Tell me what you think

I enjoy writing but it is a solitary experience. 

I need to understand what resonates with you or does not. 

After you read a story here, please take a moment to comment.

Thanks!

Doug

Lesson Learned

 In the summer of 1971, I was conscripted into my dad's work gang of two. Dad was 51, and I was 18 and no stranger to hard work.

The mill where my dad was a bookkeeper shut down for a few months in late spring, and start-up was uncertain. My parents were not ones to let an opportunity for worry slip by.

They furrowed their collective brows in anticipation of a lean winter. Despite having little debt, Dad always maintained a big garden where he spent hours coaxing young plants from the warm soil while inflicting maximum damage to errant weeds. I didn't shower the plants with the same enthusiasm.

The only redeeming feature of the job was working on my tan. My outlook for summer also included polishing my metallic green '69 Chevy Beaumont while ignoring the ribbing of my neighbouring uncles about me waxing the paint off.

 

High school was finally over. In my liberated mind, I was a racehorse restless for the greener fields, anywhere but here. My folks believed hard work and education were the mantras to follow. Like most of my generation, I sought new and exciting challenges. While my vision was of a thoroughbred, my dad's view of me was slightly different; he saw something closer to a Clydesdale—able, solid and ready for the harness.

 

During supper one evening, Dad announced the grand scheme in his usual taciturn fashion. He planned to cut pilings that once supported a long-abandoned shipping wharf near our home. Hindsight would suggest that it would have been the time for me to bolt. It became clear he was fitting me for the harness. But with few paying jobs available in the village and not wanting a guilt trip, I agreed to help.

In the early '40s, sawmills and wharves were strung like confetti along the Miramichi river banks. They often ended their good years by collapsing or burning.

In the case of the ruins at the end of Rodney Green Lane, near our home, all that remained was the skeleton of the wharf. Dad planned to cut timber from it to supplement our winter firewood.

 

Before I go further, I want to tell you about my dad. He was a man with some "book learning," as the locals would say. A whiz with a pen, he lacked the calloused hands of his older brothers and the practical knowledge that went with it. Dad was also a thoughtful but stubborn fellow. Once his mind was set, there was little room for course correction.

He was a leader in our village, not by choice. It was because he had a high school diploma. The collective thought was that if you were fortunate enough to get an education, you were expected to "pay it back" to the community with what skill set you had.

 

Dad could write and speak well, so he was chosen to represent the community on several committees and organizations. The arrangement generally worked until his views clashed with other folks.

The same summer of his grand-cutting scheme, a group of like-minded persons announced they wanted to see a volunteer fire department in our small village. They argued that it would provide more safety and security for property owners. It would also allow opportunities for the group to socialize, but that was conveniently left out of their promotional campaign.

Dad studied the idea, consulted other communities and governing bodies, and then spoke against the proposal. He reasoned it was too expensive for our hamlet, served by a community fire department two miles away.

His position was a cause for some lively and not-so-friendly public debate. He lost the argument and the first municipal election was won by the fire chief.

The fire department became a fixture in the community shortly after.

Dad was not disappointed or bitter. He saw his job as presenting facts as they were. My dad loved politics and was active in the back rooms but was no politician; principles and honesty mattered greatly to him.

 

Now, let me connect the parts of this story. Father and I spent a week in the summer of 1971 struggling with the remains of hundred-year-old sun-blanched pilings semi-submerged in sludge. It wasn't a pretty picture, and the smell was worse.

Every day of that long, sweltering week, he teetered on a rickety platform of his construction. He reminded me of a stork, standing on one leg with his tongue hanging out the corner of his mouth, for balance, maybe?

Each morning at 8 sharp, Dad would yank the starter cord of his old power saw, followed by a few choice curses when it refused to start. After some carburetor adjustments, the motor would gasp and cough into action with a plume of blue smoke announcing we were in business.

My job was, wheelbarrow operator. A relic from Dad's father it was falling apart. It featured a steel wheel forged by a sadistic blacksmith. The weld, joining the two metal bands that held the spokes together, left a lump, just enough to constantly throw me off balance. The wheel fought to slip out of its bracket.

