The Rural Voice, 1989-06, Page 41NOTEBOOK
I
er io
by Luke Lanside
knew better than to ask
my parents for the bicycle I
wanted. Times were hard and
the cream cheque barely covered ex-
penses. The only way I was going to
get money for a wheel was to earn it.
It didn't have to be a new one.
One of the kids at school had one that
belonged to his big brother who'd
outgrown it and was willing to let it go
for six dollars. It might as well have
been six hundred dollars. Most of the
neighbours were farmers like us with
families to do their work for them.
So they wouldn't likely be hiring
anybody. I might find a job in the
village, but it was too far to walk
every day — more than three miles.
That's how things stood when I
heard that Olaf Sornenson was looking
for a hand to help with some clearing.
Sornenson lived on the quarter section
next to us except one on the north.
Although he lived on a farm he was
certainly no farmer. He kept some
chickens, a cow, a few pigs, and had
maybe an acre cleared for a vegetable
garden. Somebody said he'd been a
professor back where he came from
and he got some sort of pension or
something.
I was on my way over to see if
he'd hire me when I met my friend
Victor who lived on the next faun.
"You aren't really going to work
for that skinflint, are you?" Victor
demanded, when I told him where I
was headed.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you might as well know.
The reason he can't get help is he's
such a tightwad. Walt Rigby's brother
slaved for him all last summer and he
never paid him a cent."
"I'll take a chance," I said. Jobs
weren't exactly going begging and
next year, with my bike, I ought to be
able to travel further afield and land a
real job.
"OK," Victor responded, "but
don't say I didn't warn you."
It was some dump Sornenson lived
in all right — an abandoned chicken
house which he'd whitewashed to get
rid of the smell and partitioned into
two rooms. You had to step clown
about a foot when you went through
the door.
Sornenson was a thin, stooped,
grey-haired man with wire -rimmed
glasses. I guessed he'd be about the
same age as my father but he looked
quite a bit older.
He looked at me rather doubtfully
when I told him what I wanted. I was
tall for my age, but inclined to be
skinny. "Can you do a day's work,
boy?" he asked. "The boy I had last
year wasn't worth the wind it'd take to
blow him away."
"Yes," I said, "I think so."
"What's your name, boy?"
"Michael."
"All right, Michael. Be here at
eight o'clock tomorrow."
I hesitated. "Mr. Sornenson?"
"What is it?"
"I — er — how much are you
going to pay me?"
"I'll pay you what you're worth.
Goodbye, Michael."
It was hard work. There weren't
many big trees but they had to be cut
down and the stumps dug out. The
smaller willows we pulled out with a
grub hoe. My job was to trim the
branches, pilling them to one side to
(cone'd)
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JUNE 1989 39