Selling the farm?

Get started by looking at your operation from a potential buyer's point of view

In farming, the money's made in the barn and on the field. And while production profitability is a key factor when it comes to selling the farm, don't discount money to be made by ensuring basic curb appeal, say veterans of the Ontario farm real estate market.

Gord Park, Land Market-Magic Realty, Petrolia, suggests taking a walk down the lane to the road, then looking back up at the property, the house, outbuildings: "Ask yourself, 'If I was driving down this road, is this the sort of property that would grab my attention for the right reasons? Is it clean and tidy?'" Park implies it's easy to get used to looking at the same old mess after a number of years, but potential buyers pick up on eyesores right away.

Marianne DeBrabandere, Land Market-Realty World Landco, London, says, "Say what you will about hogs and crops and cows, on the larger farm properties that aren't simply bare land, the house and general appearance of the property makes a difference, because first impressions are important."

She suggests ensuring entrance ways to the house and any farm buildings are well lit and uncluttered. "It's right behind the door to any building that counts, the initial impression. It's psychological," says DeBrabandere, but the first glimpse is what sticks in a potential buyer's mind, no matter how spotless the milking parlour or inner barn.

As for the yard, old equipment scattered around is a real turn-off, she says. "I tell clients not to worry so much about having it taken away, but to at least put stuff in a neat pile behind a barn. It's so much easier to make that great first impression on the drive in and then go from there."

Even before reaching the point where you're about to put paint to brush on the foyer wall, Park says be sure you want to sell. "People hear rumours about what someone down the road got, someone the concession over, and they think, 'Well, I'll put my toe in and see what I can get'." But they've given no thought to what they'd do if they sold the place, and even if they have they may not have realistically budgeted what it's going to cost to do that. "Selling," says Park, "is first of all a matter of the owners saying, 'I have to sell, because I'm going to make a change, get out, retire, whatever'."

Which is not to discount the importance of pure production records from cash crops, livestock or dairying. Says DeBrabandere, "For someone buying a dairy operation lock, stock and barrel, showing records will help, naturally. Same with cropping farms. Yields for the last five years would be a big asset."

Complete disclosure is important, too, she says. "Past history is crucial. You don't want anything coming back at you that might lead to accusations of hiding something. If the owner previous to you had a dump in the bush that you cleaned up, say so. There might have been chemicals there that no one's seen. Same with buried gas tanks that have been dug up; give the location. Note if there's been a problem with the municipal drain."

Finally, be realistic on price. It doesn't matter if it's a seller's market, says DeBrabandere, an unrealistic price won't move a property, and if it's quick sell you're after, frustration can set in.

"Sure there's room for speculation," says Park, "but it's limited. Priced right, a property will move fast. And if you've come to the realization that there are other things you want to do, that's just what you want to happen." - Richard Charteris

© copyright 1999 Agricultural Publishing Company Limited.


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Wartime milking memories

A now-retired dairyman recalls life on a Vancouver Island farm

BY JACK BURDGE, as told to ART BICKERTON

By the late 1930s, our family farm on Vancouver Island consisted of 35 cows on 38 acres and 40 customers that received seven-days-a-week home delivery. A quart of milk cost 11 cents. My father would stand below my window at 6 a.m. calling, "Jack, time to feed the calves and sweep the barn." As my mother prepared breakfast, my two older brothers and my three sisters helped with the chores. My entire world was the family farm - Deanston - school and 40 dairy customers. When we started delivering milk to a few stores in downtown Victoria, I was amazed to discover the world was actually a lot larger.

Early in 1942, orders had come to Vancouver Island that all lights must be covered at night for fear of Japanese invasion. Nearby Naden, the dockyard in Esquimalt Harbour, was believed to be the potential target. As a 10-year-old, I recall how my dairy-farming father took sheets of black building paper, cut them to the shape of the old Dodge's headlights, then made a small slit for just enough light to strike the road. Lanterns, covered with buckets, were used to reduce light within the barn. The 3 a.m. milking procedure appeared ghostly, as Dad and the two farmhands bumped about in the dark. The cows seemed undisturbed by the blackened windows that once offered a hint of daylight.

As a child, everything was an adventure to me. One day, my father was made a member of the auxiliary police force. For this, he was rewarded with a small hand-pump fire extinguisher. I thought that was the greatest invention and that life couldn't get any better. Before school, we would all help delivering the milk. Sometimes my mother would drive our 1930's Dodge touring car; Dad had taken out the back seat to allow for the four dozen cases of milk.

I had to walk up many long and dark driveways. No external lights were permitted, so it was often difficult to find my way around. Everything had to be done by flashlight, and the batteries were always going dead. One time I froze in my tracks; my flashlight had stopped working and my only weapon was two bottles of milk. My 10-year-old imagination ran wild as I heard the rustling of a wild animal.

Crack! Standing motionless, I was certain that the animal could hear my heart pounding. Nothing happened, yet the crackling continued. Suddenly, a little acorn rolled past my feet. Then another acorn rolled along the pathway. A nearby oak had been dropping its acorns. When it's dark and you're all alone, a small world can produce a very large imagination.

