A Field and a Half Away

A Field and A Half Away

Rural Reflections and More

Jerry Bouma

Cloud Publishing

Vancouver

Copyright @2024

Jerry Bouma

A Field and a Half Away

ISBN 978-1-7772699-3-7

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical means with the prior written consent of the author.

Foreword

Occasionally, one hears an expression that is so poignant and insightful, it stops you in your tracks. I heard one such expression in the fall of 2022. That expression “just a field and a half away” has become my choice for the title of this volume of poems.

We were attending the wedding of the son of my best friends, Colleen, and John Hartnett. John and I were teammates at Villanova University – both truly fish out of water, two farm boys, from dairy farms, John from County Cork Ireland, me from Grey County, Ontario Canada, and both on track scholarships, finding ourselves in an upper middle class urban eastern USA environment. To no surprise, we became fast friends and over the years have kept close contact and visited each other often.

One of the special blessings of this friendship has been travelling to County Cork, Ireland, and meeting the Hartnett family who live just west of Fermoy and south of the Blackwater River near the small village of Ballyhooly. Denis, John’s nephew, had just taken over his parents’ farm. I asked Denis a simple question: where are your parents living? His response was immediate: “Just a field and a half away!” And it was expressed with such readiness and enthusiasm, I knew immediately that he felt the full and complete support of his family, his neighbours, and all the connecting threads that bind rural communities together.

That expression precipitated a wave of reflection on my own life and the varying rural communities that has shaped and formed me: my Dutch roots from the province of Friesland, Netherlands; the rural Southern Ontario neighbourhood comprised of determined but kindly Scots who provided unwavering support to my young parents as they began their life as immigrants in Canada; the Irish community to whom the Hartnett family introduced me to; and the resilient Ukrainian settlers who pioneered a new beginning in Western Canada, my home for the past 30 years.

This volume of poems is a tribute to that deep sense of rural community – a community that is diminishing but remains essential to our Canadian character.

I have also included a poem by the famed Irish poet, Seamus Haney. When I first read it and in particular the last line, it awakened a deep childhood memory (see pages 30 and 31). When you read Haney’s last line, you will see the connection to the first line of my poem.

“Just a Field and a Half Away” also includes three poems by my former high school running mate and long-time friend, Morrison Reid. Interestingly, we both came from the same rural municipality, two farm boys from Sydenham Township, Grey County, Ontario. You would think that would be cause for us to spend much time training together as runners. But that was not so easily done.

Each of us had our own school buses to catch and routine farm chores to complete. We both trained alone but each morning before class, we would compare workouts and share any running news that we had heard, which back then was rather sparse. But of extreme interest! That simple daily routine provided sufficient motivation for both of us to drive toward excellence as Morrison became the best high school cross-country runner in Canada while I became the best miler. Now we trade poems and revel in our shared rural experiences and sentiments expressed in the poems found within this volume. While we are literally thousands of miles apart, we remain figuratively “just a field and a half away!”

Jerry Bouma, April 2024

Part 1: Back to the Earth

“From the earth you were formed. And to the earth you shall return.”

Genesis 3: 19

The Burial of my mother, Tjitske Tina Bouma, November 24, 2023, Owen Sound

A Field and a Half Away

So there they stand!

The pillars of integrity

A lifetime of hard work

Of never missing a day

Cows to be milked

Fences to be fixed

Stones to be picked

Crops to be harvested

Children to be reared

Neighbours to be helped

Communities to be built

Just a field and a half away.

And here we are?

Amidst crumbling pillars

Each day begs for meaning

Work measured by keystrokes

No sense of the physical Or boundaries to guide

Tripping over unseen stones

No glow of a rich harvest Or sounds of happy children

Who is my neighbour?

Or should we care

About fields so far away?

Oh, how we long to find

What nobly and quietly lies

But so rarely found

Just a field and a half away.

There is nothing more beautiful than harmony, And nothing more fragile.

There is nothing as pleasing as a child’s smile, And nothing more troubling than a scream.

There is nothing as inspiring as a tequila sunrise, And nothing more frightening than a blackish-green cloud.

There is nothing as perfect as the fully formed leaf, And nothing more miring than oozing mud.

There is nothing as smooth as thick white cream, And nothing so repulsive as sour milk.

