On Saturday, Chet’s firewood operation was in full swing. He had been busy the previous Sunday, using the company’s self-loading truck to collect a load of small, dry pine logs.
Chet had then moved a processor to the yard as well, to be used later in the week to cut the logs into short lengths of firewood. The load had been cut as planned by Chet and Lance and covered with an old hay tarp.
Many people in the Nechako Valley burned firewood, the newer wood-burning stoves were highly efficient, better than the crude appliances their grandparents had used. Natural gas was not available on the majority of back roads, and electricity was an expensive way to heat older homes, especially when the temperature dipped to minus twenty. Cutting firewood was a yearly tradition, enjoyed by some, dreaded by others. Often families worked together, pooling resources and abilities. While the tradition was declining, many children still grew up with the vicious howl of a chainsaw taken for granted, learning to stay well back from the spinning chain, and how to gather decent fuel and operate a wood-burning stove.
“Well, got some nice firewood, anyhow.” was a common excuse grunted by a disappointed, camo-clad hunter returning home midday on a Saturday.
Today, however, things were going much quicker than normal. All that was left to do was load the chunks of wood and deliver. The process was slowed slightly by Melissa and some of the kids Chet had enlisted. They had a table set up by the shop and were keeping another tradition alive.
They were filling paper lunch bags with an assortment of hard candy in wrappers, peanuts in the shell, cookies baked and wrapped by Melissa, candy canes; and of course, a mandarin orange. Melissa decided to send the treats along with each load of firewood. She guessed how many people were in each household, adding extra if the people had grandchildren.
This was a new idea to many of the kids, and Melissa made sure there would be a candy bag for each helper.
Pete stopped as he walked by the table. He was holding a chainsaw in each hand, on the way to put them in the service trucks. His weathered face crinkled into a smile as he looked at the row of finished bags, tops crumpled by little hands.
Melissa smiled at him. “Pete, did you ever get a candy bag when you were a kid?” She guessed him to be in his mid-sixties.
He nodded. “Yep, sure did. Every Christmas, Canadian tradition. My sister and I would each get our own bag. That was back in, well, back when we lived way north in Manitoba. We always went to the Christmas program at the little church, and after the singing and all, they gave out candy bags. When I seen you filling these bags, I had to come over and take a boo.”
He dumped the chainsaws on the ground and turning away, wiped an eye with a rough hand. “Bump on the head making me soft,” he apologized. “Still like those oranges, buy a couple boxes every year at Christmas, you betcha. Back then, well, that’s the only orange I ever got. Up north you know, not much fresh fruit. And peanuts too, real tasty.”
He looked at the kids, nodding a little, thinking of harder times.
“It sure is better now, lots to eat, nice clothes, hard not to spoil the grandkids. These little gifts you’re sending out, they’ll get a lot of people remembering, no doubt.”
“Never will forget it. Always ate the orange on Christmas day, the peanuts during the holiday from school, and sometimes made that handful of candy last right ‘til spring.”
Melissa just smiled. She knew it had been a good idea, even if a couple loads were a few minutes later than Chet figured they should be. Good thing she bought that extra box of oranges.
When Pete disappeared into the shop, Melissa sent one of the kids to put several bulging candy bags in his pickup, extra oranges in each.
The mountain of firewood disappeared rapidly and by mid-afternoon everyone was back at the yard eating hot dogs from the grill, except Chet, who had decided to take a load to an old friend of his dad who lived several hours north of town. Just before Melissa and the kids gave everyone their own bag of goodies, Terry yelled for everyone to listen up.
“Thanks to you all for making me feel so welcome. You are a great bunch of people, and I’m glad to be working with you.” She paused, sipping from her foam coffee cup. “But I have a few things to say. First of all, I hate clowns, and I refuse to be called a clown by our good friend over here.”
There was some laughter. She really had their attention now. “And ‘Lady Clown’ doesn’t work either,” she shook a small fist at Isaac, “I’ve had enough. So, I have a deal for our mechanic.” She paused, looking around. “Not you, Pete, you’re sweet.”
Pete blushed amid the hoots.
“If I get called clown one more time” she paused dramatically, “well, let’s just say someone’s life is going to get miserable. Just think about it,” she paused again, “he has to fix what I drive.”
More laughter – tempered somewhat by the fact that Terry had taken out two thugs with a torque wrench.
“So, no more Clown and by the way, I wouldn’t answer to Hoser either, like some of you do.”
More sheepish laughter.
“And then this ‘clock’ thing!”
More laughing.
“Yeah, seriously. So, I decided on a new name for Isaac here. I was thinking the other day about a picture book I had when I was a kid. Had this guy in it who looked a lot like Isaac, you know, dirt-colored hair…”She made scissors with her fingers, miming a needed haircut. “Mustache stolen from a spaghetti western, big glasses. And then there’s the name, ‘La Crosse.’”
Johnny and the other guys were enjoying Isaac’s discomfort. Jason whooped, and then tried to hold it in when he remembered he worked for Isaac.
“So, the man in the kids’ book was working over a workbench, fixing something, and it took me a few days, but I remembered. The man was a clock maker.”
Even Melissa laughed aloud at this. Clockmaker. It was perfect!
Walking over to Isaac’s service truck, Terry opened the door and pulled a roll of paper from behind the seat.
Johnny noticed the door had been cleaned. He was surprised to see Mary help Terry apply a large decal on the blue door panel. Together they smoothed the paper with plastic scrapers, and then Terry carefully peeled off the translucent outer layer.
There on the door in graceful gold script, angling up toward the rear of the cab, were the words The Clockmaker.
It was perfect, without guile. A recognition of the man’s skill, yet a flawless mockery of his own quirky humor. A complete christening, never to be undone.