Farmed Out by Christy Goerzen

Chapter One
    â€œOkay, Maddie, let’s talk adventure.”
    I groaned across the kitchen table at my mother. I thought we could avoid the “adventure” topic that summer. Silly me.
    For the past few years my mom has made me go on summer “adventures.” Whoever taught her the definition of that word obviously didn’t understand English very well.
    Last July is a prime example. She dragged me to a Wild Woman Weekend on Saltspring Island. It was at this hippie lady’s house. I think her name was Star Mountain Skyhawk. She had stringy gray hair down to her butt, and stringy gray armpit hair to match. Gross. The basic gist of the weekend was that we paint on our faces with mud and scream into a hole in the ground. Then we all sat in a circle and talked about our womanly feelings. It was me, my mom and a bunch of middle-aged women, like always.
    Our summer adventures are my mother’s big chance to express what she calls her “true self.” My mom is a bookkeeper, which is like an accountant that doesn’t make much money. She wears beige pantyhose and high heels every day. Outside of work, she’s totally New Age. She even has a side business as a tarot card reader. A corner of our living room is draped with velvet scarves and crystals for her clients. Most of them are desperate single women looking for true love.
    But I hoped that this summer adventure would be different. Maybe this year we’d go to New York City and visit art galleries. Art is my thing, and New York is the place to see lots of it. But that was a crazy idea. A silly fantasy. My mother would never in a million years have an idea as cool as going to New York City.
    I had my own plans for getting to the Big Apple anyway. My favorite art magazine, Canvas , was running a youth art contest. And the prize was…drum roll, please: a one-week, all-expenses-paid trip to New York City. This included passes to all the art galleries in town. And the winning piece would appear on the cover of the magazine. In other words, a huge deal.
    It was the chance of a lifetime. The entry deadline was in eight days. I hadn’t started drawing, but I do my best work at the last minute. I planned to hang out downtown at the art gallery for inspiration.
    â€œUm…adventure?” I asked, my fingers and toes crossed under the table.
    With a flourish, my mom held up a green booklet.
    I squinted to read the cover.
    My mom set down her coffee mug and stood up as though she was about to give an Oscar acceptance speech.
    â€œWe are going to experience the rewards of organic farming.”
    Visions of me sketching in a Manhattan café vanished instantly.
    Wishful thinking, Maddie . My mom couldn’t afford to take us anywhere exciting.
    Mom had a huge grin on her face as she sat back down. She always gets worked up about our mother-daughter trips.
    â€œOrganic farming?”
    Mom slid the booklet across the table saying, “We’ll be VOF-ers! That’s what the volunteers are called.”
    VOFO , the cover read. Volunteer Organic Farm Opportunities . A bunch of the pages were dog-eared.
    I flipped through the booklet. Paragraphs about farms all over the province were circled in yellow high-lighter. There were farms on Vancouver Island, in Powell River, the Okanagan and Nelson.
    â€œGo to the Central Okanagan section,” she said, “and read about the farm in Mara.”
    I started to read the description to myself.
    â€œRead it out loud,” she said, her eyes shiny.
    I sighed. All I wanted to do was eat a bowl of junky cereal and watch TV .
    â€œ Quiet River Farm ,” I read. “ Proprietors: Klaus and Ruth Friesen. Come join us on our fifty-acre patch of paradise. We have a dairy cow, goats, pigs, chickens and a garlic garden. Work varies from animal care to weeding. If you love country living and good food, please come stay with us. ”
    â€œDoesn’t it sound perfect ?” My mom