by Byron White
Stan dressed quickly and put the kettle on the stove to thaw some ice for water to use for washing. While the water warmed, Stan knelt by his bunk and prayed. He always knelt and prayed at the beginning and end of each day. A couple of years after getting married, he had gone to the altar in the old United Church in Comfort Cove. Dorothy had not been in church that evening. When Stan had arrived home he announced that he had been converted.
“I might as well buckle down to it,” he had told his wife. That night he had knelt to pray, a practice he followed over the years. Like all his commitments, Stan faced this challenge head on.
After praying, Stan took his Bible and went and sat by the wood stove. The stove was throwing off a good heat and warmth wrapped its arms around him. Stan opened up his Bible to Ecclesiastes and began to read and study its passages. He paused at Chapter 3 and reread it slowly.
1To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the Heavens;
2 a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 a time to kill, and a time to heal, a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away;
“Yes, there certainly is a time to every purpose under the heaven,” he said to himself.
He thought of the rhythm of the earth and how one season flowed into the next. Here in the lumber woods, there was a rhythm to life, too. It began with the late spring, early summer cut, and the fall road building and dam construction; in winter the teamsters pulled the wood to the ponds and rivers, and in the spring there was the drive of pulpwood to the lake. The drive completed the seasonal cycle; the new cut, which then followed, heralded the next cyclical rhythm.
“To every thing there is a season,” Stan repeated. “To everything there is a season.”
Stan returned to his study and read each verse to the end of the chapter.
“Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion, for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?”
“Hmmph! That about sums it up.” When it came to the work part, he could certainly do that. As for the rejoicing part, well now, that might take some doing. Who knows? If all the pulpwood should be moved in the haul-off, by jingoes, he just might do the rejoicing part as well. With a wee smile on his face, he returned the Bible to the small shelf by his bunk. Stan pulled out his big pocket watch; it was time to go over to the cookhouse for a hearty breakfast of beans and sausages.
Some of the bunkhouse crew arrived as he ate. Albert Oake informed him that Uncle Ben Mills was still feeling poorly, so Stan decided to pop by to see for himself how Ben was doing.
Though the storm still raged, the bunkhouse was warm and snug. Snow had drifted high against the exterior walls, insulating the bunkhouse from the world outside. Many of the men were still in their bunks. Some were sleeping, while others were just lying there getting extra rest. Some men were washing and shaving in the washroom and a few were smoking by the stove and examining their drying clothes.
Stan walked to the far end of the bunkhouse where Uncle Ben was quartered. A couple of lanterns burned in this section. Sitting on a stool next to Uncle Ben was Hedley Janes from Salt Pond-Embree reading to Uncle Ben.
“Good morning, Hedley,” Stan said.
Hedley stopped his reading and looked up at Stan, or so Stan surmised. Hedley had a severe turn in his eye and it wasn’t always easy to know for sure where Hedley was looking. The men sometimes joked about Hedley’s eyes, but if Hedley was hurt by their joking he never showed it. Hedley was a great joker and prankster himself and was not above poking a bit of fun.
“Good morning, Skipper,” Hedley replied with a grin.
“What are you reading there this morning, Hedley?” Stan asked.
“I’m readin’ the Bible to Uncle Ben.”
“You?” Stan said, surprised. “Reading the Bible?”
Hedley was a good man, but a bit of a hardcase. He had not shown many outward signs of being of a strong religious bent.
“Yes, Uncle Ben here is feeling poorly, so I borrowed Alb’s Bible to read, to give him a bit of comfort.”
Stan paused and studied Hedley’s face.
“Well, good for you, Hedley, my son, good for you!” Stan stated. He wasn’t sure if Hedley was joking or serious, but at the moment he seemed inclined toward the latter.
“How are you feelin’ this morning, Ben b’y?” Stan was facing the bunk as he spoke.
“Not top-notch, Skipper, but I’m okay, I s’pose.”
“Where do you feel sick, Ben?” Stan continued.
“Me ’ole body aches a bit,” Uncle Ben replied, lying on his bunk with his eyes shut.