There is nothing more joyful than a frolicking spring calf, And nothing so sad as the lifeless one.

There is beauty to be found in all places and seasons. And nothing that is more true.

Beauty

Good Neighbours Need No Fences

It’s often said, this long held truth: “Good fences make good neighbours.”1 But can we say with equal zeal, Good neighbours need no fences?

Much wisdom lies in rural lands, The fruit of strife and grief. Where many’a task needs several hands, And differences kept brief.

Perhaps my views do stand apart This “true north strong and free”? Five thousand miles of lakes and fields, Unique perhaps, our history.

Has ‘good’ become so hard to find? That new walls now arise?

Or can we find those paths we shared To which we both apprise?

The quest for place has never changed Appeals to peace and senses. But we can show the world again Good neighbours need no fences.

1 Line from the Robert Frost poem called “Mending Wall.”

The Enduring Presence of a Well-Kept Fence

Fixing Fence

Some tasks are clear and obvious, Others dark, filled with suspense. But nothing matches the imperative, Or importance of fixing fence.

At times it just a single strand, Lying broken on the pasture green. Other times it’s a gaping hole, From fallen tree, or a beast unseen.

There’s always one who watches all, A curious eye, first one to see. The promise of something bright and new, Cause for the entire herd to flee.

Is it so much greener on the other side?

A thought by all and asked by many. The pursuit of pleasures yet unseen, At the cost of lives and pretty penny.

Make haste my friend, when breaks occur, Be quick, assess and fix it fast. Be they small or large, do not delay, Make fences and your friendships last.

Four Seasons

Wind swept fields without constraint, Sifting snow afoot with no restraint, Frozen roots and dried out stalks, Agronomy awaits.

Damp, sweet earth, a sea of ‘merging’ green, Rates, debates, to seed, much work unseen. So much to do, so little time, Agronomy at work.

Emerging heads sway in the breeze, Standing proud, there’s much to please, Smooth days ahead? But never sure, Agronomy adjusts.

Engines quiet, bins full to the brim, Some years will lose, but others sure to win. Always mindful, cherish long this day. Agronomy celebrates.

The sun has a certain glitter

Unlike any other season

Sends my heart a flitter

Ask not what be the reason?

Let the yellow linger

Let the yellow seep Into your pores and sinews Into your being, deep!

The smells are sharp and richer

Emoting a job well done They paint an alluring picture Embraced by the morning sun.

Let the yellow linger

Let the yellow seep Into your pores and sinews Into your being, deep!

But fall does send a warning, And while it draws you in, And while your heart be warming Cold winds will soon begin.

Let the yellow linger

Let the yellow seep Into your pores and sinews Into your being, deep!

A Fall Day

December Evening

Embrace the view, this mid December day, Amidst the sea of white, that slowly blends to grey. All round, the smells and sounds ring sweet, and soft, While lonely flakes float slowly from the darkening loft.

How quickly comes this time of year again, The shortening of the day, ask not why or when? Our ancients feared that light would leave and n’er return. They railed the skies with blazing torches full of burn.

But we know better, these orbits all so sure, Alas, should our thoughts and actions be so pure. But can we change the world which seems so wrought? And find that calm and peace that many afore have sought.

This December evening, the mood sublime and dear, Time to reflect and ponder those both far and near. To restore, repair, find peace, no small task indeed. No better choice we face; go forth with haste, godspeed.

Morning Frost

Magnificent is the early spring frost, Pure, white, sublime, the perfect host. Resting, it whispers a quiet greeting, But be quick, it is sure to be fleeting!

Long winter days, our walk to school, Stay on the roads was the simple rule. But in early spring that morning frost, Would crown the snow with a hard firm crust.

Across the fields we’d move with ease, And stray about, where e’er we please. But with a warming sun, those routes soon lost, Alas, the ephemeral gift of the morning frost.

An act so simple but now so rare, The walk, the snow, were we really there? Memories sit deep but not yet lost, Magnificent is the early spring frost.

To Be Frank2

A man of few words, And deep thoughts that stayed within. The directions that he gave, Were basic and to the point: “Turn north in the village, First farm on the right. If you crossed the bridge. You’ve gone too far.”

