottom Line…Our family will not be spreading poison  to kill the muskrats nor
    will be hiding leg hold  traps among the goldenrod.



    alan skeoch
    august 2020

    P.S.   Apologies if my interpretation of the Mohawk legend  of  creation differs
    from others.  Legends  come  from spoken traditions.  I am comforted  by the
    fact that our Mississauga First Nations…now living on land given to them by 
    the Mohawk people in the 19th century…that these people invited  me to speak
    at their historical conference a couple of years ago.  They were a most gracious
    and broad minded people.  We had a good  time.




  • EPISODE 102 AN OLD MAN’S WINTER NIGHT … BESIDE THE QUEEN ELIZABETH HIGHWAY

    NOTE:  THIS MAY SEEM A  LITTLE OFF  HE WALL…



    EPISODE 102    AN OLD MAN’S WNER NIGHT…BESIDE  THE QUEEN  ELIZABETH HIGHWAY

    A PLACE WE’VE ALL PASSED…WHAT WAS HERE  40 YEARS  AGO

    alan  skeoch
    august 2020

    It took a long time to  find the picture.  Without the picture this story has
    no meaning. 

    About 40 years ago Was driving  along the North Service road just above the
    big Ford  Assembly  plant.  Right beside the Queen Elizabeth super highway.
    Winter time but getting close to spring.  A  place you have all seen because today 
    there  are two glass and aluminum modern office buildings in that place.

    Bu 40 years ago there was  a  barn.  Old style barn that had  never  been elevated.
    Guessing  a date of  1850 or  earlier.   The barn looked bad.  Defeated.  Empty
    Abandoned.  Doomed. Sad.  All to these.  So I pulled in to get this picture (below)
    Attempting to record something that was about to disappear.

    Just as I held up the camera an elderly man walked  out of the stable.
    Was I trespassing?  No.  I was on the  road shoulder.  But he  walked
    toward me  anyway.

    “This had  been our farm for better part of a century, son.”
    “Mind if  I take  a picture.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “It must be hard to part with .”
    “Very hard.”

    He  looked at me…I think he wanted to see  in my face if I really gave a
    damn about him and  his former farm.  He must have seen something in me.

    “You know son, I got a lot of money for this farm
    but it means noting to me.   I wish I had it back.
    I wish I could still farm.  What am I going to do
    with money?

    That incident has preyed on my mind for the last four  decades.
    Every time I see those  twin  towers of glass and aluminum, I see
    that old man.  And I hear him.

    That, however, is not the end of the story.



    THIS IS THE PICTURE…NOT MUCH, RIGHT?




    Many years later we were driving up the access ramp on the other side of
    the QEW.  Exactly across the highway from the old man’s farm.

    “Dad…big fire over there.”
    “Barn  fire.”

    Sure  enough a large barn was engulfed  in flames.  Not much  anyone
    could do but look.  And there was a crowd gathering   

    Another of our Ontario wooden agricultural  cathedrals 
    was being reduced to ashes.

    Every time we drive along the QEW and  start to enter the curve 
    down  to the Ford  Motor Company plant
    I see both of these barns.

    And  I hear the old man speaking about the meaningless of his
    sudden great wealth.  





    (This picture above is not the barn that was burning.  But it is similar.  So many are gone.)








    Take another look while you read Robert Frost’s ‘An Old Man’s  Winter Night’




    alan skeoch
    august 2020

    An Old Man’s Winter Night by Robert Frost

    www.robertfrost.org/images/postquote.png); overflow: auto; background-position: left top; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat;” class=””>

    All out of doors looked darkly in at him
    Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,
    That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.
    What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze
    Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.
    What kept him from remembering what it was
    That brought him to that creaking room was age.
    He stood with barrels round him – at a loss.
    And having scared the cellar under him
    In clomping there, he scared it once again
    In clomping off; – and scared the outer night,
    Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar
    Of trees and crack of branches, common things,
    But nothing so like beating on a box.
    A light he was to no one but himself
    Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,
    A quiet light, and then not even that.
    He consigned to the moon, such as she was,
    So late-arising, to the broken moon
    As better than the sun in any case
    For such a charge, his snow upon the roof,
    His icicles along the wall to keep;
    And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt
    Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted,
    And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept.
    One aged man – one man – can’t fill a house,
    A farm, a countryside, or if he can,
    It’s thus he does it of a winter night.

    NOW EVERY TIME YOU TAKE THE QEW WESTWARD YOU MAY  SEE THE OLD BARN
    AND  HEAR THE OLD MAN….EVERY TIME YOU SEE THESE BUILDINGS.

    alan skeoch
    august 2020

  • EPISODE 101 THE BEE YARD…TWO MEN IN SPACE SUITS

    EPISODE 101   THE  BEE  YARD…TWO MEN IN SPACE SUITS…A DRONE WITH A CAMERA


    alan skeoch
    august 2020


    Our son Andrew decided to raise  bees.  I do not know where  he got the
    idea since  my experience with bee  keeping was an utter and complete 
    failure for manY reasons.

