Reasoning the land

A slow rise carries to the back fields of Ernie’s place. From there we study the horizon to the south, the roll of the ‘high shore’; a Sandhill crane that soars over Lake Consecon: “There is a pair still here, they haven’t left yet,” Ernie Margetson tells me.

We follow through short grass while on the next farm over, the propeller of a wind-driven pump ambles in the early day: “They once pulled water up from the lake for livestock,” Ernie explains. A stone farmhouse sits at ease down by the road; farther to the north the land merges into a forest varnished with the stains of late fall: “It’s a 20-acre sugar bush where I take my firewood from,” Ernie continues. “I want to bring back a boiling shack for the syrup…the remains of one are there.” Learning how to interpret the land offers me a chance to experience it with one whose sentiment and profession combine into a knowledge and appreciation of the evolution of place.

“Hillier clay…barley a few feet of soil above a bed of broken shale and sedimentary rock is what’s below,” Ernie begins. “The soil is shallow with good drainage.” I mention a scattering of boulders nearby. “Hard heads we call them…hauled from the fields and dropped along fence lines…igneous-type rocks, sporadic boulders left by the glaciers. They tell where the better land is…it’s likely that wherever the boulders ended up, so did sedimentary soil.”

Ernie stoops to collect a tail feather shed by a blue jay. He hands it to me. “The land is so variable…within 10 acres you can have four different types of soil…a deep pocket…very light land…sour land,” he continues. “Dad (Ralph Margetson) told me how good the corn grew in this field one year…he worked and ploughed all of it. He can still tell where the pockets are,” says Ernie. “It’s different when you plough with horses and walk it…you’re close to it,” he comments. I breathe in a sweetsour scent and picture the soil heaving under the plough. “We think of it as ancient times,” Ernie responds, “But the horse era only ended after WWII…not that long ago.”

A Red-tailed hawk feasts near a mammoth oak tree. “When I was a kid there were numerous places where big trees stood in fields outside of a fence line…you hardly see it now,” Ernie says. “At places where the Loyalists came from they were obliged to leave a tree for every two acres for the Crown…usually oak for ship building. The tradition may have carried on here,” he adds. “They say an oak tree spends 300 years growing, 300 years living and 300 years dying.”

We arrive in the middle of a 10-acre field framed by cedar rail, ‘patent’ style fences. Sixteen years ago Ernie began to partition his 100-acre farm with fences in the manner of the last century. “As farming changed, the fence lines were taken out,” he says. “When I was young they were cleared already,” he shares. As far as I can see lie fields divided by row after graceful row of cedar rail fences. “I could picture where the fences were at one time…it’s not about putting it back the way it was but more like discovering a system that seems to work and has a place in our era,” Ernie discusses. “The size of the fields with the fence bottoms allow for a micro climate…the snow can settle in and not blow away, which is important for the over-wintering of crops…we have cattle that graze and we can now rotate them around,” he continues.

We follow a trodden cow path and navigate the patties: “I have taken on one or two sections a year to fence, doubling up where the lane is,” Ernie tells me as we come to an enclosure bordered by dense thickets of prickly ash and mature pear and apple trees. The place is quiet, a protected corridor where chickadees and nuthatches are content. “The lane was the spine of the farm,” Ernie points out. “Everything ran from the barns …you had connections to the fields…if that field was grain they could close it off and walk back and the next field would be pasture…come evening they would open the gate and the cows would follow the lane for milking… it was an organized system, functional yet…well, we know how lanes are attractive,” he adds.

“I think of the connection people must have had with their farms,” Ernie considers as we head back toward the house. “And the old patterns…it wasn’t random, there was order to the mixed farm. The partitions were more on a human scale…it all makes sense. I don’t know if we’ll get back to a short-distance economy but as we look for models of sustainability, we can learn from this.”

I head out from Ernie’s place and on my way I stop at the bend on the upper Melville road. Below is the Lake Consecon watershed; the once thriving village of Melville. Buildings appear through trees now naked; the red brick former church; the manse; a one-room schoolhouse…the little red barn and white house once belonging to the village fisherman.

‘Shibui’ (pronounced ‘shi-BOO-ee’) is a Japanese word that means only time can reveal the allure of maturity, history and patina. The quality expressed in shibui is one of restrained and understated elegance; though it evolves from a complex process, the effect is one of simple, unobtrusive loveliness. As I turn to leave I see a silhouette up high …a pair of noble Sandhill cranes is pointed south.