Cyril's Story

When it was a cash only society, and cash was hard to come by, especially in the country, a time of people physically working harder, needing and having less, a time when lives were controlled by season, and community. Folks lived in houses built by an earlier generation, and passed to the next. One generation lived pretty much as their parents before them.

Then a time after the second world war, when money was hard to come by, and change was happening. An entire generation wanted more, they moved off the farms into the cities to work for manufacturing wages. It was an older population left in the countryside to continue to picked apples in the fall for the farmer who owned the local orchard, or strawberries in June, for the very same farmer. It was a time before old age pensions and government supplements, when to eat you worked, regardless of age. There were potatoes to dig and root vegetables in the hot late summer sun, and from first planting until frost, there were vegetable to be harvested and stored. Cyril, was one of the few that stayed. When the friends of his youth left, he stayed for his parents. When his parent left for their ‘reward’, he was pretty much set in his ways, and where would he go that was better than this place he knew and loved.

An old man needed very little to live. A roof over his head, a good cast iron wood cook stove, which was his main source of heat come winter. And, an old dog.

Cyril, was just such a man. He survived the second world war, walked with a decided limp and with age was hard pressed not to stoop. But when needed he was the first in and the last to leave the harvest field.

Cyril, owned the old house he had inherited from his bachelor uncle, as well as the well cleaned 32 caliver, windchester gun. Each fall he dreamed of one day taking down a moose. Of one day finally having his name drawn in the moose license lottery. He had a single shot twelve guage gun he was given as a boy, to hunt, duck and partridge in season, and rabbits in winter. So, when it wasn’t harvest time, he and his old black and white shaggy dog, Trailer, tramped the woods, or sat on the covered veranda and watched the traffic go by. He, dreaming his moose dream, never knowing what Trailer dreamed.

Other than his house inheritance he owned very little, one dark grey funeral suit with a collarless white shirt, 3 hard collars, one pair good socks, one pair of shoes. He would be buried in that suit, but meanwhile, it went to church fifty-two weeks a year, and by far too many funerals. When not in use it hung on the back of the door leading from the kitchen to the cell of his bedroom at the back. His everyday wardrobe included two union suits, one on and one waiting a fine drying wash day. Two pair, of green humphrie pants, and four plaid shirts. Having been a foot soldier, Cyril knew the value of having and looking after, good work socks and boots. His daily uniform, when not in the woods or fields, included one harris tweed cap, with jacket to match which he had purchased as a young man. In the spring and autumn, or dark days with a chill, he would wear his beautifully knit Aran, button up sweater with leather elbow patches. The sweater was an old friend, as worn as he, and filled with the memory of a love lost and gone.

Cyril was ninety when his name was finally drawn for the moose hunt,

The moose season is a window of four days before the opening of bird season. For many weeks Cyril would sit on his little front veranda dreaming and planning how he would manage to use his windfall. There were plenty of volunteers to help. Cyril wasn’t without a lineup of men sitting on the old ford car backseat, which Cyril had positioned on his narrow veranda, against the house wall to watch the traffic go by. He determined where, if he were a moose he would be. There would be water, perhaps a lake and a good mature growth of hardwood, with a growth of cedar for winter feed. Having spent most of his life knowing the woods and forest for a good ten miles in every direction of his little house, he knew exactly where he was headed. But, there were draw backs. They would have to cross a lake. Who had a boat? There was a swamp that may need crossing … how was that to happen, if it was an early winter with early ice, it wouldn’t be a problem, if it was a late winter, the swamp would be a big hurtle. Of all the volunteers who could help him across the swamp, and how.

The first hurtle was passing the test, at ninety he was required to take a shooting test, this wasn’t keeping Cyril from sleeping at night, he knew he was a good marksman, and he knew his old gun was in prime condition. Just being judged was a bit, annoying. Age could be cumbersome, he had already, that spring, been challenged over his driving license and that was now nicely folded in his wallet, which was chained to his belt. No the shooting test wasn’t keeping him awake.

