The Coal Legacy: Diamonds to Gold

 

                                                        

     Unlike most proper families living in Mechanicsville during the prosperous ‘60’s, our dinnertime buzzed with constant chatter. Gossip, girlfriends and sports – there were no restrictions and everyone participated. Then you had those ‘other’ nights….

     Clustered around a simple, yellow-painted rectangular table, held captive by hunger, we would occasionally fall victim to Father’s seemingly compassionate, prying questions. Fondly looking back through those “Ozzie and Harriett” years, one such mealtime stands alone.

     “And how was school today?”  Dad asked of no one in particular. He cut gingerly into a piece of steak with an accuracy reserved for the most knowledgeable of butchers – on a diagonal against the grain.

Silence.

     “Learn anything new?” he added as his fork, laden with a sizable medium-rare slice, dripping au-jus, made its way into his mouth.

     Piercing blue eyes challenged ours as he chewed, daring the bravest to answer.

     Dad was a formidable presence at the head of the table commanding our respect and, perhaps unknown to him, instilling a certain measure of fear.  

     A long-standing promise of a quarter if any of us could teach him something new was a powerful incentive but, as the youngest of four siblings and the most naïve, I usually never had a chance to give voice on these choice occasions. I half-heartedly scanned the teenagers around the table and found each head bent in concentration – or avoidance – over their plates.

     This was my chance.

     I nervously swallowed and forcefully blurted out my newly acquired scholastic knowledge. 

     “Did you know that diamonds come from coal?” I yelled.

     All jumped, startled by the unexpected loudness. Audible moans and sighs mixed with a few chuckles soon followed.

They were just jealous, I reasoned. This time, I was the first to speak, the first to get his attention. The first!

     I mentally tallied how many ‘jawbreakers’ and ‘honeymoon’ chocolates I could purchase with my reward and waited anxiously for his response.

     “Yes. Yes I did.”  Dad nodded and smiled coyly.

     Unknown to me at the time, years had made the others wise to his method. No matter the topic, profound and lengthy renditions on some past youthful adventure would ensue.

     It could never be said that Father lost an opportunity to expand or influence our malleable minds. It could also never be said that he didn’t like the sound of his own voice.

     This day was no exception.

     “Did you also know that coal was used as heating fuel in the olden days?” he asked nonchalantly.

     And that was it. I sat there, a fresh and unsuspecting sacrificial calf, snared and hog-tied by a cunning expert then branded by the elder brother as the proverbial sucker.

     “When I was about your age…” Dad began.

I was doomed. 

Feigning interest, I took note of his large hands fervently flailing the air as he spoke. It seems all my adult relatives were plagued with this involuntary affliction.

     “… Great Depression…” 

     There must surely be a muscle connecting mouth to arms and I wondered when mine would develop. 

     “… by the Crash of ‘29…”

     His facial and body language were flamboyant to say the least, speaking volumes of the man known throughout our mainly francophone community as ‘the Jack of all trades; Master of all.’ Through glazed unblinking eyes, a disconcerting vision of this burly male as a boy of ten materialized – a strapping blond-haired young man, wearing tights and doublet.

Mother got up – water running – dish scraping – pots clanking.

     “… desperate measures…”

     Though I didn’t dare avert my eyes, my peripheral vision caught the curved black-cat-tail clock pendulum swaying on the wall behind him, taunting me mercilessly.

     Bluish smoke from his newly-lit Buckingham cigarette spiralled elegantly to the ceiling.    

     “Do you know what we used to call it?” he pounced forward in his chair, his face mere inches from mine. 

     I jerked out of reverie. 

     ‘Oh, merde!  What did he say?  Call what?’ I panicked.

     Heart stopped – face drained – palms sweated – sudden urge to pee.

     Two enigmatic orbs (rumoured to have X-ray capabilities) beneath bushy black eyebrows, scowled into my soul. Petrified, I braced for the onslaught of curses that would surely follow.

     “Come to think of it,” he leaned back, his tone eased, “I just might have a remnant or two in the storage room. Wait here.” 

     I sighed deeply as he left the kitchen. His steps echoed down the creaking stairs. The others, sniggering amidst a jumble of whispered words like “don’t worry,” “bark” and “bite,” flew the coop. 

