by Byron White
Lester nodded slowly.
“It was not just to get the wages. It was more than that,” Albert added. “The skipper, Allan, all of us—we wanted to do our best.”
“Yes, b’y, that’s right. That’s right,” Lester said, fixing Albert with his gaze.
“Stan, Allan, all of us,” Albert went on, “we didn’t want to fail. We had to do our best!”
Slowly Lester nodded his head again. “No, b’y, that’s right. What you’re sayin’ is right,” he said. Lester paused a moment longer and then turned and headed into the cookhouse.
When Stan returned at ten o’clock, Lester met him at the forepeak.
“I’ve got most of the news from Allan and the men,” Lester began.
Stan nodded. “How does it look for wood delivery overall?”
“Well, it’s starting to turn colder and the temperature is supposed to plummet overnight,” Lester replied.
“Good. I hope the other fellows get their wood off.” Stan was thinking about the other contractors, especially his younger brother Charlie.
“A few of the contractors will only make wages, but I think most of the fellows will deliver all their wood before spring,” Lester stated. The forecast of colder weather had buoyed his spirits. He was feeling a little more optimistic than he had been a few days ago. “Stan,” Lester continued, “Camp 13 is the first to get the entire contract off.” He had decided to offer Stan an olive branch to try to mend fences.
“Yes, we got it all off, I suppose,” Stan replied.
“Yes, you worked right through that mild spell! That was no small accomplishment!” Lester continued in a complimentary fashion.
“We planned for it,” Stan said. “And things just worked out.”
“Well, congratulations,” Lester offered. Stan just nodded. Lester was being unusually friendly, he thought.
“I suppose you heard the news,” Stan began. He thought he would have some fun testing Lester’s resolve.
“What news?” Lester asked.
“About the wood we put in the gorge by the high landing,” Stan continued.
Lester’s face darkened momentarily and he shot Stan a hard look, then he regained his composure and continued. “Yes. Uncle Walt Cooper said it shook the moss out of the seams in the bunkhouse when it broke loose last night.”
“That it did, Lester!” Stan stated. “The way it tore by here I’d say it never stopped until it reached Gander Lake! Now I can get extra pay for driving my wood downriver, as well.”
Lester’s face reddened and his lower lip quivered, but he remained silent. Stan looked at him and felt a little guilty.
Lester looked up and saw Stan’s smile. “Stan, I gotta tell you,” Lester said, “I honestly thought that that wood would never move.”
“Lester,” Stan replied with a twinkle in his eye, “do you know what your trouble is?”
“No. I can’t say that I do,” Lester replied, not sure what to expect.
“Lester,” Stan said slowly, “your problem is you just don’t have enough faith.”
Lester’s reply is perhaps best left unrecorded.
LESTER STAYED AT CAMP for a while longer and he and Stan sat down in the cookhouse for an early lunch. Stan felt contented; to call what he felt happiness was perhaps too strong a word. Still, all the contracted wood had been delivered. And all the wood in the gorge had gone downriver. Yes, Stan White was starting to unwind. All the hard work, all the worry, all the uncertainty, and all the knots that had been tied tightly in the pit of his stomach were temporarily forgotten. Stan was starting to relax and a feeling verging on peace was beginning to settle over him.
Perhaps he and Lester could never be friends. Maybe they would never come to understand each other, or even like each other. But they could talk bluntly man to man. A good row now and then, to clear the air, was not altogether a bad thing. Certainly both men were opinionated, so row they would. Yet slowly something was changing. Could it be that they were developing a grudging respect for each other? No. Somehow, respect would still be too strong a word to use. Rather, it was more that they were learning to tolerate each other’s ways. Learning to tolerate each other? That was a good place to end one year in the lumber woods, and it would be a good place to begin the next.
When Greg and Lester left that afternoon, they took the remaining men down to the lake in the large snow machine. A light snow had fallen, and that night the sky cleared and the ground froze hard. Next day, the teamsters still at camp took the horses and headed out the road on their way to Camp 12 and Camp 9.
Stan was left alone. He would remain at camp for another three weeks looking after the horses. After that Allan and Hedley would return to look after things. Later in the spring, Stan would return with a crew of men and drive the wood off the small brook, and the yearly cycle would begin all over again.
In the afternoon, Stan moved his gear from the forepeak into the cook’s sleeping quarters at the cookhouse. Hedley had food cooked and bread and pastries prepared. This would help take care of his first meals. The cookhouse wood stove would boil the kettle and heat up his food and warm the sleeping area. The old telephone hung from the kitchen wall and Stan could be reached if someone wanted to contact him. Before supper Stan went to the barn and fed and watered the animals.
As darkness fell Stan looked out the road. All was quiet and still. Nothing moved. His mind reflected on the past year. Everything had worked out. All things considered, things had gone well.
Camp 13? Yes, thirteen was still his lucky number. And the mirror breaking when the pulpwood moved downriver in the night—another lucky sign. Yes, he had a lot to be thankful for. What was that verse from Ecclesiastes again? Every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God. Stan paused and pondered the words for a moment, and then he bowed his head and offered up a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
This done, Stan entered the dining area and lit a lantern. It was time to celebrate. He retrieved a large bowl and went and sat down at a table. With a big spoon he piled the bowl high with prunes.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for their assistance and support in the research and writing of this book: Glen Ball, Roy Brenton, Debbie Bulgin, Fern Burke, John Burry, Gerilda Canning, Pansy Canning, Edward Collins, Carol Fudge, Roy Cull, Judson Ginn, Levi Ginn, Lorraine Giles, Verbeena Greenham, Ashley Head, Jack Head, Martin Head, Carl Janes, Sherry Janes, Bernice Mehaney, Mary Lou Oake, Joan Pope, Chad Snow, Diane Stuckless, Cavell Watkins, Betty Weir, Adrienne White, Gordon White, Harry White, Roy White, Shelly White, Stephen White, Peter and Marie Winters, Linda White of the Newfoundland Section, MUN Library, staff at The Rooms, and the staff at Deer Lake Museum.
Special thanks are extended to Arthur Brenton, Gerald Head, Hedley Janes, Albert Oake, Roy Stoyles, Stuart Weldon, and to the late Allan White, Charlie White, and Ron Ginn.
A big thank you to all the crew at Flanker Press: Garry, Margo, and Jerry Cranford, Laura Cameron, Bob Woodworth, Peter Hanes, Randy Drover, and Gerard Murphy. And an extra special thanks to Peter Hanes for his quick response to my many emails.
