This is a song I wrote a long time ago after I had left the farm and was in university. One night I was supposed to be studying for exams when I picked up the guitar instead. The only place I wanted to be was back home, riding a tractor, feeding the cattle. Almost 50 years later, although even if I could I wouldn’t want to live there again, I still miss the place. Christine Manor is my fictitious name for the farm. There was a farm around the corner from ours which had big stone gates at the entrance and a name with the word Manor in it. The painting above was done in her later life by my aunt Kathleen who grew up on the farm. It depicts our barn, erected in 1899, and which still stands.
I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.
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