“I see you’ve got your eyes closed,” Stan stated.
“Yis, the light hurts me eyes some.”
“How does your head feel?”
“Skipper, I got a wicked ’ead, a wicked ’ead!”
“Ben, I’m going to get Allan to bring you some ginger and a few aspirins.”
“Thanks, dere, Skipper b’y. Thanks!”
“You take the medicine,” Stan said as he touched Uncle Ben’s shoulder.
“I will, and Hedley’s words are a comfort,” Uncle Ben added.
Stan nodded at Hedley and turned to leave. Hedley reading scripture! There was hope yet. Miracles never ceased. Stan knew that Uncle Ben had no formal education and could not read well, so Hedley had taken it upon himself to read to him.
Hedley might be a hardcase, Stan mused, but there was a lot of good there, too. There was something in Hedley Stan couldn’t quite describe, but Stan liked the man. Yes, there was a lot of good in Hedley Janes.
Allan rounded up the aspirin and the ginger and carried them over to Uncle Ben. Stan hoped that Uncle Ben would feel better soon. Whatever it was that he had, Stan certainly hoped it wasn’t contagious. He didn’t want a bug spreading through the bunkhouse, making the men ill and delaying the haul-off.
Around mid-morning, there was a knock on the forepeak door. At first Stan thought it was Allan returning. A while earlier he had gone up to the barn to check on things. Stan thought he had now returned and was clearing a bit of snow away from the door. Then a second tap sounded.
“Come in,” Stan called out.
The door opened and Hedley Janes stepped inside and cleared the snow from his boots.
“Come in, Hedley, come in and take a chair.”
“No thanks. I’m not going to stop,” Hedley said.
“What’s up? How’s Uncle Ben?” Stan asked with a note of concern registering in his voice.
“That’s why I’m here,” Hedley replied. “He says he’s feeling a bit better.”
“That’s good, then. Does he need more medicine?” Stan asked, not sure of Hedley’s intent.
“Well,” Hedley began hesitantly, “I was wondering if I could buy a bit of baccy for Uncle Ben’s pipe?”
“What?” Stan asked surprised. “A little while ago you were reading Ben the Bible, and now you’re bringing him tobacco?”
“Yes, I was wondering if I could get a bit of tobacco for Uncle Ben. He’s flat out of baccy.”
“Jingoes, Hedley, you know how I feel about tobacco,” Stan replied. “And besides, today is Sunday! We don’t sell stuff on Sunday!”
Hedley paused and cleared his throat. “Yes, I knows that, but a bit of tobacco would do Uncle Ben a world of good.” Hedley pressed his point. He knew that below that tough surface, Stan cared for the men.
“Jingoes, Hedley!” Stan shook his head and turned to unlock the van door. “Here, take this for Uncle Ben and don’t say a word about where you got it. This is the firs
t and last time the van will be opened on a Sunday!” Stan had his stern contractor’s face on again.
“Thanks,” Hedley said as he took the tobacco.
“Get out of here,” Stan said with a half-smile.
Hedley grinned and headed for the bunkhouse with Uncle Ben’s tobacco.
CHAPTER 10
STAN REMEMBERED THE FIRST time Hedley had arrived at Camp 13. The camp was just opening up and the first pulpwood was being cut in the fall of that year. During the remaining years of the camp’s operation, the wood would be cut in the late spring and early summer. Back in Stan’s father’s day, men used axes and crosscut saws to harvest timber. Then in 1925-1926 the bucksaw was introduced into the wood’s operation in Newfoundland. The introduction of the lighter bucksaw with replaceable blades was a major advancement. This saw had a hollow metal frame and was light for handling. A single man skilled in its usage could now cut and fell timber. Before the arrival of the bucksaw, wood harvesting with the crosscut was usually a two-man affair. The bucksaw was the harvesting tool to be employed during the first part of Camp 13’s thirteen-year operation. It would not be until the mid-1950s that power saws would take over as the main wood harvesting tool.
