The Runt of the Litter and the Bullet-Proof Shed
© by D. Grant DeMan
This is a tribute piece - previously Published in the Victoria Times-Colonist
Daddy worked slow, but his meticulous methods led to happiness through accomplishment
Fondly recalling my daddy's admonitions on waste, when the Royston Esso Depot was dismantled I slavaged quite a horde of materials from the site, including some steel panels. I'm certainly not a builder, but when contractor, Terry, and tenant, Kerry-Lynn obliged me with a couple of windows, I was more or less coerced to erect another shed.
Surprisingly I found myself working meticulously as my father had, a manner that had formerly delaminate my nerve endings. Dad and I became one as my hands gripped his old tools, and a fresh meaning to life enfused my work. I painted and polished every piece as the building took shape. My Diane found shelves at Goodwill. I even managed a facing of antique bricks and electrified it as I knew Daddy would. The re-connection to my father, Joe, filled my heart with joy.
During his lifetime I did not always respect his ways for he failed many times. "I reckon I'm the runt of the litter." Daddy retorted when someone remarked on his slight stature. Born in 1887 at Republic Michigan, the last of eight children, nicknamed The Kid until he was well into his eighties, Joe never knew his father who died in an '88 mine cave-in which produced no government inquiry: "When you work underground, don't be surprised if the roof falls on you now and then."
Now they call it abuse, but to daddy an account of his early years was merely another humorous anecdote. "The teacher beat me, the Canucks from Quebec beat me and even the priest who chased mother around the house. In the pecking order, I was the worm. They even made me play shortstop on the baseball team."
The household had to hustle to survive. Some members journeyed north to Alaska and Canada, some to Washington State; they went into grain, livestock and oil. Most were prosperous. Even Joe, until the big bust of 1929. In the gritty thirties when a fellow went broke, he had to put his brains in gear. Folks pretty well were left to make their own life decisions, so Joe and Pearl peripatically prospected the Quesnel Lakes. On a good month they'd take home about twelve dollars in gold. "A slab of iron becomes a grill; an ammo case, an oven. A fishing pole, a knife some dry matches and a Winchester. That's all a man needs. If more people commenced to realanize that, they'd be a whole lot happier. And no matter how hard life gets, there's always a way when you figure out the situation." They built their first home from trees and mining scrap.
"We gotta have a faucet in the house for the baby!" Daddy connected pipe down from a creek pool. "And how about electric light!" He risked his life climbing a pole to string wire. People came for miles to see our "electric." Thus, invoking natural savvy, my forty-eight year old Daddy and Mom built a warm, hardy home while the authorities seemed singularly disconcerted.
Now his hands were on mine, as we worked together, finishing our impregnable steel shed. "Bullet-proof. That's the way to build, son." I heard him whisper.
Sorrowfully, I once saw a man in a forested field with a stream running through demanding the government build them a family home, put clothes on their backs, and food on the table. He will no doubt have a bathroom, running water with automatic heating, and dine on machine-prepared food while the trees remain unfelled, the stream untapped, unfished, and the field untilled. Perhaps also his mind. No, he'll never feel the sense of achievement that we enjoyed, Dad. His children may well grow to think that someplace an ephemeral entity will also provide shelter and food for them. Sans thought, sans effort .
Thanks daddy. I comprehend. We used our brains to make something grand from virtually nothing - recycling, they now call it - without waste, without promotion. We just called it happiness, Dad. And finally thank you for that.
Thank God I had a daddy who never thought of such things.
Thank God for the runt of the litter and our beautiful bullet-proof shed.
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