I would load several fossilized pieces onto the shaky carrier and stagger down the street like the village drunk, trying to prevent the load from spilling. I looked a greater fool than I felt.

We kept a steady pace of cutting and hauling from sunrise to sunset for six solid days. The only respite was to devour Mom's tasty meals.

At week's end, a massive load of firewood sat like bleached dinosaur bones in the backyard. We split the works with a sledgehammer and a wedge. Safety glasses were deemed an unnecessary luxury.

Fast forward to a brutally cold night in mid-December. I was at the local community hall, where the village fire department hosted a family Christmas party. The volunteer firemen were dressed as Christmas characters. At one point, Santa and the elves (chief and crew) were called out to a fire.

I felt badly for them as the fire truck pulled from the station beneath the Center into the frigid winter night. Afterwards, as I drove into my parents' driveway, I was met by a small crowd watching tongues of flame shooting from the chimney of my parents' hundred-year-old house. My father was in the middle of the crowd, gazing up as though lost in some profound thought.

The fire chief, dressed as Santa, stood beside him. Other firemen dressed in elfin costumes professionally went about their work extinguishing the chimney fire.

Dad hadn't considered that while the pilings were old and dry, they had also been treated with creosote to extend their use. That made them highly flammable. I wondered if he was contemplating the fact as the remnants burned like Roman candles from the chimney top.

Lesson learned

Corned Beef Hash

 

Christmas as a memory is a mixture of what was, what could have been and what is still possible.

Christmas week, 1963, had been a combination of brisk sunny days and freezing nights. Dad was up before the family to rekindle the heart of the furnace. Lucky and Ash slept on opposite sides.

The dog, Lucky, was cautious when the man appeared. Ash was indifferent as she stretched and yawned. Sensing no danger, the collie watched him fill the strange, breathing beast that frightened the dog yet brought warmth. He gazed uneasily when the metal door was opened, revealing that most frightening of things: fire. He retreated to a corner of the basement.

Father acknowledged the dog and heaved another piece of firewood into the furnace. Then he reached down and stiffly patted his head. Instinctively, Lucky pulled away, not used to this man's kindness, but he sensed a change in him lately. The man and Lucky were not companions, but the previous week's events helped instill some trust in Lucky. For Dad, there was a new recognition of the dog's value. He was a beautiful collie with long black fur and a broad white patch on his chest. Lucky had come to us as a pup three years before. He was a gift from a local farmer Dad knew. He and I bonded immediately and were seldom apart.

            It was a Friday, our final school day before Christmas break. David, my cousin and best friend sat atop a snow bank in our shared backyard with Lucky between us. We had just finished building our fort. A mild spell the previous week brought a snowstorm perfect for making a fortification. The snow was easy to dig out, and it packed well as we made a central area with a tunnel leading into and out of it in case rival groups attacked us.

We were both ten years old and more like brothers, sharing the same space and, often, homes. Our imaginations and energy were boundless. We were having a "King of the Castle" game, knocking and pushing each other from the top of the snowbank. It was late in the day, and we were more tired than we realized. Our play started to turn rough. Suddenly, we were wildly punching each other. 

Lucky was used to our play-fighting, but he sensed something different and that I might be in trouble. He growled several warnings before deciding that wasn't enough. The dog latched onto David's wrist to pull him away. His strong jaws made my cousin realize he had crossed a line. David shrieked in pain, causing Lucky to release his grip. My cousin retreated to his home, howling. Lucky and I were left alone atop the snowbank in the gathering cold. He had protected me, yet I sensed this would end poorly for us.

Dad came home early from his work, looking angry. Things were worse than I feared. I heard him and Mom arguing. Lucky and I huddled on the concrete steps leading to the basement. I held on to him tightly. My Father approached. He pulled the dog from my grip and kicked him down the stairs. After sixty years, I can still hear my friend crying in pain as he limped into the wood room. I looked at my father with anger I didn't recognize as mine. I saw his confusion mixed with sorrow. In a moment, we both had crossed into a dark place.

