Creed Murray - The Accidental Farmer The Story of Ross Farm

Animals are a charming attraction at Ross Farm, a living farm musem in rural Nova Scotia that takes visitors back in time.

(Matthew Gates)

I heard many stories of courage, hardship, and hope when I was growing up in Rosebank Cottage, the house that my great-great-grandfather Captain William Ross built two hundred years ago. Just after the War of 1812, Captain Ross led disbanded soldiers through the woods to settle an area which is now known as New Ross where he and his wife, Mary, pioneered the farm which is now Ross Farm Museum and where I now have the honour of chairing the board of trustees.

I have always felt that the fantastic story must be told of this young couple from Cork, Ireland, who braved four Atlantic voyages on sailing ships, were shipwrecked twice, and raised six children born in primitive conditions on three continents. William died at thirty-nine, leaving Mary to raise a daughter and five sons and keep the farm going until their generation could take over.

The idea of producing this book came about from many conversations with Joan Watson while driving to and from board of trustees meetings in New Ross. Joan agreed that this true tale needed telling and that the womans role was often neither recorded nor appreciated. She wanted to demonstrate the strength, courage, and versatility of women who supported their husbands down through the yearswomen like the origional Mary Ross and my mother, Nina White, who was the last operator of Ross Farm and, after the early death of my father, Mark, arranged for it to become Canadas only living farm museum.

The challenge of writing this book was taken on by Joan and her husband, Murray Creed. They spent countless hours researching and writing The Accidental Farmer. It has become a labour of love.

Joan Watson is herself a strong woman and demonstrated throughout her life and career as host of CBCs Marketplace and many other initiatives that no challenge is too big. Thank you, Joan. I am proud of you and of this booka legacy that will live on and bring important history and enjoyment for all age groups for years to come.

Valerie White

Descendant of William and Mary Ross

Employees at Ross Farm dress in period costumes designed and made at the museum, which welcomed its millioneth visitor in 2010.

(Matthew Gates)

A visit to Ross Farm Museum can be magical thanks to the friendly staff and animals.

(Matthew Gates)

Agriculture has always had a grip on me. Grandpas Annapolis Valley apple orchard was a renewable resource, reliably pink and white in spring and rosy red every autumnbest seen when hanging upside down from a rubber tire swing. In this position I would choose the first apple of autumn.

In grade eight, an appendectomy provided a respite from lessons and a chance to binge on neglected books. That was not the way my father saw it, however; outdoor activity would help the healing. He owned a vacant lot next door to our city house. He plowed it up, fertilized the clay soil, and gifted me with ten dozen tomato plants and the direction that they be set out immediately and watered.

I planted all 120 of them, turned on the hose, and left, and when I returned it was to see the rear view of my six-foot-two father hands on hips, his feet firmly planted in mud. Only the tips of the plants could be seen.

I had mixed emotions as one by one, encouraged by the sun, they lifted their leaves and chose life over death. They blossomed and produced endlessly. The first tomato I ate. The first basket I took to the kitchen. From then on it was a frantic rush through July and August to pick and sell mounds of tomatoes to the local grocer. My commission was 10 percent of sales, handed back to me after my father checked my bookkeeping.

By September, I felt as squashed as the tomatoes I stepped on.

Salvation arrived the day the circus came to town. The bigwig operators, driving dented Caddies, parked with their exhaust pipes directed a foot away from the tomato patch. They always held confabs in the cars with the engines running. The black emissions and heat made short work of my crop. When the police arrived after reports of crooked dealings at the fair, they found me in a heated confrontation with the perpetrators. When the police were through with them, the last car drove out through the tomato patch.

My association with agriculture continued when I joined CBC as a farm broadcaster. It was mandatory to enter a plowing competition for the press at the International Plowing Match in Guelph, Ontario. I practised by plowing up half of Halton County, Ontario, with a borrowed tractor and three-furrow plow. On competition day, it rained and my wet wool sweater smelled. I took off for home. While soaking in the tub, the phone rang. When the plowing was finished, I had succeeded in beating my male colleagues by covering every blade of grass in my furrows. I have the trophy now, even though it turned as black as the dead tomato plants.