The Wingham Advance-Times, 1985-06-19, Page 30Page 12A—Crossroads-June 19, 1985
H. GORDON
GREEN
Idling at a rack of Father's
Day cards the other day I
suddenly found mysef think-
ing off lacrosse and that
proud year when the captain
of the Stumptown Stallions
had told me that I was to be
the team's goaler.
But I had no goal stick!
Nor any money Eo buy one! I
was only nine that year, and
because we had just begun to
farm, money was so scarce
at our house there was hard-
ly enough left over for the
collection at Sunday School.
I knew better than to ask
when mother was around. I
waited until one Saturday in
late April when my father
and I were bumping down
the road to town with a load
of oats to sell.
"Dad," I said, feeling my
throat threatening to clog up
on me, "I've just got to have
a goal stick! Couldn't we —
couldn't you lend me $3.00
out of what this grain is go-
ing to bring you? ... I could
pay you back come berry
picking time! .. .
My father turned his short
body half -around and nodded
at the load of sacked grain.
"Today is tax day," he said
quietly. "And what's left
over won't even buy what
groceries your ma needs".
I knew all that. I knew that
when Mother had made out
the list she had spent a lot of
time,- juggling the items
around until they were
finally down in the order of
their importance. But in all
my life I had never wanted-
, anything so desperately as I
wanted this goal stick! I
needed it! The whole team
was depending on me!
I am not quite sure now
whether the sharpness of my
disappointment set me to
crying, or whether my father
. just noticed that I was on the
verge of it. All I remember is
that he began rubbing under
his nose like he always did
when he was nervous and
then he said, "Well, give me
a little time, lad. Give me
time to think her over. Some-
thing might turn up, you
know". -
The something turned up
with such suddenness that it
seemed like nothing less
than divine intervention. It
came, out of the way we
weighed in our load at the
grain elevator. First you
drove on to the scales, team,
wagon, and all; and, old Seth
Cambridge who owned the
place, went inside the little
cubicle at the side of the
platform to take the reading.
Then you drove forward to
the unloading ramp, left
your grain there, and backed
your team and wagon on to
the scales again to have their
combined weight subtracted
from the first reading.
I knew old Seth, and I knew
his son Mart, and I had never
liked either of them. The
reason I didn't like Seth was
my father's reason I guess,
becaueDad had been pretty
sure that Seth had short-
changed him more than
once. And besides that he
was too surly for any good
use. I don't quite remember
now why I had, never liked
Mart, 'but it�xnight have been
merely because he was a son
of his dad, or more illogically
still, because he was one of
the town "slickers" who
were always carrying on un-
declared warfare on those of
us who came from the farm.
Whatever it was, I felt
very jubilant when I learned
of the trick which had been
played on old Seth. It was
Sandy MacDonald, who
stood two teams ahead of us
in the line, who played the
trick first. His boy had rid-
den to town that morning the
same as I had, and because it
was so cold waiting, he had
lain. down in the wagon box
beside the sacks of oats. And
when weighing time came,
he hadn't bothered to get out
with his father.
But when it came time to
drive ahead to unload, my
schoolmate got Out of the
wagon and he stayed out.
His father was still laugh-
ing about the mistake when
he was coming away from
the mill with his cheque in
his hand. "Well, well, well,
Bud!" I heard ,him say.
"You're worth something
after all! You're worth ex-
actly the same price as oats
this morning! Four cents a
pounds,
Never in my life had I
worked out a multiplication
so fast, I weighed eighty-two
pounds that year. Four times
eighty-two was ... $3.28. The
lacrosse stick which I had to
have — the one which was
right how waiting patientl
for me in O.B. Henry's hard\
ware — cost $3.00.
"Dad!" I said, "I'm going
to do it too!"
Eagerly, I watched my
father's stolid, wind -supped
face, saw him rub the side of
his rough finger under his
nose again. "Don't just know
about that," he said quietly.
"Not that I'm any saint, but
1.
Almost frantically, I began
to argue. I reminded my
father of the times when Seth
had cheated us. I reminded
f him of the hundred pounds of
timothy seed which we had
weighed on two different
scales just to make sure that
it was a hundred, and still
Seth had declared that there
was only ninety-six pounds of
it. And then there had been
the time when Dad had come
home to find that eight off his
best canvas grain sacks
hadn't been return to the
wagon after the oats ad
been dumped out of them.
I argued till the pain of my
wanting swelled my throat
shut, and finally my father
said, "Well, it does seem that
we'll never get a chance like
this again to pay that old
sucker back. Only —". He
never finished. I didn't want
him to finish. Old Seth was
impatiently beckoning us on
to the scales, and the minute
he turned his back I dived
into the back of the wagon
and buried myself deep in
the sacks. We pulled to a stop
on the scales, and I held my
breath as my father got out
for the weighing. The wait
was almost more than I
could stand.
And then suddenly it was
all over and we were off the
scales and drawing abreast
of the unloading platform.
Cautiously, I cocked an eye
over the tailboard, and then
slid out to the ground. How
could it have been so easy, I
wondered! But I kept my
thoughts to myself until my
father had thrown the last
sack over the side of the
wagon and emptied it into
Seth's hopper. Then, smiling
with relief and victory, I
sidled up to my father and
whispered.
"How much am I worth a
pound, Dad?"
My father undid the reins
from the ring at the side of
the platform, and without
getting into it, prepared td
back the wagon on to the
scales again. "Get in," he
told me.
He had to tell me twice be-
cause the first time I
couldn't believe that he
would be so heartless. "I
said to get in!" he said. -"Not
that I'm any saint, but
there's some things I just
don't do". And he took hold
of the seat orrny pants and
hoisted„ me back into the
• wagon. I was surprised that
he would be so firm.
Seth looked at me in aston.-
ishment when the wagon
backed on to the scales, and
my father explained. "He
was in when you weighed it
first, he said. "And I'm not
selling him, I guess. Not for
four cents a pound".
I didn't say a word about
the lacrosse stick until we
were out of the millyard and
heading down the village
street. And then .my voice
came back to me in a rush of
tears and temper. "I could
have had i'hy stick easy as
pie!" I cried. "You don't
want, me to have a stick, I
guess!"
My father looked straight
ahead for a long time, and
then he began to rub under
his nose again, "If you got
the stick that way," he said
quietly, "I don't think it
would every play right .. .
And anyhow, maybe I could
make a stick for you."
"You're going to make
one!" I cried derisively.
"Great -looking stick you
could make ! "
But he did make one. He
went out into the woods al-
most as soon as we got home
that day, and ,he came back
with an ash limb. He spent
all that night and most of the
next, steaming and whittling
and shaping, and then when
he had the wood finished to
his liking, he cut up an old
harness and set to work to
gut it.
Oh it was a pretty clumsy
looking- affair all right, and
Matt Cambridge made fun of
it every time we played his
team. Only we beat his team
every time we played them
and we beat most of the hiker
teams we played too.
Long after I had graduated
from lacrosse 1 still had that
stick stowed away in the at-
tic with the rest of my mem-
ory junk.
And I neverit1 forgive
that oh so tidy/person who
waited until I was safely out
of town one day and tossed it
into a bonfire..
A. Unemployed workers left
Glasgow on Oct. 17, 1922, on
a hunger march Co London.
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rail//y , c
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