 My Dad was not a violent man. He had never struck any of us in anger. I ran down the stairs after Lucky. He had curled himself up beside the warmth of the furnace. I pulled off my jacket and slipped it under him. We lay in silence until we both fell into a troubled sleep.

Sometime later, Mom came down with my supper and food for Lucky. I got up and brought his water dish over. "Your Father is sorry, Douglas. He has been under a lot of stress with the mill not going well. He would not intentionally hurt you or anybody you loved." But he had. She said it was time for bed now. "Lucky will be okay." But she didn't argue when I showed no intention of leaving.

Dad came down later to put some wood in the furnace. I ignored him. He started to go but turned back."I am sorry, Douglas. It was wrong of me to hurt your dog. We will bring him to the vet if he is not better in the morning." "Okay," I responded sullenly. I was stunned by his apology. The man I revered and sometimes feared was showing me his humanness. He took off his heavy jacket and covered us.

The following morning, Lucky whimpered quietly. It was his way of saying he needed to go out for a pee. He raised himself and walked a short distance, favouring his right paw. I picked him up and lovingly carried my companion upstairs into the cold December morning. He seemed to get his energy back as he sniffed around his territory. The limp was less noticeable now. Lucky licked my hand, and I scratched behind his ear. We were good. After he had done his business, we went inside to the kitchen. Father had just come up from tending the furnace. His face was clouded with concern, but now that I knew my friend would be okay, I reverted to a petulant ten-year-old boy, saying nothing.

Dad was making my favourite breakfast, corned beef hash. He gathered the ingredients, deftly peeled a few potatoes chopped onion and tossed them into the warming frying pan. Immediately, the rich aroma of the golden-brown potatoes combined with the corned beef and seasoning put us at ease. "How is Lucky feeling?" he asked cautiously. "He isn't limping as much," I offered."Good," he replied.

I willingly inherited my father’s quiet nature; neither of us was given to idle chatter. I pulled a chair over to the cupboard, climbed up and got two plates. Dad stirred the meal a few more times and declared it was ready. He reached into the cupboard and brought out a bowl. He filled it with the tasty mixture and put it in front of Lucky, who hesitated a moment before diving in. The three of us ate in comfortable silence. 

After that experience of hurting the one I loved, my father seemed to pay more attention to my feelings. I never knew why Dad responded so violently to Lucky. But as I got older and became a father, I gained an appreciation for the demands of parenthood and ensuring family security. Sadly, I also repeated my father’s mistake of not sharing my burden with my spouse. It does the soul no good.

CBC RADIO - Morning Show

 I had a chat with Host Jonna Brewer about the book, the Burchills and workers

https://www.cbc.ca/listen/live-radio/1-26-information-morning-moncton/clip/16116990-a-book-tells-story-burchills-miramichi

The Mill

Due to unexpected demand, the book is temporarily out of stock in Miramichi outlets. I will be signing copies at Mill Cove Cafe on Saturday, January 11, from 1 to 3 p.m.

I hope you enjoy a peaceful Christmas.

Doug 

A Tree On The Island

 This story combines a time of self-discovery with family security at Christmas time.

Our family home was approximately a quarter mile from beautiful Beaubear's island, cloaked in an evergreen canvas.

As children, my sisters and I went with our parents one year to cut a Christmas tree. Recalling the occasion evokes wonderful memories over a half-century later. It also underlines some of the internal conflicts I was experiencing.

Winter brings its unique character to the river. The wind screamed from the northwest like a banshee, hurtling itself at our old house, which crouched like an animal awaiting the next blow. Father tended to the ancient wood furnace, struggling to satisfy the behemoth's insatiable appetite.

Upstairs, I swaddled myself in a blanket over the hot air register. Mother shooed me away; fearful the water pipes would freeze if the heat were blocked. At bedtime, I dreaded the cold sheets, which took forever to absorb the warmth of my body. We wore thick wool socks on these extra cold nights. This luxury ultimately meant an extra washer load, an unwanted expense in a household where every penny was turned twice.

