For six months, a red storage tote sat in the middle of my office. It wasn’t hidden away or forgotten; it was always there, in plain sight, but I wasn’t ready to deal with it. I’d kick it aside, shuffle it to another corner, or pile things on top of it. But no matter what I did, it felt like it was waiting for me.
That tote came from my last trip to the family farm – a visit I never wanted to take. The farm was where I grew up, but it hadn’t felt like home in years. Relationships had unfortunately fractured beyond repair, and I knew it was time to close that chapter.
When I arrived, I was greeted at the door by a mediator. After a conversation of sorts, I was given an hour to go through my mom’s belongings. A lifetime of her memories was packed into boxes, and I had to decide what to take and what to leave behind. I moved quickly, grabbing favourite books, bits of her writing, old letters and photos, along with a handful of small treasures that felt like her. There wasn’t time to linger, and I didn’t really want to. I packed my truck and left, knowing it was the last time I’d ever step foot there.
Back home, the tote went straight into my office, where it sat untouched for months. The weight of it – both physical and emotional – was too much to face. It wasn’t just the memories inside; it was the finality of it all, the sense of closing a door on a part of my life that had shaped so much of who I am. For a long time, it was easier to ignore it than to deal with what it represented.
But after that day at the farm, I started to feel a strange sense of freedom. It wasn’t immediate or all-encompassing, but it was there – a shift in how I saw myself and where I wanted to go. For the first time in years, I felt like I could start moving forward. That closure allowed me to focus on the here and now: my business, my healing, my husband, and our family. It gave me the space to think about the life I’m building for myself, one step at a time.
In the first week of December – right in the middle of our busiest holiday season yet – I found myself drawn to the tote. It wasn’t planned, and I didn’t overthink it. Suddenly, almost instinctively, I knew it was time. After months of ignoring it, I gave myself the space to finally open it.
Inside, among the treasures I’d saved, I found something I hadn’t expected: my grandma’s handwritten recipes. Loose-leaf pages and old notebooks were carefully tucked away with a few of her favourite, well-loved cookbooks. Everything had been lovingly wrapped up in an old bread bag & sealed with a piece of packing tape by my mom – because on the farm, that’s just what you do.
I’d never really thought about what had become of my grandma’s handwritten recipes, so one could say that the wave of emotions was overwhelming. At first, I thought the bundle was just a collection of old recipe booklets my mom had picked up at a thrift store or garage sale, the kind of thing she loved to collect. But when I opened the bag, I realized it was so much more.
These weren’t just recipes – they were pieces of my family’s story, preserved in my grandma’s handwriting. The smudged pencil marks, dog-eared pages, and splatters of ingredients told their own story. These were the recipes my grandma used to create the holidays I grew up loving so much, the same ones my mom had learned from her. Unwrapping them felt like stepping back in time, a connection to the women who had shaped so much of my life.
We lost my grandma in a sudden farm accident over 20 years ago when I was 18. One moment, she was there, and the next, everything changed. It was the kind of loss that left a mark on all of us, but especially on my mom. In the days and weeks after my grandma’s passing, my mom faced the difficult task of sorting through my grandparents’ big old farmhouse. It wasn’t just a house; it was a place filled with decades of memories, treasures, and everyday items that told the story of their lives. Among the things my mom found were these recipes – scribbled on loose-leaf paper and tucked into cookbooks that had clearly seen years of love and use. She carefully gathered them, wrapping them up to keep them safe, preserving a piece of my grandma that she knew would matter someday.
Nearly 10 years ago, I lost my mom to cancer after a very brief illness. It was sudden in its own way – a stark reminder of how fragile and unpredictable life can be. She was my anchor, my favourite person, and someone who loved fiercely and poured care into even the smallest things. Discovering those recipes, lovingly tucked away, brought her presence back to me in a way I hadn’t felt in years. It was more than just paper and old cookbooks – it felt like she was leaving me a gift, a continuation of her creativity and my grandma’s, along with the traditions they both treasured so much.
The recipes stirred up so many emotions. They weren’t just instructions for baking; they were memories of my childhood. Pages filled with fruitcake recipes, steamed puddings, preserves, dainties, and the cookies that only made an appearance once a year. My grandma taught my mom how to bake at a young age, and together they created the most magical holiday traditions. The smells of something sweet baking, the sound of laughter echoing through both of their kitchens, and the care and creativity they poured into every detail – it all came rushing back, as vivid and real as if it had happened just yesterday.
This discovery couldn’t have come at a better time. The holidays are always emotional for me – a mix of joy and longing. It was my mom and grandma who taught me the importance of finding joy in the little things, even when life felt overwhelming.
This year, I wanted to do things differently in our shoppe. I realized earlier in the year that being just a candle shoppe wasn’t going to be enough to sustain us. I knew I needed to create something more – a space where people could connect, feel joy, and be inspired in their own ways.
So this holiday season, I poured all my energy into creating a shoppe that felt festive and warm, a place that harkened back to the little shops I remember from my hometown. Growing up in Roblin, our main street would come alive during the holidays, lined with small shops that were filled with warmth and charm. Those shops weren’t flashy – they were cozy, welcoming, and filled with the kind of joy that made you want to linger a little longer.
That’s the feeling I wanted to create this year at Farmer’s Son Co. It wasn’t about selling candles or gifts – it was about creating a sense of connection and nostalgia, a little moment of peace and joy in the midst of it all.
This year has taught me a lot – about letting go, moving forward, and trusting that it’s okay not to have all the answers. It’s also reminded me that the people around us, whether family by birth or by choice, make the season special.
As we move into the new year, I hope you find time to rest and reconnect. Whether it’s through a recipe, a memory, or a quiet moment, I hope you find the things that bring you back to yourself. This season, more than ever, feels like a time for reflection and restoration – a chance to pause and prepare for what’s ahead.
Thank you for being part of my journey this year. Here’s to finding joy in the little things, embracing moments of calm and stepping into 2025 with hope and excitement for what’s to come.
Cheers,
Dan
P.S. As I sort through my grandma’s recipes, I’m reminded that baking was never just about the final product – it was about the stories, the laughter, and the love shared in the process. I can’t wait to roll up my sleeves and bring some of these recipes to life. Who knows? Maybe I’ll share a few adventures from the kitchen with you in the year ahead.