A man of many talents, But circumstances limited choice. Many vocations captured his interest, But one he knew with certainty: To farm and do it well. Where is your farm again? “It’s easy to find, If you know where you are going.”

Frank on a Busy Summer Day

Cont’d next page…….

2 Tribute to my father, Frank Bouma, who farmed all his life.

To Be Frank cont’d

The public eye was never sought, But the issues were at the fore.

Injustice and deception, Gave rise for his blood to boil.

Piety and self righteousness Would stir the blood again!

“Never fight with a woman, You will always lose.”

The sunset years gave him time, To think and to walk. And walk…

The daily path would be the same, But every day, a subtle difference, The growth, the turn, the season. The magnificent beauty of what seemed so ordinary. And a stark reminder, “You can only be one place at a time.”

She’s Not Busy

Milking, watching, bedding, worrying, Waiting, debating, inflating, deflating, Checking, re-checking, watching, fussing, Clearing, cleaning, dusting, wiping.

Knitting, organizing, socializing, fraternizing, Mitigating, mediating, considering, contemplating, Ruminating, reflecting, planning, placating, Pondering, praying, proselytizing, prophesying?

Seeding, harvesting, haying, fixing, Pondering, wondering, fantasizing, emoting, Imagining, shaping, configuring, guessing, Longing, learning, lounging, debating.

Thinking, planning, considering, re-thinking, Peering, looking, scanning, writing, Amplifying, diminishing, scoping, repositioning Wondering, imagining, formulating, dreaming……

Women of the Farm

The women of the farm

I knew them

They were my mother

My mother's friends

My friends’ mothers.

Women of strength

Women of courage

Women who loved

Who were loved They carried us.

They are mostly gone

But their strength remains Embedded in our genes

Their power now ours

Let us not waste the gift.

Morrison Reid

An Ode to a Man Called Ross

Now here’s a lyric to the man named Ross, He moves like the birds; he has no boss. There was a day when his hair flowed free, That’ll NO happen again, I think you’ll agree. As the Irish would say, he ain’t no “Tosser” , So, from this day forward, let’s call him Rosser!

Oob la dee

Oob la dat

Finding rhymes for Bovine Scat.

Sitting in An airport chair, Shall I write?

Should I dare?

Walkers by Some thin, some fat But ne’er the sound Of splat de scat.

We long for days Of the local fair

The smells of scat And splat! You’re there!

Scat3 and Splat

3 Scat is slang for the classic cowpie.

Owen Sound4

I heard there was a lovely town, That Owen found, I know it’s ‘sound. ’ But you don’t really like the small town do ya? There’s 10th Street east; and 10th Street west? It matters not, it’s still the best! The avenues and streets all still run through ya, Hallelujah…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah…..

. My oldest memories hail from here, My first sweet kiss, my first cold beer. Long gone but remnants never really leave ya. Was on the rocks at Inglis Falls I felt the rise and rode the fall, And all your hopes & dreams were still before ya. Hallelujah…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah…..

The names are like a history wall

There’s Bishop, Lumley, Grey County Mall. But one who really stole the show- oh, ya, ya, you ya. He passed the puck like none before. And Rocket said, ya’need look no more, The very best is right here before – ya, ya, you ya. Tommy Burlington, Tommy Burlington.

Cont’d to next page…..

4 Written in response to viewing Owen Sound as host to CBC’s Hockey Day in Canada, 2023 and in complete deference to Leonard Cohen.

I know that I’ve been here before, I know this street, I know that store. The memories quickly rise oh Hallelujah.

The Trio, Percy’s, the Scenic Tower, The ringing of the bells each hour. The harbour shimmers a deep dark blue-ya Hallelujah…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah…..

It’s time to bring this to an end, A tribute for this town we’ll send,

To those who’ve know both me and maybe you-ya. Deep roots we share of this special place, We’ll give more thanks with every grace.

To be so blessed to live this Hallelujah. Hallelujah…. Hallelujah, Hallelujah…..

An Aerial View of Owen Sound

Part 2: Musings for Life

“

Be yourself; everyone else is already taken!”

Oscar Wilde

When one runs, one thinks. You have two choices – you can dwell on your relative state of discomfort as you push the pace. Or you can let your mind drift to a loftier state of being and wander to more noble pursuits.