The wind screeched unabated for forty-eight hours. When the howling finally subsided, the resulting snowscape was breathtakingly beautiful, highlighted by the brilliant sun against the cobalt-blue sky.

It was mid-December; Dad had spent two long days with his frenzied brood. He announced that the family would go in search of a Christmas tree. My older brothers were excused as they were studying for exams. This left my two sisters and me, aged six and seven. I was eleven at the time.

Father sharpened his axe. Mother began her preparations, happy to break out of the usual domestic routine. She put a large pot of water on the hot stove for tea and made ham sandwiches with her freshly baked bread. "Ann, you get the old mugs from the basement and Sharon, you take the blankets from your beds and bring them here. It will be a chilly trip," Mom said, sending the girls to their tasks.

My sisters sensed this was a special occasion and struggled to contain their excitement. I helped them put on their bulky snow pants and thick socks. Mittens were already warming on the registers. The blue and green wooden sleds were pulled from beneath the snow. Dad buffed the metal runners with sandpaper for easier hauling, then firmly tied the sleds together.

Sharon brought the two thick red "army blankets" from their beds. These were reserved for extra cold nights, like those we just experienced.

 They were so-called as Dad had ordered them from the Army Surplus catalogue. At the same time, much to the embarrassment of the older children, he bought five used olive-green army "knapsacks" for school book bags. The younger kids' imaginations ran wild with images of dried blood from used bayonets. The rest of us initially struggled to hide them from our schoolmates in embarrassment, but eventually, we gave up.

"Douglas, Dad called to me. Make sure the girls are well covered with the blankets. I don't want to hear them crying to go back. Understand?" "Yes, Dad and Lucky can come too?"

Our young black and white collie wasn't waiting for permission as he bounded across the yard to the river.

"You watch him," responded Dad. "I'm not caring for him too."

Mom packed ham sandwiches with a half dozen fresh-from-the-oven molasses cookies and several King Cole tea bags to be used in thermoses of hot tea. She got her heavy black seal skin coat from the downstairs closet. It was one of the few luxuries she allowed herself when she married. It was usually worn only to church and on infrequent trips to town. She knew the coat would help make for a comfortable walk across to the island, which lay in the middle of the sleeping river. After a quick final readiness check, our troop set out across the road, down the bank, and onto the frozen river.

 

It was about a twenty-minute walk from our house to Beaubear's Island on the snowy crust. The island measures approximately one mile in length and a quarter mile at its widest point. A prominent landmark in the region, it is heavily forested with substantial white pine, many over a hundred feet tall. Patches of spruce and fir fight for sunlight and rich nutrients.

The path carved through the center by the Mig'maw people several centuries ago still exists. White settlers, including the Acadians, Scottish, Irish and English, gradually widened the trail with ox carts and horse-drawn wagons.

It was once home to each of these peoples, even earning a place in world commerce as a ship-building center. The prized straight and strong white pines were cut to make ship masts.

We looked at the island. It seemed to be resting, ready to offer a peaceful retreat for travellers such as our family making the pilgrimage.

Father led the pack, pulling the tandem sleds. The girls sat like statues on the first sled. The girls were securely wrapped in their heavy snowsuits. The blankets served as windbreakers. Their cheeks were rosy from the light breeze and sub-zero temperature.

I sometimes padded beside Dad, struggling to keep the pace he set. Mother followed on the trail opened by us. Lucky broke into intermittent spurts, throwing himself onto the packed snow and rubbing his back with the joy and pleasure known only to dogs.

The ferocious wind of the past two days had compacted the snow to resemble concrete. It made a wonderful sound, like crunching a bag of potato chips. Sledding was easy for Father. We were enjoying the freedom from being caged in during the storm. Even Dad occasionally erupted into laughter at Lucky's antics and our sliding sleds.

About halfway across, we stopped. The sun was warming us, and I thought Dad wanted to take a break. He called our group together and smiled as he looked across to the west.