Selecting who would go with him was all consuming. Then if he took down his moose, the game would really begin. A moose is a very big animal, and a dead weight carry from takedown to swamp across lake was full of questions. What if the weather was bad, what if the swamp wasn’t frozen, what if so many Things. Who, out of all those sitting on the ford backseat , could do what.

The department of Natural Affairs, who holds the yearly draw, is considerate in their timing. The draw is held the fifteenth of July, plenty of dreaming and planning time until late September.

It was a great summer for Cyril, later he referred to it as the summer of no beans out of a can. Someone, shortly after the draw rolled in a barbeque to the door off his little kitchen. Just about every night the air of the little community was filled with the aroma of barbeque and the sound of murmmers, secretative whispers and laughter.

Best summer ever. But Cyril was wise to be cautious of all the cakes and pies in plastic containers with wives names marked clear with indelible ink, too much weight and he would not be able to move his ninety years into a boat, across the swamp and manage the climb through the old growth wood.

As the kids returned to school in September, the choosing of the select crew was at hand. Drawing straws was not happening, he needed the best of the best. Who was capable of whatever! Everyone, young and old was a hunter. They respected each other as men, as hunters and as friends. So when Cyril presented Bob Mac as his choice not a one was in disagreement. This was Cyril’s draw, his kick at the can, if anyone of them was needed to haul the animal out, they would be there.

August was a Beautiful month of sunny days and cool nights, Kids were still swimming in Walton Lake when they came home after school, No ice this moose season.

Cyril and Bob paddled Bob’s big canoe across the lake to check for signs of moose. Maggie, who lived on the edge of the lake, quietly informed them that she had spotted a big moose the week before, early, in the morning drinking on the far shore, in the morning mist, and not in the swampy area.

And so came the first day…. Cyril at ninety was going moose hunting for the first time in his life, in a canoe.

The car was packed the evening before, it seemed every other car on their way home from or to work, stopped to wish them well.

They left Cyril’s yard at four thirty for the half hour drive to the lake, and had paddled to the opposite shore in the silent predawn with a heavy mist on the water. The only sound, the whoosh, whoosh , of a lone barn owl making its way to roost after a night of hunting.

They didn’t get out of the canoe, but sat quietly, hardly breathing… As Cyril’s watch, ticked toward the six AM start hour. Not long after they heard it. A large animal, making its way toward them, through the shore growth and mist.

And then there it was, towering above them not fifty yards away.

There was no thought on Cyril’s head, he reacted as he would have as a young man on the shores of Dieppe.

Bob retold the story of how in one smooth movement Cyril, stood to his feet with hardly a motion to the canoe and shot.

With one shot behind the left shoulder, the moose made one jump straight up and fell in a heap, dead at the edge of the lake.

They were quick to field dress the fine fourteen point bull there on the shore. Cyril, stayed with his kill while Bob paddled back across to Maggie’s to call for help. Maggie, used to being on the edge of a hunt, had two cofffee thermoses, sugar loaded and a packet of sandwiches for Bob to take back. It was two hours before Jim, Robert and James arrived in Jim’s sixteen foot aluminum boat.

Between the four they wrestled the carcus into the boat.

Jim and Cyril headed across the lake in the aluminum boat with the prize trophy, to where Robert’s half ton was parked. While the other three paddled back in the canoe.

Once loaded, one more call from Maggie’s to the butcher and they were on their, way stopping g at the registration station. Where, Cyril registered the first Moose kill of the season.

The last Saturday of the month there was great rejoicing as several more barbeques appeared in close proximity to Cyril’s little house. Salads appeared, fresh bread and pies, and the smell of moose steaks on the grills was mouthwatering. The big event of the evening was the ceremony of hanging the fine fourteen point antler on the side of Cyril’s house, just below the roof pitch under the eave of the house, where anyone passing on the country road would have a good view of Cyril’s trophy. There were many toasts that evening to Cyril, to the moose, to Bob, James, Jim, Robert and even Maggie, who was hugging and kissing anyone who stood still.

The funeral suit no longer hangs on the back of the door from the kitchen leading to cyril’s cell of a bedroom. And the moose rack has moved to a place of honour at Bob’s house, with the old dog Trailer.

Judith Baxter 2021