Interestingly, I have found that while running, my mind is at its creative best. Many of my best ideas and indeed many of the poems I write, have their beginnings while on a run. Perhaps it is the increased flow of blood to the brain; or a time with no distractions; or just the opportunity to take in the fullness of the day and the season…….

Thus, the genesis of these reflections that follow.

Series of Reflections 2023

The following excerpts are inspired by Kahlil Gibran, the Proverbs, and seasoned by my own life’s experiences.

On Truth

Rarely absolute and always a product of perspective and interpretation.

On Contentment

Embracing the soft glow of the summer evening sun, inhaling the fragrance of the neighbouring lilacs.

On Betrayal

The odours of a toxic pond waft sweet compared to the noxious air emanating from a trusted partner who knowingly and willingly betrayed you.

On Nourishment

In all of its abundance, nature never overfeeds or misguides those who live in harmony.

On Friendship

Though years pass, and the experiences differ, the bond between true friends remains strong and sure.

On Fitness

The magnificence of the leaping deer unbound by rigorous training and invasive stopwatches.

On Deception

Woe is that person who presents one life but lives another.

On Morality

Choose your guide for life: your own precarious nature, or a higher power with permanence and wisdom. Where might you find peace?

On Satisfaction

The fulfillment of aching muscles and a sweat soaked brow, after a long day’s work brought to completion.

On Perfection – Part 1

With no blueprints, the pre-occupied squirrel seeks, harvests, and stores its collection of wares for winter.

On Perfection – Part 2

From a tiny seed, bursts forth a plant ideally suited to thrive in the environment in which it finds itself.

On Progress

Better is the steady performance of your milk cow, than the allure of the streaking thoroughbred who may ride you to ruin.

On Consciousness

That we can see, hear, taste, smell, speak and remember is simply amazing.

On Love

Does anything surpass the marvel of being truly accepted for who you are?

On Envy

A sure distraction preventing you from realizing your true self.

On Forgiveness

True forgiveness can only occur when the transgressor seeks to be forgiven.

On Waste

Mountains of unnecessary items scattered loosely in oversized closets and back yards.

On Materialism

The driving scourge of a society that has lost its way.

On Hate

Beware the slow, steady burn with inevitable eruptions that destroys your soul.

On Politics

The erosion of good intentions to a condition that is unrecognizable.

On Winning

Win nobly builds character but winning at all costs exacts a terrible price.

On Losing

Lose nobly and you are on your way to winning.

On Reflection

Look through the mirror and ponder what you already know; look through the window and discover the world.

Part 3: Life’s Struggles

“Strength and growth only come through continuous effort and struggle.”

To become stronger and more resilient means that you must first tear down what exists. Then you allow your body or mind to rebuild. That is the essence of all training. Resistance should not be seen as a constraint but rather a stimulant.

Thus, embrace resistance so you are then able to overcome it.

Napoleon Hill

Boats Against the Current

So we beat on, Boats against the current, Borne back ceaselessly, Into the past5 .

So we beat long Both hands gripped firmly, On the wheels of a future, That comes as it will.

So we beat skywards, Searching the faded red hue, And a restless east wind. For clues of tomorrow

So we beat hard, On the remnants of a distant past, That stir our memories, And become increasingly dear.

Now we beat soft, Our edges now tender, Eyes turning upwards, To the now grey skies.

5 The last line in “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Real or Ideal?

I think ideal is the easier keep, Amidst the geese and bleating sheep. The muck and mire of daily life, The constant call, no end of strife.

How then does one arise above? And soar through clouds just like a dove, Can such a state e’er be achieved? Will bonds of duty e’er be relieved?

To soar, to sail, to fly, to dream, To enter realms of worlds unseen. To rise above the frack and fray, Will we find hope to endure today?

Let’s not eschew what is ideal, And constrain our lives to what is real. Good and grace lie in fields beyond, Eyes to ‘ideal’ is how I’ll respond.

Picking Stones or…. My Daily Struggle

Some fields grow the finest wheat, Flour for bread and scones. Other fields struggle to produce, Naught but thorns and stones.

Each spring they mysteriously emerge, Was there an ‘evil’ call?

No matter how we cleared and picked, Last year before the fall.