My brothers and sisters and I used to run to the houses with the milk. Some people had built ice box coolers on to the outside of their houses. Other people allowed their milk to sit out in the sun, which often turned it sour. No one had refrigerators. Even when it snowed we felt proud to get the milk up to the customers' doors. Usually there was small change inside the empties left at the door, but it wasn't unusual to fund a wet slug or a lively spider as one dumped the change from the bottle.

Even though we were young, we all worked very hard. The worst job was cleaning the calf pens. The straw was always heavy, wet and dirty - and always smelled of fresh manure. Sweating as I worked, it was easy to cough up a mouthful of dust, but I always felt as if I had worked as hard as any man, even as child. As the war continued, many of the younger men were called up for duty. Older men showed up to help out on our farm. Our neighbour sent for a "land girl" from England. She was arranged to help with the farm, but my parents were amused, as she seemed more knowledgeable than our neighbour. The neighbour married her after the war.

Our biggest challenge was outrunning our customers' dogs. Everyone had a dog. One time, as I ran toward the car, I had a dog attached to the seat of my pants. I tripped and the dog let go. Unfortunately, I fell on my hand. My finger was bent and twisted. My tears expressed the pain. My mother recommended we break off the milk route and have it checked. My father examined it and suggested that it would be OK. To this day my finger is twisted. It had been broken.

On another occasion, my dad was in a hurry to clear some stumps for more pasture. The stumps were loaded with dynamite. After the explosion, nothing was left. Our nearest neighbour came running over, demanding that my father stop. Apparently his chicken coop roof had been smashed by large rocks that had been launched skyward by the stump demolition.

The blackout continued until the end of the war. My father sold his milk route to a larger company. I never realized how fortunate we were as children to be raised on a farm. It was hard work, but we always had enough to eat. My early experiences on the farm were a blessing. I still wake before sunrise, thankful for each new day. And thankful, too, that now I can roll over and go back to sleep.
Art Bickerton lives in Victoria, B.C., where he is among a few remaining milkmen still delivering door-to-door

© copyright 1999 Agricultural Publishing Company Limited.


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Five men, four horses and a big tree

There are big trees. And then there are really big trees.

Trees that are so big that even after many years they continue to stand out in the memories of men who have cut thousands of trees.

One of these giants was an elm that grew in Egremont township, Grey County, on the farm of Carl Smith. For some reason it towered above the rest and could be seen for miles around.

Carl, who's passed away since talking to me about this elm in 1995, bought the farm from Durham Furniture in 1931. A condition of sale was that the company retain the rights to the timber. Carl spent the next 12 winters logging the bush for the furniture company.

The mighty elm stood in the back corner of his 200-acre property, and was one of the very last reached by the saws in the winter of 1943. It ran straight and true with few limbs as it stretched some 150 feet up for the sun.

Mel Ferguson of Mount Forest was working with Carl that winter.

"It towered above the rest of the bush," Mel recalled, still in awe of the memory. "I never had anything to do with a tree that big before."

That winter, the men considered the prospect of felling the colossal elm as they worked their way toward it. On the assigned day, Carl brought his camera.

"I wanted to get a picture of that tree. It was one of the largest ever in this part of the country," he said. "We left that tree for a really nice day when there was no wind."

Its girth was so enormous the men brought a special crosscut saw that was seven feet long instead of the usual six. Even then, the handles were almost touching the trunk. Toward the middle, the strokes got so short the saw couldn't clear the sawdust from the cut. It kept getting stuck.

The men took 15-minute turns at cutting. Jack McIntyre kept the blade sharp, putting a little extra set on the teeth for a looser cut.

"You had to have a free swing. You had to have rhythm," Mel said of using a crosscut saw. "If you had a good working saw and two guys that were good, it wasn't that hard work. Some guys weren't so good; they seemed to ride on it."

"I was very poor at it," Carl admitted. He generally handled the horses. "Mel was good at it," he added.

A good-size tree usually took about half-an-hour to saw through. The Egremont elm took three hours.

It came down without even touching the fence line.

"We took the measurements on it, but they got lost someplace," Mel said.

It took two teams of horses - Carl's and Neil Keith's - to haul the 14-foot logs cut from the mammoth elm. The teams had to be good to work in the bush, not excitable. They had to stand still even when the lines were set down, Carl said.

"It was a good bush," Mel recalled. "Nobody got hurt in that bush."

"Carl always smoked a pipe. He never had it out of his mouth."

"I took it out to go to bed," Carl chuckled.

"We had a lot of fun out there," Mel continued. "A bit of story-telling might go on. We had to stop once in a while and roll a cigarette."

"After the bush came out it was one of the best berry patches," Carl said. "The raspberries followed anytime you took a bush out. Nobody got charged for trespassing. If you wanted to pick, you did, if you could put up with the mosquitoes."
Campbell Cork lives and writes in Mount Forest

© copyright 1999 Agricultural Publishing Company Limited.


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