The subtitle of this book is Reflections of a Canadian Childhood and it certainly is that. But it was a far from ordinary childhood. Robert Collins grew up on a farm in the southern part of Saskatchewan during the 1920's and 1930's. His father had been injured in World War I and physical work was often hard for him. When you factor in the difficulties facing farmers during that time, especially in the Dust Bowl of the 1930's, you might think that it would be a recounting of trials and tribulations. But Collins and his family seem to have risen above their problems and enjoyed their life. This passage gives a hint of that:
The risk in farming was maddening, and yet...exhilarating. Take a pail of fresh, foaming milk and, hey-presto! Suddenly it was butter, cream and drinks for boys, calves, chickens and cats. That black field of fresh, damp furrows, dappled with Franklin gulls scavenging for worms: with a little rain, luck and a prayer or two, it turned into Thatcher wheat, bowing golden in the wind. That barren garden, monochrome gray, surely dead forever: pamper it with countless hand-lugged pails of water and interminable hours of hoeing and fertilizing, and suddenly one morning -- green shoots cracking through the crust. Always, that little miracle of growth-again filled me with foolish joy.

The writing is wonderful and many of the stories are funny. But I think the real joy for me came from the fact that I recognized so much of what he was writing. I grew up on a farm too although it was in Manitoba and it was thirty years after Collins but many of the challenges were the same. Farming was still done on a modest scale and there were few amenities. Just like Collins, I wouldn't have traded it for the world. ( )