Some you lift and some you drag, All leave reluctantly. We toil for days and days to clear, These fields to be stone-free.

This task so bland, such small reward, What meaning to be found?

To wit: these stones now rest in peace, And you have gained some ground.

To a Project that has Come to Naught

Oh noble quest, thou has been gripped By hands that do not know, And wrestled to the ground in shreds, Forced deep beneath the snow. It began so clear and full of hope And served by those with skill. But steadily it leaked away, To rot like old roadkill. What could have been a wholesome plan, Is now a pale dim shadow. More endless speak and mindless prose, No protection for the meadow.

For those who hold the soil most dear, Weep long, hold back no tears. You will not find much solace here. A recovery will take years.

Mid-Term Break

BY SEAMUS HEANEY

I sat all morning in the college sick bay

Counting bells knelling classes to a close. At two o'clock our neighbours drove me home.

In the porch I met my father crying He had always taken funerals in his stride— And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.

The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram When I came in, and I was embarrassed By old men standing up to shake my hand

And tell me they were 'sorry for my trouble'.

Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest, Away at school, as my mother held my hand

In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs. At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.

Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,

Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.

A four-foot box, a foot for every year…..

August 4, 1964

“A four-foot box, a foot for every year…..”6

I read the line, my head asunder, Stirred memories of that fateful day. I’m lost within a veil of tears. One foot longer and eight more years.7

The news is out, my friend is dead. How can this be, so full of life?

Just days before, we laughed and played, Days had no end. He should have stayed.

It was just another evening meal, Before the milking, each night the same. One bight, one gulp, his face turned green. The family gripped in frenzied scene.

Now his five-foot frame lies in that box, A Bible rests in his tender grip. No mark or bruise, as if to say, I’ll be back in another day.

So fragile is this life we live, It is a gift, but why such pain?

But silence greets our quests and fears, One foot longer and eight more years.

6 Ending line of the poem by Seamus Heaney (see previous page) whose 4-year-old brother died when Seamus was a college student in Belfast. Clearly a foot for every year.

7 My 12-year-old friend would have been five feet in height. Thus “one foot longer and eight more years” (4 plus 8 = 12 years of age).

Aniyha

Her eyes are kind, softened by sadness

Warm, brown eyes not hardened by madness

Forgives the one who caused her fear

To know her is to know God is near.

She will never be the same

But, joy in a child is hard to tame

While terror plays in her mind

The songs of a child she can find.

Her smile is soft, softened by sadness

Warm, gentle smile not hardened by madness

She loves the one who tried to kill

To know her is to know God's will.

Through her pain a gift is brought

Experiences shared that can't be taught

After the worst, this child stands tall

Reveals the truth, love conquers all.

Morrison Reid

I miss the sounds

The Runner in the Person

The crunch of spikes in cinders

Fast moving shoes on gravel

The rustle of leaves on the trail

The silence of fresh snow.

I miss the sights

Light and shadows on a forest trail

The top of the hill

The movement at the start

The final turn on the track.

I miss the smells

The smell of morning

The smell of night

Bodies close in the pack

Even the road and car smells.

I miss the feelings

Salt in my eyes

Wind at my back

When running is perfect

When running is hard.

I miss the walk at the end

Alone or with a friend

A time between then and next

I once knew these things

I think I always will.

Morrison Reid

“I’m here to stand for freedom!”

Freedom

The beleaguered trucker cried. His hands are gripped, his heels dug in, And common sense just died.

“But what we do is blessed by God, And sure to set you free! We’ll fight until the bitter end It’s good for you and me! “

What is this freedom that you speak? Back to one-man rule? And that will make a better place? Who is the bigger fool?

And how did you arrive thus far? On roads that have no rules? No limits or no rights of way, What’s taught in trucker school?

I look beyond the muddled mass, A child peers through the tree, Eight hundred years since John the First8 , And you will keep me free?

8 Reference to the signing of the Magna Carta in 1215 under John 1, King of England

Ukraine 2022

What is this Rus?

The legacy of St. Vladimir, That lies at the core

Of this dispute. Did it hail from Novgorod?

Or was it Kyiv after all A thousand years ago

Standing proud

A model of urban progress

When Moscow was but An array of scattered peasant shacks

Hidden in deep woods

Ignored by marauding Mongols. Seeking much greater wealth Elsewhere.