Men seeking employment in the wood camps did so using one of two methods. They either approached the contractor directly while the latter was still at home, or they went to the district office seeking work. Hedley and his brother, Mark, went to the Glenwood Division district office. Hedley had met Stan when they were both working in the Burnt Pond area out the road from Badger, in central Newfoundland.
In 1948-49, immediately before coming to Glenwood, Hedley was bucksawing at Camp 33, Ern Turner’s camp, over on Grand Lake. It was there that the power saw was introduced into Newfoundland. A fellow from the mainland came in demonstrating a Pioneer chainsaw and Ern put Hedley and Mark Janes in the woods with him. When the demonstration was finished they bought the saw. It would take years before this new technology was perfected and accepted into the lumber woods, but eventually it would replace the bucksaw.
Hedley’s new power saw was a complicated contraption. It was a standard affair, not automatic. It operated with a clutch and had to be manually inserted into gear. The tank was on a swivel and the saw had a float in the carburetor. The operator had to keep the tank upright at all times. If he didn’t, the power saw would not get its gas and would fail to operate. As Hedley later said, “B’y, ’twas a hard rig to ’andle!”
This was the mechanical contrivance that Hedley brought with him when he went to the Glenwood office to ask Max Vardy if there was a chance for a job cutting wood. Max knew that Camp 13 was just beginning its cut.
“Hedley, you know Stan White from Comfort Cove, I s’pose?”
“Yeah. We worked together briefly at Burnt Pond.”
“He’s contracting at Camp 13. Just beginning the cut. I’ll give him a call.” With that, Max went to the big box phone on the office wall and cranked the handle—a long, a short, and a long—the call for Camp 13. The phone at Camp 13 was strategically located in the cookhouse, because that was the only building where a caller could be sure to reach someone. After a moment, there was a voice on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Is that you, Clarence?” Max inquired.
“Yes, ’tis me,” Clarence replied. Clarence George, from Britannia, was the cook at Camp 13 that first season.
“I’m lookin’ for Stan. Is he around?” Max asked.
“No. He’s up in the saw filer shack with Albert Brown. I’ll get him to call you back.”
While they waited, the men chatted and Hedley showed Max the new saw. Max had seen a similar contraption when he was in Corner Brook the week before. He thought they might have a future in the lumber woods.
In a little while the phone rang. It was Stan.
“Hello, Max. You called?”
“Yes, Stan. How’s the cutting going?” Max asked.
“Well, Max, we’ve started. The men are in the small wood outside the camp there. It’s slow going, but we’re pluggin’ away at it.”
“Can you use a couple of extra men cutting?” Max continued.
“Well, ’tis like this, I’ve got enough men, but I can squeeze in a couple more. I want to get the wood cut before the snow comes.”
“Well, Hedley and Mark Janes are here in Appleton. Hedley is here in the office now.”
“Jingoes, I know Hedley and Mark. Yes, send them up.”
“Stan, Hedley has a new power saw with him,” Max added.
“A power saw?” Stan repeated. He had heard about the new saw but had never seen one.
“Look out to him, Stan, see if you can give him some fairly good wood.”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone; when Stan replied his words were firm and assertive. “Max, you tell Hedley, if he’s expectin’ good wood he can leave the saw down there. I’m not doing it! He can take the same as the rest of ’em!”
Max relayed the message to Hedley.
“Do you still want to go up with Stan?” he asked.
Hedley grinned.
“Yeah, me and Mark, we’ll give it a try,” he said.
“Stan, I’ll send them up anyway. See what you can do for them.”
“Okay, send them up. I’ll get Cec to install a couple of extra bunks in the bunkhouse,” Stan replied before hanging up the phone.
Max turned to Hedley. When he spoke he was half apologetic.
“Hedley, Stan White can be stubborn and hard-headed . . .” He shook his head in frustration. He usually kept his frustration to himself, but Stan White could be infuriating sometimes.
“I know,” said Hedley. “But when you work with Stan White, you know where you stand.”
“That you do,” Max agreed. He decided to say no more. He’d already said too much.
