Just like real farmers (whom I greatly admire), I have a relationship with agriculture that is best described as conquering. I need to understand it, to win it over, to seduce it and feel it deep under my skin.

Such profound sentiments collide with a piece of unrewarding land purchased back in 2005, swathed within the ever-changing climate of Charlevoix, my own inexperience and lack of time. However, I convince myself that I must; that I need to work the land. So this year, I sowed oats.

I forbid you to laugh.

So in the spring, just like all of you, I crossed into a euphoric phase. With a drop of drool dripping from my chin, nearing an orgasmic state, I listened with glee as experts discussed how 1.3 billion Chinese people were fed up with rice and were dreaming of eating filet mignon instead of roasted grasshoppers. These speculators are no fools, they know a good thing when they see it: let’s see, corn at $300, soy at $600, oats at $300/ton. Tell me, where were the limits?

I’m wide awake and dreaming, sitting on the tractor and lost in delusions of storage silos, acquiring my neighbours land, a big blue highway sign indicating “Domaine Lafleur, next three exits”! I glance over at my neighbour’s forsaken property and think of the possibilities, perhaps even another Klondike!

Later in the summer, I enter into the second phase, that of doubting cynic. It’s raining. It’s raining nonstop. It’s quite distressing. Farmer Richard and Martin his faithful consultant, overseeing my domain of grain, but alas we notice subtle movement in the fields, strange movement. Upon close examination, we discover the reason for this movement: an army of cutworms! Damn it all to heck!

How to get rid of them? I hesitate. Should I go organic? I am strongly advised against this method. It’s too late anyway.

How a about a dose of Sevin XLR?

Yes, yes, but not too much. I try to maintain some level of self-control. The insecticide is targeted and sprayed over one third of my land and gets the better of those pesky insects. That was a close call. What keeps me from falling into the third phase of the Wagnerian cycle, that of total and complete dejection. Because the price of grain, you see, is quickly sinking. The fundamental elements of the actual economy may be solid, as for the financial crisis, fed by immoral speculators and ordinary people who no longer have the means to pay their debts, it is daunting. Seeing the prices drop, I suddenly feel depressed, as if somewhere, somehow I was responsible for this disaster.

And on to the last phase, that of acceptance. Harvest conditions were ideal. The thresher, as it gracefully moved along the field, filled its grain tank many times over. But there is something odd about the trucks, they are fully loaded yet have no problems scaling the undulating roads to the cooperative!? That’s definitely uncommon for Charlevoix. A few hours later the mystery is solved. The people from La Coop Agrivoix called, and in their most professional voice, kind of like a doctor about to tell you something really bad, they informed me that my oats didn’t measure up.

What do you mean “didn’t measure up”? They said the oats hadn’t had enough time to store their reserves – too much rain, not enough sun – and they weigh half as much as they should. But don’t worry Mr. Lafleur, the same thing is happening all over eastern Québec.v Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I get it now: yield cut by half, two hundred dollars less per ton, adios to my neighbour’s coveted land, storage silos, Cuban vacation….

Just like real farmers (whom I greatly admire), all that is left for me is to watch time go by, to reflect upon each fleeting moment as it reveals how ephemeral life can be and how with each passing year the cycle of seasons never stops.