    My failure as a beekeeper:  About 30 years ago, maybe 40, I decided to become  a  beekeeper after buying a van load of old
    bee hives, etc. at the Parker  Petit auction sale north of Toronto…maybe  near Beeton come to think of it.  All I needed
    was instruction and a load of bees from an American supplier.  Getting the bees was easy.  Understanding  the bees  was
    another matter. First mistake… I put good bees in old hives.  They got diseased and had to be burned.  Awful.  The worst part came
    next.  Ed (deleted last name) was my bee instructor.  Seemed like a  nice fellow until he turned up at our house when
    I was away.  His intentions were sexual and Marjorie was appalled.  She phoned me at PCI and I in turn phoned
    Ed.  The call was  not nice.  I did not care if  his wife was listing.   So ended my beekeeping career.

    Andrew, our son, will not make the same mistake.  His instructor is one of my lifelong friends.  He has been
    beekeeper for 50 years.  Loves his bees.  And  loves helping youngsters willing to take up beekeeping.  It cannot
    be a casual  thing.  Bees are one of the most organized living things on this planet.  They do not take well
    to amateurs.

    MARAUDERS ARE OUT THERE

    Russ: “Skunks and bears have killed many
    of my bees.  They  find them tasty.  The Skunks just scratch on he hive..like knocking at your door.  When  the
    bees come out the  skunk eats each bee as you would a nice  sweet chocolate.  A skunk can eat a  lot of  bees.
    The worst raid was  by a bear.   My bee  yard is near Orillia which can be bear country on rare occasions.
    The bear just lifted the supers of the hive one by one.  Ate until his  gut was full then ambled away  leaving
    my bee yard devastated.  I spent a couple of evenings parked near the hives  intending to get that bear.
    The bear outsmarted me…never came back.”



    SEE THE white/yellow pack of pollen attached  to this bumblebees back legs?


    Sunflowers are immense.  But no bees.  No nectar.


    The secret trial  to the bee yard.  I walked.   Russ and Andy drove.


    Our fields of  goldenrod could be  saviours of Andrew’s bees.   Currently bee yard is located between
    two fields of commercial soybeans.  Long past the flower stage.  

    “How far will a bee go for nectar,  Russ?”
    “Maybe 2 miles although they do not like the long trips.”




    “So what do you think, Russ…good bee yard?”
    “The problem is getting these bees  ready for winter.  One hive is OK, the
    other is weak.  We may  have to combine  them if Andrew  is to have bees 
    next spring.”
    “Can Andy  get any honey  this fall?”
    “Maybe, but the bees have to eat as well…I would wait until
    next year when the hive(s) might be stronger”


    Russ, the beekeeper in Andy’s bee yard.  “Will the bees live or die?”

    How  can you tell that Russ has been a beekeeper for a long time?  Look  at his  bee outfit.

    The weirdest thing about this bee visit was that Andy and Russ dressed up like spacemen while all  I wore
    was short pants and a polo shirt.  I  should  have been scared, I guess.  Neither Andy nor
    Russ paid  any attention to my vulnerability  They talked bees…as  if I was  not there.

    “What if  I get stung, Russ?”
    “Bee stings could do you the world of good…my dad  said
    they were good for arthritis pain…reduced the pain”
    “I do  not have arthritis, Russ?”
    “Well, enjoy the bee stings as if you do.”

    “Alan, would  you pipe down.  Andy and I have serious  work
    to do here.  Go out and take pictures of thistles.”



    Thistle honey…a rare sweetness


    “Andy, the success of any bee  colony rests with the female bees.   They do  all the work.
    The male bees do one thing and then they are useless.  Most die.  The females keep a
    few around but must get irritated  for the drones just flop here and there.  They do  nothing
    except do a bit of breeding.”

    “Sounds about right.”

    “Meaning?”

    “Women are multi tankers.  They do  most of the work around  home.  Men just hang around
    and drink a beer or two…now and then.”

    “Where did you get that idea,Andy?”

    “From my dad.  Look at him right now.  He is doing nothing but taking pictures.  We 
    are working.”

    “But we are males too…drones. “

    “Right, maybe we should  consider a  sex change.”






    Marjorie and  the bee keeper’s wife, Anne…plus a friend.

    “Russ, could that mask… above Marjorie and Anne…could the mask scare skunks away from
    the bee hives?”

    “Scares  me.”

    We are awaiting the honey.   Humans  are such insensitive creatures.  Here we are prepared to
    steal honey from bees  who have collected  nectar from millions of tiny flowers.   We are worse 
    than insensitive.  We are greedy.   We give them back sugared water after stealing their honey.

