A Fine Boss

A bleak season of despair had overtaken our small isolated hamlet. Farmers struggled. Crops could not be sold for a good price.

The local asbestos mine, where our father had worked until last year, had closed over the concern that products containing the mineral were toxic, and that the substance itself was responsible for illnesses, and deaths.

The small sawmill near town sat idle, as did their laid-off workers; in this depressed economic climate the mill was unable to find buyers for the lumber they produced. Story was that few new houses were being built anywhere.

Coles Grocery was the only store in town that sold produce, as well as the array of packaged essentials that families needed to cook and bake. Karl’s Butchery was two doors down on Main. These were the only stores in town still prosperous enough to hire me. I worked for both.

After school and sometimes on Saturday I would bike to the stores, then deliver to a half dozen customers, perhaps a dozen if it had been a busy day. Patrons had picked out the items to buy earlier in the day.

I delivered to anyone in town that asked, but mostly it was the elderly that found my deliveries helpful. I was paid very little money by the Coles, or Karl, but our family was thankful for even that little extra cash. I appreciated the gratuities my customers offered. The tips were welcomed. I was very polite, and I always smiled. Even as a kid I knew that a warm smile encouraged generosity.

Most businesses, if you could trust the talk in town, were struggling to stay open.

Our family was not blessed with the luxury of household plumbing. We bathed in a large round tub, in the water we hauled from the stream at the bottom of the ravine. We boiled the creek water to drink, so as not to get sick. Our home was heated chiefly by a centrally arranged hand stoked coal burning stove. The wood fired cooker located in the kitchen served as both a second source of heat, and a cooktop.

I must mention, how could I forget, the biffy that tilted west, that was out back of our tiny house. It was the only facility we had for our use, winter and summer. We became tolerant of the frigid cold in the winter, and the odors and large flies that were plentiful in the summer heat. We had no option other than to adapt.

We were at that time, confronting the imminent loss of our father, expecting that we might momentarily receive news that death had consumed him. Since last summer he had been in and out of the small local hospital. He had now been transported far away for more professional care, to a large urban medical centre. Our mother prayed daily.

It would not be long before our mother would become the single parent of her four youngsters, with no money and little support. Condolences did come from the Christians at the church, the Lions, the local farmers and townsfolk, but condolences do not pay bills, or fill hungry stomachs. Rations were scarce.

On occasion I would sit close to mother, cry with her, in my juvenile efforts to console. I imagined that she wept over her loss, her fate in life, the uncertainty of how she would feed and care for herself, and her still reliant children.

Mother was a gentle person until she was backtalked, or crossed in some way, at which time she became stern, and informed you pointedly through her manner, look, and words, that she was the boss. In these rare moments of displeasure she was clear in her expectations, strong and fair in her discipline.

I don’t think I was ever quite so worried about our future as she seemed to be. I believed more than her, that we, that she, could overcome the sorrow and the hardships, and prevail. I believed in her ability to defeat the obstacles we encountered. I had heard the expression that the darkest hour of the day was just before the dawn, and I believed that the dawn was near.

People sometimes offer a chance to others, out of love, or for their own selfish reasons, or out of pity or guilt, or for motives not well understood. So it was for the residents of this community. We persevered.

One can hear the wind in the trees, and the song of the robin, when one takes the time to listen for these soft sounds. If one pays no attention, if one takes no notice, if one be deaf to the subtle music of the cosmos, they will not hear. Opportunities in life are like that, like the calls of nature. They can be easily ignored. One must be attentive to them to be aware of them. One must be open to their call if they are to hear them, to capture them.

Mother heard the calls. I was there to witness her spirit come alive again. She was receptive, attentive to ideas people shared. She heard all there was to hear. She was offered a way to earn and she accepted. She was offered a place to live and she approved. Her choices were not lucrative or perfect, but they always put her in a better place. She exploited each chance offered.

Time brings change. The children grew under mothers tempered authority, firmness and fairness. As expected, they ventured away leaving her alone. Yet she was disinclined to loiter or lounge. She needed a mission, another vocation.

She spoke of there being an emptiness. She spoke clearly of her need to be productive. She took it upon herself to be the best in her new chosen endeavour.

She demanded excellence in the performance of her duties, and of the duties of others. She became respected by many as a perfectionist, scorned by others as bossy, and accused by some as being rude, when she expressed intolerance for their shoddiness.

Had she always been this exacting of herself, and of others? Had she always been disdainful of carelessness? Long time colleagues knew she had consistently been demanding of distinction. They knew she had always set the highest of standards of performance and integrity for herself and others.

She had constantly strived for excellence in the achievement of her tasks. She cared not if some considered her to be bossy because of her exceptional character. Wise folk would recognize her rectitude as a virtue, as had her children during their flourishing. For her, meticulousness was an honor.

Everett James Marwood © 2021