Life On The Farm

October 18, 1946 wasn’t a day remembered for its momentous events. History books show that on that date the Congress of Bamako opened as 800 delegates from around French West Africa assembled to establish a unified movement for creating nations independent of colonial France. Rassemblement Démocratique Africain was founded at the conference as the first political party whose mission was independence. Félix Houphouët-Boigny, who would later become the President of Côte d’Ivoire, was elected the RDA’s leader. Also on that day USS Ranger, the first American ship designed to serve as an aircraft carrier, was decommissioned. The ship, which had proved to be imperfect for takeoffs and landings of planes, was sold as scrap three months later. But for John and Mary Bachiu that day was very significant – their first child, a boy, was born in Limerick, Saskatchewan. Leonard John. There was some controversy over naming their son. One of them, I’m not sure which one insisted that I be named Wilmer while the other, equally adamant wanted the name Elmer. How was this dilemma to be resolved? One day mom was reading a True Story romance magazine and saw the name Leonard which she suggested to my dad. Like a true gentleman he agreed that this would be my name. My middle name, John was for my dad and my great-grandfather who still lived on the farm owned by my dad’s father.

It was a Friday and mom was admitted into the hospital in Limerick. It was the doctor’s residence that also served as a hospital for the small town and surrounding district. They had recently moved on to a farm that also had three quarters of sandy Saskatchewan soil. But John had prairie dust in his veins and their adventure as a farming family had begun.

The house had a small attic, and one section had a much lower roof than the rest of the house. At one time the previous owner had raised turkeys in this low-roofed portion of the attic. There was no basement, only a dirt cellar. Nor was there a furnace to warm the drafty house. A space heater in the living room provided heat along with the coal and wood stove in the kitchen. There was no electricity, only a mantle lamp in the kitchen and coal oil lamps for the rest of the house. About ten to fifteen yards from the house was the family outhouse. Catalogues and newspapers weren’t nearly as comfortable as wrappers from the Japanese oranges at Christmas, for the “paper” work of a trip to the outhouse. We lived a mere three miles from my grandparents (dad’s parents) but it seemed like such a long way.

My mom’s dad Sam died when I was around a year old. Stomach cancer and he had only been forty-seven years old. For almost three years I was the only child in the family and then my brother Lloyd was born. Another trip to Limerick for a ten day stay in the hospital before mom came home with this little stranger. My dad’s youngest sister Sandra came over to look after me while mom was in the hospital and dad worked around the farm. It wasn’t long before I got into trouble. One day I felt that the long journey to the outhouse was just too much for me so I did the only logical thing I could do – I peed in the coal pail. My aunt Sandra disagreed with my decision and had the audacity to give me a swat. I now had her exactly where I wanted her. My dad would hear about this, and she would be in trouble, and that was Trouble with a capital T. Things didn’t go the way little Lennie expected them to. I went straight to dad when he came in from work and I was going to see my aunt Sandra get her comeuppance. But did that happen? No, it did not. I, and not my aunt Sandra got a spanking. What a shock! How could dad have so cruelly betrayed me.

Shortly after I was born there was an election in Saskatchewan. Not a very big deal for a newborn, but a very big deal to my sixteen-year-old uncle George. He had been conscripted to look after me while mom and dad went to vote. I survived and so did my uncle. He became a very important influence in my life as I grew up.

I got over having a stranger move into our home and soon my little brother was firmly ensconced as second in command to my “man in charge” role as oldest child in the family. One day Lloyd started crying and the good and caring big brother that I am, I asked mom what his problem was.

“Oh, he’s probably just hungry” mom suggested. And as quick as you could say “Jack Robinson” or “choke your brother” I had the solution. I ate bread when I was hungry so I thought Lloyd would also enjoy some bread. Moral of the story – don’t trust the welfare of a baby to his three-year-old brother.

Just before I turned six, in September of 1952 I embarked on my educational career as a student at Milton School – the same school my dad had attended when he was a boy. We were a family of four but that wouldn’t last long. In December of 1952 my brother Vern was born. Another member of our growing family. But there was a problem – mom went to the hospital and couldn’t attend my first foray on to the stage. I was in my first performance at the Christmas program at Milton school. I was to recite a poem about how Santa Claus was really just your dad, but mom wasn’t there to see my performance. But the excitement of adding a new member to our family outweighed my disappointment.

My first year in school I was the brightest and best student in the grade one class, but that changed when I entered grade two. I went from the top of my class to the bottom. How could the bright young fellow who had learned to read before he came to school, slip so far in his class standings? The answer was very simple – both years I was the only student.

Our farm was a mere three quarters of a mile west of the school, but all the other students lived east of the school, which meant that I had to walk to school and then home on my own. Occasionally vehicles would stop and pick me up and give me a ride home, something that didn’t get my mother’s stamp of approval. But I survived. One day I was given a ride by a man that had started drinking long before the sun was over the yard arm. God was looking after me.