POSTING # 30

A Happy Old Man in Virgil; Fighting a Forest Fire in Northern Ontario in 1956: Part Three; Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)


A Happy Old Man in Virgil

As I was trying to find some ripe avocados in our local supermarket, a man whom I didn’t know shouted to me, “Do you know why I’m happy that I’m an old man?”

Now, that’s a tough question to answer, apart from any concern about getting into a conversation with a man whose elevator may stop a good bit short of the top floor.

If one responds, does that confirm that one sees him as an old man----and that could be insulting if he doesn’t really think of himself as old. Lots of thoughts like that were going through my head.

Getting impatient with my mental dithering, the fellow shouted, “I’ll tell you why. When I was young, you wouldn’t have had half these things in a store. Look at all these things to buy.”

Well, he had a good point. Certainly, when I worked in a supermarket---after four and on weekends while going to high school---we never had the range of vegetables and fruit that one sees today. Certainly no avocados!

Just as I was mulling over that thought, the man greeted a woman who was about his vintage. “How nice it is to meet my mother in the store, today!”

Shy grins from some shoppers and a clerk told me that the old fellow was a regular---and a regular card.

I moved to the meat department.


Fighting a Forest Fire in Northern Ontario in 1956: Part Three

In last week’s posting, I described how my friend Sven and I had precipitated probably the first and only strike in an Ontario fire camp by the quality (or lack of quality) of our cooking.

At the time, I was angry with the fire ranger. He had shown poor judgment in putting two young fellows in charge of the kitchen. Looking back, I can see that he was just totally burned out (I guess the pun is intended) from the stress of fighting fires for 6 weeks straight.

However that may be, he then made another impetuous decision. He appointed me team leader and gave me two Franco-Ontarians and a First Nation fellow. We were to go to the burned over areas and put out embers (hot spots) that could ignite and start the fire running in a different direction if the wind shifted.

I told him that although I wanted to go to the fire line, I knew nothing about fire fighting, and that he should appoint one of the other fellows as head.

He just looked at me, as much as to say,’ Are you going to start arguing with me again?’

OK.

I went to the three fellows, told them what the ranger wanted us to do, and asked them how we should split up the stuff we had to carry to the fire.

One of the Franco-Ontarians, replied, “You tell us, you’re the boss.”

He and his mate looked down at the ground.

So that’s how it was going to be.

I could understand that they resented my being appointed head (I suppose the ranger was getting back at the Franco-Ontarians for going on strike).

The First Nation fellow said he would take the heavy water pump and that left the hoses and shovels for the rest of us.

After a long trek through the bush, we found a stream, installed the water pump and fed hose up to the hot spots. The First Nation guy asked if I would like him to wet down the embers while the rest of us turned over the ash with shovels to make sure we got all the hot bits.

That was our life for the next 5 or 6 days. The Franco-Ontarians came around quickly---they were mad at the ranger, not me. They were basically happy-go-lucky fellows who couldn’t stay angry long, especially since the meals were more to their taste and a lot better in quality. I remember pots of delicious baked beans and pork chops with mashed potatoes. I don’t know how the cooks did it.

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The First Nation fellow and I got along well. He was in his 30s, medium height, thin with bow legs who could walk effortlessly through the bush with a huge load on his back. He had the knack of quietly defusing tense situations with an irreverent sense of humour.

I had known some First Nation workers on a summer construction job near Parry Sound when I was 16. Their English was limited and they hadn’t travelled much (except for one young fellow who had spent a year in the reformatory in Guelph for breaking into summer cottages along the French River).

This First Nation fellow was more worldly wise. It turned out that he had served in the Korean War with the Princess Pats. He joked that when they were on a scouting mission, the white soldiers would ask him for directions. “They thought because I was a native I had a compass in my head”, he laughed.

From what he said and from what I have read since, it is clear that duty in Korea was tough. One never knew when the North Koreans or their Chinese allies would sweep down and overrun the Canadian positions. And the winter weather was harsh.

Despite the hardships, the Princess Pats performed bravely and well in Korea. They had to retreat from time to time when outnumbered, but then fought back.

He said that humour helped them get through the worst of the war. The troops had composed new words for Hank Snow’s first hit (from 1950), “I’m movin’ On” (you can find the original lyrics here, and you can find out more about the Nova Scotia born Hank Snow here.

The fellow sang verse after verse of the song as we trudged through the bush. I can only recall the first verse—I should have written down the other verses. It went:

“Hear the pitter patter of little feet,
It’s the Princess Pats in full retreat
We’re movin' on, we’ll soon be gone
You were coming too close to our little outposts…
So we’re movin’ on.”

I never learned how he ended up at the fire camp---he didn’t work for the pulp and paper company. I suspect he may have needed the money. My recollection is that we were paid $10 a day, which I would suppose would be worth about $50 in today’s money.

He was a good guy. I hope life worked out well for him.

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After 6 days or so, it started to rain. We stayed in the tents for a couple of days until the ranger was sure the fire was out, and we could leave.

As we were loading our stuff on the plane, the pilot joked about being overweight for a safe take off. I guess he saw our looks of concern and he quickly added that there would be no problem. The lake was long so he could have lots of opportunity to get the engine revved up so he would have enough speed for takeoff.

He said that if he had to take off with a heavy load from a smaller lake he would sometimes tie a rope from the plane’s tail to a tree and then nick the rope with his knife. This allowed him to get the engine running fast and at some point the rope would break,the plane would race forward, and become airborne before the end of the lake.

I don’t know whether he was pulling our legs or not.

I was glad we didn’t have to try the rope trick.

It was good to get home to the Dog River camp, and some clean sheets and clothes.


Short Stuff (Mini-Stories about Kids and Pets)

In last week’s posting, I mentioned that Pat’s family had a white rabbit as a house pet when Pat was growing up.

Thumper sometimes felt the need to chew on things, like the fringe of oriental rugs.

Pat tells a story about her father, Dr. Henderson, and the rabbit.

As well as being the only dentist in Aurora, Dr. Henderson was mayor for many years and at one time considered running as a Liberal candidate in a Federal election.

A reporter for the Toronto Star heard that he was planning to speak at a constituency meeting and phoned to ask about the subjects he was going to cover in his speech.

Dr. Henderson asked him to hold the line while he went to get the speech. He was laughing when he picked up the phone, “Our rabbit has eaten the speech.”

Knowing a good story when he came across one, the reporter started his article about the constituency meeting with the tale about the rabbit that ate a political speech.

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See you next Sunday for Posting #31 with more stories from our family’s universe! If you have comments or suggestions, please leave a comment at the bottom of this posting, or email me at johnpathunter@cs.com.