Farmed Out

Farmed Out

Christy Goerzen

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Copyright © 2011 Christy Goerzen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Goerzen, Christy, 1975-
Farmed out [electronic resource] / Christy Goerzen.

(Orca currents)
Type of computer file: Electronic monograph in PDF format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-55469-912-4

I. Title. II. Series: Orca currents (Online)
PS
8613.O38
F
37 2011A    
JC
813'.6     
C
2011-903350-
X

First published in the United States, 2011
Library of Congress Control Number:
2011929396

Summary:
Fifteen-year-old Maddie, an artist with big-city dreams, is forced to volunteer on an organic farm.

Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has
printed this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council
^®
.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover photography by
iStockphoto.com

www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.

14  13  12  11  •  4  3  2  1

For Tara, with buckets of love

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

“Okay, Maddie, let's talk adventure.”

I groaned across the kitchen table at my mother. I thought we could avoid the “adventure” topic that summer. Silly me.

For the past few years my mom has made me go on summer “adventures.” Whoever taught her the definition of that word obviously didn't understand English very well.

Last July is a prime example. She dragged me to a Wild Woman Weekend on Saltspring Island. It was at this hippie lady's house. I think her name was Star Mountain Skyhawk. She had stringy gray hair down to her butt, and stringy gray armpit hair to match. Gross. The basic gist of the weekend was that we paint on our faces with mud and scream into a hole in the ground. Then we all sat in a circle and talked about our womanly feelings. It was me, my mom and a bunch of middle-aged women, like always.

Our summer adventures are my mother's big chance to express what she calls her “true self.” My mom is a bookkeeper, which is like an accountant that doesn't make much money. She wears beige pantyhose and high heels every day. Outside of work, she's totally New Age. She even has a side business as a tarot card reader. A corner of our living room is draped with velvet scarves and crystals for her clients. Most of them are desperate single women looking for true love.

But I hoped that this summer adventure would be different. Maybe this year we'd go to New York City and visit art galleries. Art is my thing, and New York is the place to see lots of it. But that was a crazy idea. A silly fantasy. My mother would never in a million years have an idea as cool as going to New York City.

I had my own plans for getting to the Big Apple anyway. My favorite art magazine,
Canvas
, was running a youth art contest. And the prize was…drum roll, please: a one-week, all-expenses-paid trip to New York City. This included passes to all the art galleries in town.
And
the winning piece would appear on the cover of the magazine. In other words, a huge deal.

It was the chance of a lifetime. The entry deadline was in eight days. I hadn't started drawing, but I do my best work at the last minute. I planned to hang out downtown at the art gallery for inspiration.

“Um…adventure?” I asked, my fingers and toes crossed under the table.

With a flourish, my mom held up a green booklet.

I squinted to read the cover.

My mom set down her coffee mug and stood up as though she was about to give an Oscar acceptance speech.

“We are going to experience the rewards of organic farming.”

Visions of me sketching in a Manhattan café vanished instantly.

Wishful thinking, Maddie
. My mom couldn't afford to take us anywhere exciting.

Mom had a huge grin on her face as she sat back down. She always gets worked up about our mother-daughter trips.

“Organic farming?”

Mom slid the booklet across the table saying, “We'll be VOF-ers! That's what the volunteers are called.”

VOFO
, the cover read.
Volunteer
Organic Farm Opportunities
. A bunch of the pages were dog-eared.

I flipped through the booklet. Paragraphs about farms all over the province were circled in yellow high-lighter. There were farms on Vancouver Island, in Powell River, the Okanagan and Nelson.

“Go to the Central Okanagan section,” she said, “and read about the farm in Mara.”

I started to read the description to myself.

“Read it out loud,” she said, her eyes shiny.

I sighed. All I wanted to do was eat a bowl of junky cereal and watch
TV
.

“
Quiet River Farm
,” I read. “
Proprietors: Klaus and Ruth Friesen.
Come join us on our fifty-acre patch of
paradise. We have a dairy cow, goats,
pigs, chickens and a garlic garden. Work
varies from animal care to weeding. If
you love country living and good food,
please come stay with us.
”

“Doesn't it sound
perfect
?” My mom clapped her hands together. “I've always wanted to learn about living off the land.”

“Since when?”

I flipped through the rest of the book.
Come build a sweat lodge with us,
said a farmer from Nelson.
You'll enjoy our
organic fertilizer operation
, said a guy named John van Horne in Kaslo. There were cheesemakers, herb farmers and even sheepherders.

“We only have to work for four hours a day,” my mom said. She took a gulp from her coffee mug. “We'll learn so much, us urban gals.”

Having to work “only” four hours a day didn't make this trip sound better. I crossed my arms and gave her the classic Maddie Turner stare.

“Mom, these people are complete nutbars.”

My mom stopped smiling. She raked her fingers through her long blond hair. It's not her natural color. She bleaches it.

“Maddie,” my mom continued, her voice raspy. It gets like that when she's annoyed. “You've never felt earth between your fingers. You've never known what it's like to till the soil with your own two hands.”

“Don't they have machines for that?” I said.

“You were born and raised in the city. Your high school is in downtown Vancouver. We live in a tenth-floor apartment.” Mom plucked a couple of mint leaves from the clay pot on the table and held them up. “This is the closest we get to nature. Every fifteen-year-old girl should get in touch with the earth.”

“No,” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “Fifteen-year-old girls should spend the summer sleeping in and hanging out with their friends as far away from manure as possible.”

“Come on, Maddie, it'll be good for both of us to get out of the city for a week.”

“A week!”

“We leave Saturday morning.”

“Saturday morning!” I spluttered. “In, like, two days? But what about the
Canvas
art contest? The deadline is eight days away!”

Another thing about our adventures is that my mom never gives me any notice—or asks my opinion. She says she likes to “maintain the element of surprise.”

“You could do it before we leave.”

“I can't! I'm babysitting all day tomorrow!” I could feel my face tense with frustration.

“Well, honey, maybe you'll find inspiration on the farm. A lot of great artists lived in the country. Bring your art stuff along with you.”

“I can't get inspiration on a stupid farm! I can't believe you're doing this to me!” My eyes were hot with tears. My mom was going to ruin
everything
.

“Madison, calm down. Deep breath.” My mom put her index fingers and thumbs together, yoga-style, and inhaled loudly through her nose. “It'll all work out.”

I crossed my arms and kicked the table leg with my toe.

“Honey, this will be fun,” my mom said, her hands still in the yoga position.

“Can I go stay with Dad?” I said, interrupting her. I said that just to make her mad. My mom looked like she might cry.

“No you may
not
. This is our mother-daughter trip.” She stomped into the living room and turned on the
TV
.

“You're mad?” I called after her.

“I'm the one watching all my hopes and dreams crumble!”

Like all of our mother-daughter adventures, I didn't have a choice. I was going to Quiet River Farm whether I liked it or not.

By Friday night I still hadn't packed. I sat on my bed and looked at myself in my dresser mirror. I had just cropped my blond hair short and added bright blue streaks. I wondered what the farmers would think of my hair.

I yanked open my dresser drawer and started throwing all my most fabulous clothes into a duffel bag.
You can take
the girl out of the city,
I thought,
but you
can't take the city out of the girl.
I wasn't planning to pack the ratty old T-shirts and jeans my mom wanted me to wear.

I plucked my sketchbook off my desk and sat on my bed, flipping through it. My latest series,
Downtown
Soles
, had turned out pretty well. I had drawn feet in cool shoes at different city locations like the art gallery and the skate park.