Free Trauma Farm by Brian Brett Page B

this new world, small farmers like myself are also endangered. Modern agribusiness spends more money on chemicals than on machinery or seed. Their pesticides are poisoning millions of bees, already suffering from other introduced pests, such as foulbrood—a bacterium that eats bee larvae from inside out—varroa mites, tracheal mites. The wild European honeybee is approaching extinction, the large commercial apiary operations floating in a plethora of chemicals. Our islands, until ten years ago, were the last in North America to produce organic honey, but the mite was illegally introduced by an ignorant beekeeper, and now we have to use chemicals also, merely to keep our bees alive.
    Yet I stubbornly continue to learn the world of the singing bees, who teach me small new lessons every day while going about their lives. Civilization, communication, progress— these are the myths we tell ourselves. I don’t have faith in them anymore, but what’s left of the natural world, though it’s often brutal, I can still love. Resting my hand on a hive, I feel the thrum of the bees’ conversations, and I dream about the mysteries they are discussing inside. Sometimes, on my better days, I think that language is just another word for the poetry of the earth.

    ONE OF THE GLORIES of living on the land is the freedom to fertilize it, and the need is suddenly upon me. I’ve always felt a secret enjoyment pissing beside a tree when the body makes its demands. I avoid the smaller plants because I don’t want to feed them too much concentrated nitrogen. Elimination outdoors used to be common for our species, but as we move away from the land, it’s become unusual. I love watching the expression of bliss on Sharon’s face when she suddenly drops her pants and squats in the woods. Maybe we just recognize the growing repressions of culture, and there’s a special pride in regaining our freedom. Though, after a while, I’ve found I’ve become so used to freedom I sometimes catch myself looking for a likely tree in the city, and realize rural life has created dangerous habits.

    SURROUNDING THE HIVES , the orchard is in full leaf, seeds and fruit already swelling. I stride past them, followed by the dogs. Pecan, almond, quince, pear-apple, hazelnut. The apples are the most diverse—heirloom varieties: Wolf River, king, Cox’s orange pippin, Lodi, Gravenstein, Boscoop. I shut the field gate and pass the white hawthorns, newly planted to shade our driveway. I’ve nearly come full circle, heading toward the barn, the moon gate, and the house.
    The sun never sets on this land. In winter it’s a grey ball permeating the mists. To the west a hill blocks the luxurious coastal sunsets. East, we look upon the United States, across the blue, metallic skin of the Pacific Ocean—more islands, the glaciers of the coast range, and a volcano, Mount Baker, coughing up a spittle of steam. Beyond that a continent vibrating with life and urgency. We live at the edge of the ring of fire—the volcanic Pacific Rim. Streaky clouds unfold over the coastal mountains, reflecting off the strait between Salt Spring and Pender Island. Standing in the driveway above the garden, looking down beyond the low field between two maples, I watch a ferry, as big as a cruise ship, slide between the islands.
    The garden rail fence is lined with mulberry, kiwi, winterberry, climbing rose, and eucalyptus whose branches we sell to florists. Close to the house, in a fit of whimsy, we planted bananas and palm trees, so very un-Canadian, but they’re surviving in our temperate climate. The queasy acknowledgement of this menagerie haunts me on occasion. I remember when we arrived, pulling up with a five-ton truck filled with trees and shrubs. “You’re bringing trees to the Gulf Islands?” my friend said, laughing. These islands are known for their lush, unique flora and fauna, and the first thing I did was introduce strange trees, fool that I was.
    Within only a few years