“From what I’ve seen,” Hedley continued, “the men who work with Stan White either love him or hate him.”
Max made the arrangements and Hedley and his brother, Mark, boarded the company boat, the Crystal Stream, and headed up Gander Lake. By nightfall they were at Camp 13.
The men were cutting the small wood outside the camp toward Dead Wolf Brook. Stan put Hedley and Mark to work beside them. For a few mornings the quiet of the forest was disturbed by a roaring, buzzing whine. A film of blue, stinking smoke hung in the air before wafting away among the trees.
Cutting this small wood was hard going. The saw itself weighed over thirty-five pounds. It was no good for use in small timber. After Hedley had been cutting for a while, Allan came by to inspect his efforts.
“How’s it going, Hedley?” Allan asked as he stuck his axe in a stump. Allan and Stan always had an axe under their arm as they made their rounds.
“Not overly good,” Hedley replied with his penchant for understatement.
“No?” Allan replied.
“No. The wood is too small for these machines,” Hedley said.
“Let me take a look at what you’ve cut.” Allan walked over to inspect the wood Hedley had piled.
“Goodness, Hedley!” Allan said half laughing. “It looks like the wood is chewed off!”
“Yeah. I ’lows it’ll be hard to mark me number on that brow,” Hedley said, half laughing himself.
“By jarge, Hedley! She can’t be cuttin’ right!”
“All I knows is that she’s killing me.” Hedley grinned. “She’s buckin’ and fartin’ and spittin’ and almost jumpin’ out of me hands!”
“Look at where she’s cut this,” Allan said, pointing. “’Tis like strings. ’Tis like strings have been hauled out of the wood.”
“Yeah. Maybe I can knit a wooden sweater and send it down to Max Vardy,” Hedley said with a grin. It was to be an endearing and enduring feature of Hedley’s—he could find a way to laugh, even in the toughest of circumstances.
The early experiment with the power saw at Camp 13 did not last long. Soon Hedley and Mark, like the rest of the men, were cutting wood w
ith the bucksaw.
That first fall, Camp 13 had been late in opening and Stan was anxious to get his quota of 5,000 cords of wood cut and piled. He contacted the office in Glenwood and more men were hired. Camp 13 had two bunkhouses and was designed for sixty-six men. That first year, Stan squeezed in bunks wherever he could. By the end of the cut, 107 men were working at Camp 13.
Having this many men in camp ensured that the wood would be harvested, but it created a problem in the cookhouse. Clarence George from Britannia was Stan’s cook. He knew how to cook and he did a great job of slapping up the grub. There was, however, one drawback: Clarence had a wooden leg. He had trouble keeping up with feeding all the extra men in camp. There were just too many men for him and Sid Squires, his cookee. Something had to be done, and quickly.
Hedley had abandoned his power saw out of frustration. He was in the small timber buck sawing when Stan approached.
“Hedley, how’re you makin’ it?” Stan began.
“Oh, I’m pluggin’ away.” Hedley stopped sawing and rubbed the sweat off his brow with an old handkerchief.
“Yeah, you’re gettin’ a bit of wood there,” Stan said.
“Yes, I won’t get much of a bonus, but I’ll make a go of it,” Hedley added with a chuckle.
“Hedley b’y, not many fellows will make much of a bonus this year. The wood out here by the brook is small.”
“Yeah, ’tis harder to get a bit of wood here than it is to keep from farting in church,” Hedley replied, laughing.
Stan grinned. Hedley certainly had a way with words. When Stan spoke again he got to the point of his visit.
“Hedley, you did some cookin’ in Burnt Pond when you were there.”
“Yes, I was in the cookhouse for a while,” Hedley replied.
“I wonder if you’ll go in the cookhouse up here and help Clarence?”
There was a pause, then Hedley spoke. “Sid Squires is there with Clarence already.” Hedley wasn’t sure what Stan was asking.
“Yes. Sid is there, but Clarence needs more help. He just can’t keep up with all the men we have in camp.”