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Welcome to the Hewitts Ridgemon Farm located near Perdue, Saskatchewan, Canada.

Homesteaded by my great grandfather, the home above has raised three generations of babes.

{Its got to be right where he left it}

My Grandma had a little boston terrier named Buffy, who she loved dearly. 

Buffy suffered from what we like to call, "water on the brain". 

Buffy hated Grandpa. 

Grandpa loved big luxurious, butter yellow cars. 

In fact, Grandpa loved them so much, he would buy a new one every year. 

One day Alvin, Doreen and Buffy went to town, to see the lawyer. 

Buffy was left to "guard" the new car...

When Grandma and Grandpa returned, the butter yellow seats were polka-dotted.

 With poopy paw prints.

Grandpa always loathed Buffy.

When my Grandparents and there four small, white gloved daughters, were off at church...

 the fat little ponies would squish themselves under the fence, and chomp off the tops to Grandmas, carefully pruned, flowers. 

Then to avoid being caught "Red Hoofed", squeezed their chubby bellies, back into the pasture before the congregation was out.

{My mom on Nugget}

Nugget just oozes juvenile delinquent don't you think?

My mother attempted to teach me how to drive in this truck. 

I have seen some pretty amazing buildings, but nothing puts a smile on my face like the barn.

If my Grandmother was Achilles, I imagine the barn would be her heel.

There are about five stalls on either side of the barn, followed by two box stalls at the very back. Making it a very large, sentimental, paper weight.

{Dock, Bese and Prince}

Remnants of an old box stall fort. 

Notice the chairs, table and sofa.

The back end.

Inside this shed you can find a plethora of old sleighs, carriages and buggies. 

One of which I plan to arrive and depart in, at my wedding. 

Of course.

The tack house.

I spent every summer at the farm, growing up. The farm fills my thoughts with Utopian like memories of grand adventures, playing tag with my cousins on hay bales, riding horses and building forts.

 As I watch my childhood decay along with the buildings of the farm, a bitter sweet sense of adult hood creeps into my consciousness.

 Though, the song of the Meadowlarks, and the sharp prairie wind, braided with the warmth of the sun, will always pull me back to my days of innocence.

It will always remind me of home, and where I come from. 

Its good to be back. 

RB as MC