So, who came first?

And what allegiance is owed?

To fulfill a myth Or partial truth

That should cause such pain, And wanton destruction?

The glimmering easter egg

Laced with shimmering yellows, And bright deep blues

Steeped in history, culture, and care, Lies shattered.

No Sadness, No Love

Aspire to never lose a race, By never stepping on the start line.

Formulate the perfect plan, By never having to implement.

Avoid the agony of a crop failure, By keeping your seed in the bin.

Ensure that you never receive criticism, By committing to nothing.

Squander the talent that you have been given, By burying it in the ground.

Strive for a life without sadness, By living a life without love.

Red Light

In days long past, we ran with ease, Put in the miles, great memories. Yes, feeling good, keep running through, Ignore that red light in front of you, No change in gait, look left, look right. We’ll run the red, our future’s bright!

Not feeling great, I’m running slow, That speed and grace, now long ago. How far to go? How can this be! Oh joy, a red light now in front of me, A time to pause, I’ll take this break. Enjoy the red, for goodness’ sake!

Glad When It is Done

No matter age or condition, Or the length of your planned run, No matter the day or distance You’re glad when it is done.

They say there’s fun in training, And sure to keep you young. But all I feel is the straining, Can’t wait until I’m done.

New rules when you reach this junction, Leave the watch behind, my son! Let mind and limb flow freely, Still glad when you are done.

The rhythm never leaves you, You’re as fast as anyone!

The dreams of speed rise quickly, Be glad when you are done.

That day will come most unexpected, When steps and strides are gone., We’ll linger in our memories, And sad that we are done.

About the Author

Jerry Bouma grew up on a farm just northeast of Leith, Ontario. The village is located 5 miles from Owen Sound, on the south shore of Owen Sound Bay which joins Georgian Bay, sometimes called the sixth Great Lake.

His education began in a one-room school in Euphrasia Township, Grey County. When the family moved to Leith, he ‘graduated’ to a two-room school. Jerry attended West Hill Secondary School in Owen Sound, and then went on to completing a B.Sc., Mathematics, at Villanova University and a M.Sc., Agricultural Economics, at the University of Guelph. Jerry has spent his professional life as a management consultant in the agri-food sector. He currently lives in Edmonton, Alberta and is married to his wife Vi Becker. Together they have three children and nine grandchildren.

Jerry subscribes to the notion that we are all artists – some disguise it better than others but we are all artists whether we heed the call or ignore it. That is why he is most pleased to feature the work of his lifelong friend, Morrison Reid, in this edition of poetry. He challenges each of us to discover the artist within and explore how that artistic talent can be expressed.

Cont’d to next page….

Jerry’s real love is poetry and imagery provided by words – he grew up on a country road where “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” could have been written. He was a “Swinger of Birches” before he ever read the poem. He could immediately relate to the riveting imagery and rhythm of Dylan Thomas’s “Under the Milkwood” . And he felt the full measure of the gloomy fall evening before he discovered the same sentiment in the beauty of James Joyce’s narrative in the “Portrait of the Artist as Young Man” .

This volume of poems builds on his rural experiences and that unique sense of community that underlies and defines it.

Jerry Bouma

The Bouma Grandparents Taking a Stroll on the Farm Lane Overlooking Owen Sound Bay

Editor’s Note

As Jerry Bouma's high school English teacher in Owen Sound, Ontario, I was a young Mrs. Connell (as I was known then and now, frozen in time), with the enthusiasm of the late 1960s swirling through the halls of West Hill Secondary School. Little did I know that this handsome young athlete in my class who read Tolstoy on the school bus heading into town from his family's farm in the country would go on to be such a successful businessman in Edmonton, Alberta, and also a fine writer.

His most recent book, The Villanova Track Story, won Track and Field Writers of America Best Book of 2023, and his earlier three books of poetry about the farm and running on the back roads of Grey County were all well received. When Jerry suggested a fourth book of poems and reflections with the title “A Field And A Half Away”, I knew readers would enjoy his most recent work.

It is indeed a pleasure to recommend the writing of my former student from the heady days of the well documented late 1960s.

Mrs. Sue Connell (nee Edwards), Vancouver, British Columbia ����