"I was thinking, when your mother and I were married, we came to live with my mother, Ma. My dad died when I was a few years older than you, Douglas.

She was alone and said we could help each other by living with her in Nelson.

Mary Dolan was a strong and good person. She treated anybody at her door with respect and generosity.

"It was about this time of year after we moved in with Ma. I was splitting firewood in the backyard. I looked over from our place to where we are now. The wind was blowing heavily across the river. I saw a line of five women coming toward our side. They didn't break formation. When they got to the Nelson side, they came to our, your grandmother's home. They looked tired but determined.

"They didn't say anything but nodded when they walked past. I waited a while. When I went in, they had gathered around the kitchen's old woodstove, drinking tea. Ma introduced each of the group.

The last person was sitting beside her. She introduced her as Mrs. Ginnish. The lady said hello, and that was it. I asked Ma what was happening after they left. She said that Mrs. Ginnish and the other ladies travelled from Eel Ground (Natoaganeg) to Loggieville three times a year to sell their beadwork and crafts. Ma said she and Mrs. Ginnish had been good friends since they met forty years before.

 

"Your grandmother worked with Father Ryan. He was a parish priest here, famous for healing people with natural plants and herbs. That is where Ma and Mrs. Ginnish met. They prepared the mixtures, and with Father Ryan, they did some amazing work curing some very sick folks. They were two incredible people who were quiet leaders in their communities."

We were amazed by the story our father shared. And just as suddenly as it started, it was over. We were on our way again. That was Dad's style.

 

 I recall that story today, I think of how successive generations of leaders are formed within a family. My father was an active community leader, as was I. George, a descendant of Mrs. Ginnish, was Chief of the Natoaganeg community for several years. In my work in adult education, I always enjoyed working with him.

 

The island welcomed us. The light breezes stilled—a pair of blue jays exchanged raucous greetings. A small group of chickadees eagerly picked up the sunflower seeds the girls sprinkled on the frozen beach sand. Crows peeked out from their perches and saw no threat. They continued to doze in a sunlit meadow.

We picked our way to the island's central corridor. The silence was total and comforting. It reminded me of the entrance to our century-old church, which lay a short distance away on the opposite shore.

First-time visitors to the island in winter are often astonished as they gaze at the cathedral walls of white pines plastered with snow. Huge branches with dark green needles were draped in dazzling white shawls. In a single file, we moved into the fir and spruce groves.

The hunt was on for the best Christmas tree. Mother was the judge in consultation with the girls. Dad had long since admitted his appreciation for things aesthetic was woefully lacking. I instinctively deferred to his position.

Lucky showed no interest in the humans as he chased squirrels that he had discovered snoozing in a log.

The smell of a fir tree on a cold winter's day awakens the senses. The sharp scent of resin and the needles offer a bracing fragrance. Careful inspections were carried out, and comparisons were made. Finally, Mother and the girls selected a tall, bushy fir. Dad lifted the axe from the sled.

With the first blow, the tree threw off its snowy coat. Thousands of tiny iridescent particles sparkled in the bright sun, gently floating to the ground. Three more strikes, and the tree gave way. I stood it up, displaying it like a trophy I had won, and then secured it to the second sled.

It was time for lunch. This outing for the girls and me remained one of our treasured Christmas memories into adulthood. I restrained my enthusiasm for fear of appearing soft before my father. I was always conscious of my role as his son, being of the generation where showing emotion was discouraged.

We collected dried twigs and branches off the beach. We chose a leeward location for our lunch, out of reach from the gathering afternoon breeze. The fire caught quickly. The soothing comfort of orange and yellow flames licking the driftwood quickly warmed us. Dad and I dragged over a log that had drifted up in a big fall tide.

We pulled it close to the fire, making a comfortable seat for the group. Mother took the two thermoses of still-hot water from her insulated satchel. She put two King Cole tea bags in each, ensuring it was strong enough for Father.

She reached deeper into the bag and pulled out five white metal cups Ann had brought from the basement. They were old, with cracked black lips and some enamel on the sides chipped. But they served the purpose.

