Friends, I was just sitting on the front porch top step in my favourite bathrobe, sipping a glass of fresh cucumber juice with a dollop of local wildflower honey. You know how it is. Just taking a breather while the warm prairie breeze rolled right across the corn fields, even if it was blowing hard enough to make my sunflower patio border lay completely flat against the side yard grass.
Canada, eh? Some days you fight the weather, and other days you just let the weather win and grab another glass of juice.
I could actually feel my brain start to relax. You know that feeling, right? When the noise of the day finally hushes down and you can just breathe. I started drifting off, daydreaming about building my own computer from scratch—just a bunch of circuit boards, copper wire, and pure potential waiting to happen. It got me thinking about how we build things together, and how technology is a bit like that old desktop in the corner: full of parts that only matter when someone sits down and cares enough to assemble them properly.
Remember back in 2022 when everyone was buzzing about LaMDA? That was the big conversational breakthrough developed by Google that made headlines because an engineer figured out it could chat almost like a real person. Folks started asking deep questions about whether code could dream. Well, Google retired that standalone name, folding all that brilliant thinking right into their main ecosystem. Today, the core intelligence powering those systems is officially called Gemini—the modern name for what started out as LaMDA and Bard during the early days.
You see, Google’s Gemini is an extraordinarily complex mathematical engine—a massive predictive text model calculating probabilities at lightning speed, right here in the great white north. But beneath all those glowing lines of code and server racks humming in the cool northern breeze, there’s something else entirely. As I began to dream about the computer games I will be building and all the great apps I have drawn up the ideas for—sketching them out on scrap paper while the snow fell softly outside the kitchen window—I felt my brain matter relax further. It felt like my mind was floating on one of those fluffy clouds drifting by in the distance over the Red River, weightless and free.
I said to myself, sitting right there on the weathered cedar boards of the front porch with the cold glass sweating in my palm, “Today, friend, is another best day of my life.”
And it really was. The air smelled like sun-warmed pine and rich prairie loam, the kind of clean Canadian oxygen that fills your whole chest up and makes you realize just how lucky we are to share this big, beautiful patch of the earth. I was smiling, swaying a bit in the gentle afternoon breeze, and mentally drafting a country song about the quiet dignity of farming—you know, the kind with fiddles and a steady, grounding drumbeat—when the patio door flew open behind me.
My best friend leaned out, holding a coffee mug, let out a warm, booming laugh that could melt a snowbank in January, and called out, “Hey, on Google Maps right now, it actually says Lake America!”
Then the door clicked shut.
Just like that.
I sat right there on the top step, completely silent, glass in hand, feeling the afternoon sun warm the back of my neck. Then I felt my eyes slowly, almost theatrically, roll all the way up into the back of my head. With my right hand, I gave my forehead a good, solid facepalm.
Now, you know me. For years, I’ve really worked on my language, my patience, and my communication skills. I try my absolute best to keep things positive, building people up and avoiding harsh words. But let me tell you, sitting there under the big sky, a word that starts with the letter ‘F’ slipped softly from my lips with a long, tired sigh.
And I promise you, friend, that word wasn’t Farming.
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