    How did that fox get in the house ?  Marjorie come and  get the fox our of here..


    Russ and  I  have been good  friends ever since high school.  We spent our high school years
    going on camping trips using our thumbs to get rides, then playing football for years in the mistaken
    belief that girls liked the game and would therefore marvel at our skills of knocking  people down.
    We were mistaken.  We did, however, marry roommates at Victoria College, University of Toronto.
    That was one of our great achievements.




    This is our son Andy and his wife Julie.

    Marjorie and  her pet cow named Elsie.


    Two beekeepers.   Andy has kept bees for 1 month.  Russ and his dad have  kept bees for more than 50 years.  “I still do not fully understand my bees even
    after 50 years.  I do my best to keep them healthy.”

    alan skeoch
    August 2020

  • Fwd: EPISODE 99 LAST FLIGHT OUT ON A CRIPPLED BUSH PLANE



    Begin forwarded message:


    From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
    Subject: EPISODE 99 LAST FLIGHT OUT ON A CRIPPLED BUSH PLANE
    Date: August 25, 2020 at 10:04:17 AM EDT
    To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>, John Wardle <john.t.wardle@gmail.com>




    EPISODE 99”  LAST FLIGHT OUT … ON A CRIPPLED BUSH PLANE

    alan skeoch
    August 2020




    EPISODE 99   LAST FLIGHT OUT ON A  CRIPPLED BUSH PLANE

    alan skeoch
    august 2020

    PILOT  “Listen boys, I do not like this little lake
    so do your work fast.  The water is going down
    and  landing will get difficult.”

    “Take less per load.”

    “Possible but soon there’ll not be enough water to land.”

    “These  are the last off our anomalies…we will work fast.
    Come back for us in three days.:  (I do not remember this time line exactly)


    The summer of 1964 was hot.  To many that means heightened fire  danger which was
    true.  We had a no fire rule for much of the summer. But the real danger was the slow but
    steady evaporation of water from the lakes.  A lot of water
    was gone between June and September.  That fact is apparent in the photograph of
    our fly camp (Episode 97).  Looks like the water has gone down five  feet or more.

    Flight pontoon landings that were easy and safe in June became difficult and dangerous
    in September.

    This picture was  taken  in mid August.  Take a  look at the high  water mark on the shore.  Seems water had  gone  down about
    four or five feet by then.  On  our last job the water level had dropped more.  Very dangerous for water landings and takeoffs as
    we discovered.

    It was our last job. 
    we Were  finished. The crew had returned to Paradise Lodge to pack up.
    Marjorie had caught the ACR to Sault Ste Marie.  “Meet you at
    the airport, Marjorie…maybe around noon.”   My part of the job  was finished.  I had to be
    back in school by the end of the Labour Day Week  End.    

    The plan was neat.  We had finished work on an anomaly close to a small lake
    south of our Wart Lake camp.  All that was left was a pile of gear….tents, cooking
    goods, some wire frame cots, axes,shovels.,Coleman  stoves, fuel, etc.  I don’t really remember what was
    in the pile of goods.   Maybe 200  to 300 pounds  of
    euipment.  



    “I don’t like this lake…too shallow,” said the pilot when he dropped us a few days earlier.

    “And it will get worse.”

    We did the job as fast as we could and had arranged a pick up.  Don’t remember much about the first flight
      but I do  know I was  feeling quite nostalgic.  This would be the last bush job of m life.  I knew that
    and wanted to savour my exit alone. Crew out first.  The flight went
    well although the distance from touchdown to the end of the lake was short.  

    That was not the problem.  I did  not expect a  problem for I was  wrapped in
    my memories of so  many bush  planes on so many lakes.  Mostly Beavers but a  few
    Cessnas and one Seabee which was just a visitor being dropped off.  “Those 
    Seabees are really dangerous.  Motor at the rear.  Pushing.  If the motor quits the
    goddamn thing drops like a rock.  No ability to glide.   Cessnas  glide best.”

    The Cessna 170 came in  at tree top level.  Had  to.  Landing strip of water was short 
    as evaporation created shallows where  once  there was two or three feet of water.

    The pilot cut power early and  the plane settled  down  harder than usual.  Bigger chevron 
    of water.  And something different.  Slightly lopsided.  The plane turned  and  idled
    its way to our landing site.  Slight slant.  Odd.

    “Hit a fucking deadhead.  Ripped the pontoon…goddamnit.”

    Submerged  objects terrified bush pilots.  Often they took a run at landing
    then circled.  Looking for objects.  Like dead heads…old submerged logs or
    trees  sometimes angled upwards.

    “I’m going to pump out the water while you load.  Could be tricky.  Put 
    load  as far forward  as you can…need the weight for extra  lift.”

