To be, or not to be, that is the question: whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles. – Shakespeare
It wasn’t a dark or stormy night, as I recall, so I betook myself to the Central Bank Hall, invited by Jack Dear, a man so nice, to view the screening of Years Of Sacrifice.
Late as usual, but the guest of honour was even more so. So I joined Roy Byer and a covey of stalwarts to reminisce on the glorious snackettes of old – Jeffs, Dougies, Whites; bring-a-bottle parties (Roy took pepper sauce); and, of course, Bush Hill, where what cost 60 cents in our youth is now going for $60. With the hope expressed that the young ladies there can be persuaded to offer BARP discounts.
Then it was time for Years Of Sacrifice, a documentary on the life of farmer Anthony Nicholls. In my opinion, a wonderful effort by photographer Jack, whose photo shots nicely backed up the Nicholls narrative.
Anthony Nicholls’ story parallels my own in many ways. He worked hard for 36 cents a day; I worked easy in my first Government job for $3.33 a day ($100 a month). He had to leave his house to live in a converted library van; I did likewise in a little tent and later a bus.
He kept faith with agriculture to buy his spot of land. So did I.
But there are stark differences. My greatest achievement was to marry a sweet, young, hard-foot woman willing to stand by me against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.
And while Nick said people laughed at him living in a bookmobile, the tent was the best part of my life. We had lived briefly in a plantation mansion with a four-poster bed the size of Trafalgar Square. Waste of time. Get a young wife on a six-by-three-foot plywood sheet and you’re in business.
Nor would we categorize our life in farming as any “years of sacrifice”. Sacrifice?
We enjoyed it. Took Rudyard at his word, met with Triumph and Disaster and treated those two imposters just the same. Our TV, toilet, stereo, microwave, air-con, whatever, never broke down, for, why, we had not any.
And we’re still at it 38 years later.
Of course, the challenges remain but, as CBC general manager Rodwell London remarked while mentioning my good friend Walter Maloney’s sheep-damaged melons, they don’t daunt real farmers.
The Government is still seriously underselling our milk and we’re back to dumping and giving away. This week a major supermarket took no milk from us, but their shelves are awash with cheap Government milk.
However, we now have a different take on this. Since two permanent secretaries and a minister assured us it would be stopped and it hasn’t, we’re wondering if some Higher Authority is involved.
Like, maybe God appeared to our PM in a dream and spoke in a loud voice: “Froonie, Froonie, tekel, upharsin! That boy Hoad has had his land rampaged by stray cows, his goats mauled by wild dogs. His house and farm buildings wrecked by Tomas. Yet has he never lost faith in Me. Rinse him out with those give-away prices. Let him be tested even as were Abraham and Job.”
I don’t know. By the way, Anthony Nicholls has some boss cassava and cane juice. I’m even considering a Hoad’s goat milk/Nicholls’ cane juice combination drink called “Take Nine!”.
Afterwards, it was nice to meet many celebrities, including Katrina Marshall whom I haven’t seen since she was at school with my daughters. Over the years Katrina has developed some remarkably attractive medium-term fiscal strategies (or “apps” as I believe they’re called nowadays) and it was difficult not to focus exclusively on these during our brief discourse.
However, I did learn that she’s extremely partial to cabbage bush (which is not a euphemism for pubic hair as my naïve daughter thought) and it’s obviously working for her.
How her leeward neighbours feel about the after-effects is another matter.
Congratulations to Anthony Nicholls. From 36-cents-a-day field worker to film star. And millionaire, if he ever sells out. All through agriculture.
• Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator.
