Sun Aug 07, 2022 6:50 pm by nikkinutshop
I was thinking this morning about how we get to where we are. It did not just happen in a flash. There were steps and stepping stones along the way. There were so many things that shaped us into the persons who we are. What ever that may appear to be, is interpreted by the eyes that our lives have given us.
My early life was on an Alberta farm. We were a family, and a community that pulled together. Even as children, we had to contribute something. We became part of the mosaic that was the Easter Irrigation District, now known as the EID.
Life on the farm was cut off, for us, after several years of devastating weather that nearly broke my father's spirit. We had an auction. As the pieces were sold off, I watched my Father change by the minute. He looked lost and tired. Slowly but surely the things that defined Dad, as a farmer, were being pulled from him like the quills from a Porcupine attack. There was the pain and in time the wounds would heal but the scars would remain.
I think that an auction is really a sad occasion. I suppose that if I tried very hard, I could see it as a celebration of a life. I am sure that somewhere in the group of prospective buyers there must be a few who are there to take home a token to remember someone or something.
Every farm auction that I have been to, I have seen signs of genius that the farmer called for from somewhere inside himself, to make some task easier or better. Farmers, I think, are by nature optimistic persons with vision and hope. Somewhere in this mix is a glue that holds it all together called invention.
My Father was a person who could design and fabricate almost any machine or tool for his farm. He invented a land leveler that had an adjustable blade that was followed by a roller. His idea was taken by someone who went on to make a great deal of money with his idea. He never received a dime for his invention. That was way back in 1952 or so.
I remember one time when I went to town with my Dad. We went to the Alberta Wheat Pool Elevator to sell some grain. I was fascinated by the Prairie Giant, grain elevator, and the big Diesel engine that sat in a frightening pit under the agent's office. With some encouragement from my Father and a few cautions from the Pool Agent, I descended into the abyss to spend time with the monster. My feelings were somewhere between fear and reverence as I sat on a 5 gallon bucket, hands deep in my pockets. The engine continued to go about its business and even though, as a young boy, I thought it had some life and soul, it took no notice of me. Very soon, My Dad was ready to go into town and I was called to follow. I told Dad that I wanted one of those engines to play with.
At that time in my Father's life, there was little time for play, and he laughed at my childish idea. We had yet to experience rural electrification and farming was hard work. The Ruston Hornsby Diesel was there to work hard, like Dad, and it would not rest until the Calgary Power came to its rescue in 1951. Even after the "Big Power" came to Tilley Alberta, the Ruston Diesel continued in service for quite a few more years. This strong and durable engine and many of its peers across the Provinces of Alberta and Saskatchewan were retired just in time to fall into the hands of grateful collectors, like myself. Engine collecting had become a big hobby.
Some of us cried when we saw the engines run for the first time, in our garages. Here was a piece of our past, our youth and something that seemed to have a soul and felt what we grew up with. After I got the engine set up, and running, I upended a five gallon bucket, and sat on it, next to the running engine, as I had done so many years before. So many memories flooded my mind all at once. I remembered trying to concentrate on my education in Tilley School, across the road from the elevator, while the engine's gentile thump, thump counted out the seconds of those fall days. I could see the farmer's trucks arrive and dump their years work into the bowels of the elevator. Every so often one of the trucks was Dad's. It was a Green 1948 Ford Three Ton with my Mom's had hand painted black fenders. Dad would wave at the school on the off chance that I might be looking out the window. If I told him that I saw him wave, he would say, " you should have been looking at your books."
After a few minutes, I called my Dad, in Calgary, and I held the 'phone up so that he hear the engine run. Neither he or I could speak for several minutes. After a time, I asked Dad, "would like to come and visit us and the engine, I'll pay for the ticket". "Just go to the airport and the ticket will be there for you".
Dad arrived the next day and he sat on the bucket, this time, and together, we remembered the "long ago". Through his tears he said, "aren't those bank machines, at the airport, really something".
Thanx for the memories and the skills, Dad - - - I'll not forget you.
Dad left us in 1989 and passed into eternity.
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I would rather have tools I do not need than to need tools I do not have