    Took no time at all.  Ignition. And we worked our way to best takeoff  position
    and he gave it full power.  We flumed our way down the lake with an increasing
    slant as the pontoon filled with water.   Fast but not fast enough.  The far shore 
    and  tree line got closer and  closer.  “Can’t make it!” and the pilot cut power and  the plane settled.  Slightly off centre.  And close
    to shore.  Too close.

    “Dump the load on the beach.  We’ll try  once more but empty.  Got to get off
    this fucking lake. “  He cursed and  pumped out the pontoon water.

    “There.  Let’s give it another try.”

    He taxied down as far as he could without getting tangled in weeds.  Then
    we were moving.  The pontoon filled with water as we went full throttle
    down the lake.  Far shore became the near shore.  No lift yet.

    “Move your body  forward…gut more lift.”

    Then we had liftoff.  To me it seemed  just in time.  Seemed we were
    just skirting the swamp and  maybe touching tree tops  Not true of
    course.  Imagination played.

    The rest of the flight was easy.  In an hour we had landed at Sault Ste
    Marie where Marjorie was supposed to be waiting.  I had said noon but
    we were late, very late. She was not there.
    Her turquoise VW beetle  was in the parking lot but no sign of 
    Marjorie.

    Then she walked into the holding lounge from the aircraft side.

    “I pretended to be  sick.”


    “A man offered me a tour of the city from his plane.  I did  not
    know he was just a pilot in training.  Scared me near to death.
    Only way we got back on the ground  fast was I pretended  to
    be about to vomit”

    And so  it ended.   Our days of mining exploration were over.  They
    ended with a bang.

    alan  skeoch
    August 2020

    P.S.  I know this sounds hard to believe.  Writing from memory
    can result in exaggeration.  So here are the simple facts
    of that last flight.

    1) Water levels had  fallen dramatically (see picture)
    2) Pilot did hit something and punctured one pontoon.
    3) I  watched him pump out the pontoon
    4) We failed to get liftoff on our first attempt and jettisoned
    the cargo on the beach.
    5) Second attempt was just barely successful and I remember
    the pilot asking me to lean forward.
    6) Our baggage?   Do  not know what happened.
    7) Marjorie did take a joy ride that scared her enough to feign vomit
    8) This  was  not my final job.  The next summer we flew to Merritt
    B.C. on a short seismic job.  But this Paradise Lodge job was
    my last bush  job.
















  • EPISODE 100 BEST CROP IS FLAX…FOR THE MOVIE INDUSTRY

    EPISODE 100    BEST CROP IS FLAX…FOR THE MOVIE INDUSTRY


    alan skeoch
    August 2020

    “OUR best crop is Flax.”

    Friends  and relatives often ask us what do we grow on our farm.  I have 
    a standard answer…”Flax”…followed by fragment of explanation…”for the movie  industry”

    Now that makes us,  Marjorie and  I, sound like big time farmers.  The truth is less exalted.
    Our flax  crop needed  a little high powered marketing before we reached the big time.
    Big time?  What a load of  hot air.

    We  grow about an acre of flax which fights for existence in a 
    field  full of  weeds.  Flax  is  tough and succeeds here and there.




    But to get rentals.  Yes, rentals…we rent our flax.  It is  not a consumable unless the mice
    get at it in the seed  ball stage.   Our flax never reaches  the seed ball stage.  We harvest it
    just after the beautiful tender blue or purple flower drop their petals.  Less  attractive to mice.   That is
    our little trade secret.  Do not copy.

    Harvesting about 100 bundles of flax.  Not a truckload.  Maybe two  wheelbarrow loads when its bound
    with binder twine and looped for hanging. Then the flax  is ready for the sales pitch.



    “What you  people need is a load of our flax to hang here and there
    in your movie…maybe a market scene or a murder scene.   Hanging
    flax can make things mysterious.  Your camera can  move on one side
    and presto … you have mystery.”

    “Let me  demonstrate”



    “There are 44 bundles  of flax now hanging in the workshop.  Our target each year is 100.  
    the rest is left for the field  mice or winter  birds.   We are generous farmers.”


    Please do not look closely at our harvest.  I would  prefer you not see the binder twine looping system.  Just look
    at the pretty blue or purple flax  flower.


    We diversify our crop rentals with a bunch of hanging tobacco.  The trouble with
    renting tobacco leaves is that some never comes  back.  I suspect the movie
    crews like to  roll your own .   Who cares?  Loss is just the cost of doing business.



    Now  suppose you want the aged effect.  Well we have a supply of  aged flax…brown.  
    Some of it is in the ball stage because we were too slow in harvesting.  That gives 
    the flax and even more mysterious appearance.


    “Our flax is hand harvested.  This dump rake is just a prop to make us look mechanized.”

    “Can you find the flax among the weeds?…look for the little balls”

    alan  skeoch
    August 2020

    p.s.  Do not call in the next couple of hours.  We will be in the back field
    hand harvesting and bundling.