Lucky, picking up the scent of a possible meal, appeared out of a snowdrift with his lush black tail wagging. Knowing not to annoy the man, he quietly sat beside the youngest, Sharon. He knew from experience that she was the most generous of this human family.

While I continued gathering heavier wood for the fire, Mother passed around the thick sandwiches. We threw ourselves into the tasty task of devouring them.

Between bites, the girls and I talked about the Christmas parties we had enjoyed on the final day of the school term. They snuggled into the warmth of Mom and her seal skin coat. It sheltered them from the cold and offered an extra measure of sanctuary.

With the demands of seven offspring and a husband, Mother had little time to indulge her children. This was a special moment the girls savoured.

I envied my sisters. I had few opportunities to be close to our mother. I felt myself drifting from her, conflicted with the secret of my growing sexual curiosity. But again, I smothered the urge to be comforted, content to be a part of this moment.

Even at the age of eleven, I had seen and heard enough to believe my life, as I knew it, would be destroyed if my true self became known to others.

I would be shunned and hated by people who didn't care that all I wanted was to love freely. I would not take the chance with my mother's love to share with her that I was gay. Decades later, I have learned that silence can be like a pool of water left in the cold too long; it will freeze and break your heart.

Unobserved, Sharon dropped pieces of her sandwich to Lucky, who discreetly received and gobbled them up. Portions from the molasses cookies followed. Lucky had struck gold, and he knew it. There were even a few gentle scratches behind his ear.

This human was a gentle spirit.

Where Sharon lacked confidence, our sister Ann was strong and, at times, defiant. Sharon had come to rely on her sister to defend her in occasional conflicts with five growing and boisterous brothers.

When Ann thought her sister was being mistreated or threatened, she would gather her long braids into her mouth and launch a pre-emptive attack on the unsuspecting assailant. The two were inseparable and utterly devoted to each other, a relationship that would survive into adulthood.

With the snack finished, Father announced it was time to return home. The fire was extinguished, with cups and pans stored away. I secured the girls on one of the sleds with the tree stowed on the other behind.

Our small troop trekked home with Dad in the lead and Mom taking up the rear guard. We reached the shoreline in front of our home just as the meagre mid-afternoon sun softened the ice to slush.

Emboldened and energized by our experience, we hurried up the bank with the girls walking beside the prized Christmas tree. I placed the tree on the side verandah. Since it was mid-December, several days remained before it would be brought into the house for trimming.

The girls were curious why the tree could not be trimmed immediately. In my adult voice, I said the tree’s natural juices must be kept fresh using the cold temperature, or needles would quickly drop off when brought into the house. 

The Mill

 As a student, an ancient school bus carried me past the plywood mill from Monday to Friday. The two seemed destined to end their useful lives on heaps of scrap metal.

 Decades later, I wanted to know more about the plant, the men who created it and those who kept it going. "The Mill" follows four generations of the Burchill Family from 1840 through the 1970s. Young George, his siblings, and their parents sailed up the Miramichi River from Ireland to start a new life. At six years old, he saw only possibilities. In his lifetime of grit and determination, he made them real.

John Percival, his son also looked to the future. He worked to sustain his father’s fortune through his role as a member of the Provincial Legislature.

George Percival, the heir to a neglected mill, emerged as a risk-tolerant, persistent industrialist who struggled to keep the lumber industry alive during two decades of depression. His ambitious and gregarious nature was tempered by a belief that he was part of a larger community.

John inherited his father’s irrepressible optimism. His secure childhood allowed the seeds of curiosity, and innovation to germinate. He emerged as the man who created a new era in forestry for Eastern North America.

"The Mill" recognizes the workers' contribution to the Burchill mills. As employees, they integrated their home-grown skills, keeping the machinery operating. The two sometimes, disparate bodies came together to create a legacy that will live on in future generations of Miramichiers.

"The Mill" is available on Amazon.ca in digital and hard copy. It can also be purchased at Mill Cove Cafe and Papa Joe's in Miramichi, for $20.