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.