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