The Rural Voice, 1990-04, Page 58414111S -
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54 THE RURAL VOICE
NOTEBOOK
MISTER WHITELAW
by R. S. Craggs
"Your father's decided to hire a
man for the summer," my mother told
me at breakfast.
"You're kidding," I said. I was
18 that year and helping out on the
farm while I decided whether to enter
university or strike out and get a job. I
had a man's size and strength and, to
me, it was a matter of pride that I
could do a man's work. I felt miffed
that my father hadn't consulted me.
"You're doing all right," my father
said, "but there's a few areas where
we're getting behind. For one thing,
if we don't get the twitch grass out of
the raspberries we might as well plow
them under. That's a steady week of
hoeing. Then the Transparents have
to be thinned, and after that... ."
100 -pound sacks of fertilizer, but I can
still give a good account of myself on
the end of a hoe — or on a ladder."
I mumbled something and pre-
ceded him into the house. As long as
the old fellow earned his wages, it
didn't matter to me whether he was
70, 17, or 700. Anyway, what did I
have in common with a guy who was
more than 50 years old when I was
born?
My father had no trouble finding
enough work to keep Mr. Whitelaw
busy. He was sure no ball of fire, but
he was steady, no goofing off. Even I
had to grant him that. But we never
exchanged more than a few words,
until one day ..
I had finished my morning job and
As long as the old fellow earned his wages, it didn't matter
to me whether he was 70, 17, or 700. Anyway, what did 1
have in common with a guy who was more than 50 years
old when I was born?
"Okay, okay," I cut him off. "I get
the picture. Who is he, anyway?"
"Name's Whitelaw," my father
informed me. "People moved in on
the old Renshaw place. Understand he
knows fruit. I'm going over to pick
him up now."
I was cultivating the asparagus
most of the morning, finishing just
before noon. So I didn't see the new
man until I went in for dinner. I don't
know what I was expecting, some big
bruiser, maybe. "Chuck, this is Mr.
Whitelaw," my father made the intro-
duction as we were washing up, "and
this is my son, Chuck. He's my right-
hand man this summer."
I almost let my mouth hang open.
Mr. Whitelaw had to be about 70
years old, white-haired and stooped,
and he probably wouldn't weigh over
115 soaking wet. "Glad to know you,
Chuck," he acknowledged, holding
out his hand.
"Same here," I mumbled.
"Oh, I'm stronger than I look," the
old man said, as if reading my mind.
"I may not be able to wrestle those
we were all going to pitch in on the
early pears that afternoon. After lunch
I went out to the woodshed to look up
a hook and Whitelaw was sitting there
puffing his corncob pipe and whittling
on a piece of basswood he'd taken
from the woodpile.
"How old are you, Chuck?" he
asked as I searched the racks. "About
19?"
"Close enough," I said.
"I grew up on a farm pretty much
like this," he recalled. "When I was
your age we used to go west on the
harvest excursions, a group of us
young fellows from surrounding
farms. Wasn't a man in the country
could get ahead of us for work — or
so we thought. When we reached the
wheat fields of the west it became a
matter of honour for each of us to try
and outdo our western cousins. I re-
call one time just before freezeup ..."
I listened with half an ear as I
searched through the accumulation of
rusty old hardware. And when I'd
found what I wanted, I listened polite-
ly for a few minutes, until my watch