Friday, July 17, 2026
It’s about 7:15 this morning as I begin writing, and to be perfectly honest…
I’m tired.
Really tired.
Before I even thought about the chores today, another thought quietly crossed my mind.
Today would have been my birth father’s birthday.
He was born in 1905 and passed away in 1992.
Funny how little reminders like that find their way into our thoughts.
Birthdays have a way of doing that.
I created a song, Locke Hurlburt’s Legacy. However my sister later corrected me and Locke’s Birthday was actually later in the month! The song is playing at CountryAirRadio.com
The dogs, of course, they weren’t particularly interested in birthdays.
They were much more interested in breakfast and making sure I knew it was time to start the day.
Roscoe…
River…
Bo…
All convinced that whatever I was thinking about could wait until after they had a little attention.
They’re probably right.
Breakfast was simple.
A bowl of porridge, a couple of slices of toast and, of course, a mug of tea.
Then it was time to head for the barn.
Yesterday I decided not to milk Patsy.
When I checked her, her udder simply wasn’t full enough to justify it. I might have gotten half a litre at best, so I left her until this morning.
She’s beginning to taper off now, and that’s perfectly alright.
We don’t push our animals here.
Before long Lucy should be freshening, and Snowball won’t be far behind. The milk will come when they’re ready.
Sometimes nature has its own timetable, and it’s usually wiser than mine.
After breakfast I sent a message to my friend David, who’s home from British Columbia for the Bear River Cherry Carnival.
I think this year is either the 133rd or 134th Cherry Carnival. I’ll have to double-check.
David wants to bring his children over for a visit to Briden Farm while they’re home.
That simple message brought back a flood of memories.
David remembers us from when we first lived in Bear River around 2010, when we operated a little consignment arts and crafts shop featuring the work of more than thirty local artists and craftspeople.
That was also shortly after I’d survived one of the biggest health challenges of my life.
A ruptured bowel caused by diverticulitis had landed me in hospital for seventeen days.
Recovery was slow.
For quite a while I hobbled around town with a homemade shillelagh cut from an old stick.
The shop itself was… a little unusual.
I’d decorated it to feel as though you’d stepped into a Hobbit’s home.
Before long people began calling me the Bear River Hobbit, and the shop simply became known as Hobbit’s Hollow.
As far as I know, it was the only place where you could find a Hobbit sitting beneath a honey locust tree, perched on a hand-carved wooden mushroom, happily playing a nose flute!
One day David happened to be walking by and stopped.
With a completely straight face he asked,
“Are you really a Hobbit?”
I just smiled.
He chuckled, shrugged his shoulders and said,
“No matter. Half the people think you’re brilliant, and half the people think you’re nuts!”
We both burst out laughing.
Right then…
I knew David and I were always going to be friends.
Apparently, he reached the same conclusion.
The very next day he stopped by again, this time carrying a framed Certificate of Hobbithood.
It officially proclaimed me:
Drido “The Small Oddfoot,” Thain of Bear River.
Now, I have no idea what qualifications are required to become Hobbit nobility.
But I accepted the honour with all the dignity one can muster while sitting on a carved wooden mushroom beneath a honey locust tree, occasionally playing a nose flute.
The certificate still hangs on my wall today.
Every time I look at it, I smile.
Sometimes friendships begin with the simplest things.
Sometimes…
They begin with a laugh.
I told David I’d probably be at the barn until about eleven o’clock.
Well…
The farm had other ideas.
I didn’t make it home until sometime after one.
The sheep and goats were fed and watered.
The rabbits were looked after.
Patsy was milked, and I left the milk in Mary’s refrigerator before trimming another section of fence line and moving the sheep onto fresh pasture.
Only then did I make the familiar walk back home through the woods.
It’s funny how often I think I’ve planned my day perfectly.
Because farms have a wonderful way of reminding us that animals don’t own calendars…
And they certainly don’t wear watches.
After a short rest, I headed back outside around 2:30 to tackle the chores here at the house.
Normally they take about an hour and a half.
Today they took two and a half.
Not because there were more animals to feed.
But because I decided to improve some of the accommodations for the broody hens.
With several hens each raising eggs or chicks in their own little houses, there are a lot more stops to make than simply visiting one chicken coop.
The pigs, too, are a fair walk down the lane these days.
Little by little, though, I’m making improvements.
A little more shelter here.
A better arrangement there.
Nothing dramatic.
Just making things a little better each day.
By the time everything was finished, it was around five o’clock.
Finally…
Supper.
It probably didn’t have an official name.
I started out intending to make gravy with a packet of Watkins Chicken Soup & Gravy Mix.
Halfway through I changed my mind.
Instead of thickening it into gravy, I added more liquid, opened a can of mushrooms, and let it become something that was part soup and part stew.
It used up the last of the roast, the remaining potatoes, and the dogs happily took care of the fattier pieces.
As I laughed to myself…
It’s kinda soup, and kinda stew…
Yet it’s neither of the two.
Whatever it was called…
It was hot.
It was filling.
And after a long day, it tasted just right.
By ten o’clock tonight, another sink full of dishes had found its way into the dish rack.
The chickens had all been tucked safely into their coops, and I made one last round to check on each of the broody hens before heading back inside.
The farm was settling down.
So was I.
One unexpected blessing this evening was a long conversation with one of my cousins.
I don’t think we’ve spoken in close to five years, and it’s probably been forty-five years since we’ve actually seen one another.
Funny how family can pick up a conversation as though hardly any time has passed.
Hopefully, now that we’re back in touch, it won’t be another five years before the next one.
As I finished the dishes, CountryAirRadio.com was quietly playing in the background, filling the house with songs and stories.
Tomorrow Bear River celebrates another Cherry Carnival.
Whether it’s the 133rd or 134th, it’s a tradition that’s been bringing people together for well over 130 years.
If memory serves me correctly, the children’s parade begins around nine in the morning, followed by the main parade at ten.
There’ll be bingo, food, neighbours catching up with one another, and of course, the famous greased pole stretching out over the river.
The object is simple enough.
Walk to the end and grab the flag.
Actually doing it…
Well, that’s another story entirely!
I understand they’ve raised the minimum age to sixteen this year, which sounds like a sensible decision.
Don’t quote me on any of that, though.
I’m going from memory.
If you’re planning to come, the Bear River Cherry Carnival and Bear River Fire Department Facebook pages are the best places to find the official schedule.
As for me…
It’s been a long day.
Tomorrow’s chores won’t wait.
So before I head to bed, there’s just one more thing to do.
Post today’s edition of Today at Briden Farm.
Looking back over the day, it struck me that today’s story wasn’t really about farming.
It was about people.
A father remembered.
An old friend returning home.
A cousin rediscovered after years apart.
The neighbours who help make this little corner of Nova Scotia feel like home.
The animals still needed feeding.
The fences still needed trimming.
The dishes still needed washing.
But it was the friendships—old and new—that made today special.
Because the longer I live…
The more I realize…
Every friendship has a story. 🌾🍒☘️
