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roast beef, and pork.
    Eventually, over the years, farmers became more self-sufficient. They bought more machinery and more land and worked only for themselves. Father was good at seeing opportunities. With 11 children you had better be! He was one of the first farmers to go to the local native Indian reserve for help. He became friendly with some of the unemployed young men. These native men would come every summer to help father on the fields, since by then my older brothers and sisters had left home.
    Although I was only two years old at the time, I was often told the following story. One spring day, a federal census agent drove to our farm and interviewed father. Dad was preoccupied with the upcoming work to be done, and I think he was distracted as he rattled off the names of his children. He forgot my name! The repercussions of omitting me became evident only later in my life. Although I had a baptismal record, I was never able to get an official birth certificate, and I had problems proving who I was until I received a Certificate of Canadian Citizenship when I attended Normal School in Saskatoon for teacher training. Once again, I had to deal with an issue of my identity: in legal terms, I didn’t even exist until I gained the title of teacher. Thank goodness I had found a way to breathe life into my physical self.
    It is easy to understand my father’s preoccupation with the farm. There always was so much work to be done. From sunrise to sunset we all pitched in to do our share of work on the farm. Before going off to school, we milked 15 cows by hand, separated the cream from the milk, and washed breakfast dishes for 15 people—our immediate family and two hired hands.
    In 1926, father bought a Case tractor and a Waterloo threshing machine in partnership with Peter Stadnyk. They worked together for three years until father bought his own outfit. During harvest time, my older brothers and sisters would help father bring in the grain. Four horses pulled the binder and, after the wheat was cut, the sheaves were “stooked” or stacked upright to dry before going to the rack. From the rack, the sheaves of wheat were pitched onto a conveyor belt where they would go through the threshing machine. The grain would be loaded into the wagon to go to the granary, and the straw would be blown to the other side to be used for the animals.
    Father was never sick, but he did suffer a few accidents during his farming career that required hospitalization. Once in the fall, while he was hauling a load of wheat to the Vonda elevator, he was walking beside his horses to keep warm and slipped under the wagon and suffered a broken leg. Another time, he was caught between the horses and the seed drill and suffered a few broken ribs. When he was cutting chaff for his stock with his sons, his clothing got caught in the rotating shaft, which threw him over and dislocated many joints in his hands and feet.
    After all of their children had married and moved out on their own, father and mother gave up farming and moved to Saskatoon for a well-deserved rest. They bought a little house on 22nd Street, close to the church, and moved into the city house in the fall of 1953.
    One day I encouraged my mom and dad to take a professional photograph in a studio in Saskatoon. There they were, perched on a piano bench, my dad straddling the bench, sweating profusely in the dark suit he seldom wore. Mom looked lovely with her long, brown hair pinned into tight curls. As I look at their photo today, I realize how young she looked for her years, despite all the hard work.

    My parents, Wasyl and Anna Shawaga.
    Mother said the only time in her life she had seen our father cry was at the last Christmas they spent on the farm. Although they had eleven children and numerous grandchildren, not one family member had thought to go out to the farm to spend Christmas with them. It was the first time our parents celebrated the Christmas holiday alone.
    My parents