     Mom cleared the table, emptied the ashtray and finished her chores at the sink.

     I was alone. 

     A door squeaked – ransacking – something fell – blasphemous profanities.

     I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair. I had experienced his wrath once; it wasn’t pretty. Memories of his fist repeatedly banging the table followed by an index finger waving in my face, all the while naming every Saint known to heaven, had left an indelible mark.

     Dad returned and resumed the throne.

Riddled with guilt, head bent in subdued shame, I readied for the unavoidable chopping block by taking one long, quivering breath.

     He reached, hand and shirtsleeve covered in soot, and placed a black, raw-edged, palm-sized stone before me. 

     “This,” he said emphatically, “is Black Gold.” 

     As an avid rock collector from the time I could walk, my interest could not have been more stirred, as he well knew.

It was February 28, 1930 – an exceptionally cold day, he remembered. The snowbanks measured over six feet and ominous clouds in western skies foretold of more to come. The flu had reached epidemic proportions and Doctor Malo’s spanking new, shiny black, Fleetwood Town Cabrolet Cadillac, could be seen parked along the narrowed, ice-rutted Mechanicsville streets from morning ‘til night.

     These were the blackest of times for most. Many husbands hadn’t returned from the war. Jobs were scarce, money scarcer. It was left to the older boys to handle the daily chores and those responsibilities weighed heavily on their shoulders.

Ensuring the family’s basic needs were met became daily concerns for the entire classroom’s Grade 7 and 8 students at St-François d’Assise School for Boys – launched into manhood well before their time.

     My dad, Theodore, was one of them.

     Strewn on the classroom floor, below the tattered hand-me-down coats lining the rear wall, were the usual rubber boots (for those lucky enough to have them), boxes, burlap bags and spools of fishing line wound on sticks.

     A few even brought small-caliber rifles, but Frère Alphonse insisted these be kept under his desk, unloaded and bolt open. Despite his aversion to guns, this short, rotund Franciscan monk acquiesced to their presence; a necessary evil in the pursuit of extra food, consoled by the knowledge some lucky hunter would reward his tolerance with a small cauldron of rabbit stew.

In surplus this day however, standing next to the oak door, were Theodore’s worn, misshapen toboggan, two wooden Coca-Cola crates, brown paper shopping bags, a roll of twine and an old pair of newly gut-laced snowshoes.

     All lay in wait for the four o’clock bell and the 4:05 coal train.

     Who began coal collecting along the tracks parallel to Scott Street was a complete mystery to him, but it caught on in a hurry. Imagine some fifty boys, he said, pushing, shoving, grabbing, then bolting through the school doors, racing across the street en masse to secure the best spots where the frost-warped railway ties lifted slightly. 

     In the dawn of winter, the competition had been a source of great fun. But as time passed and the mercury plummeted, so too did camaraderie.

     Spawned by need, spurred on by daring grit, the lads perched precariously atop both banks to await the mile-long, Ottawa-bound train.

     Tradition dictated waving to the engineer as he haltingly manoeuvered this mammoth body of puffing steel, screeching its way to the turnaround junction a few blocks away. Crashing couplers reverberated loudly to enthusiastic cheers as each jerk catapulted clumps of coal to the ground. Then the train was gone.

     As nightime quickly claimed its early hours, the scavengers rushed to fill containers, pockets, toques, even boots and scurry home before – well, let’s just say – boys will be boys.

     If everyone had honoured the pact of “one man per rail-length” and harvested only the coal needed, there wouldn’t have been any problems. Unfortunately, desperation and greed were the cause of daily brawls, bruises, broken bones, thefts and the ultimate price – lost friendships.

     Dad recalled Little Bobby Morton, the Latreille brothers and Jean Pagé, to name a few, who were constantly targeted. Their frailty and non-combative natures made them easy prey and they often ran home empty-handed in tears.  

     Angered by the on-going injustice meted out by these goons (and quickly adding he could beat them all, blindfolded!) Theodore vowed to outwit the lot of them.

     Rising early every day, he doggedly scouted the tracks before school. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, he trekked the straight western line all the way to Churchill Avenue. His search produced nothing of consequence but frozen hands and feet.

Thursday morning, he journeyed eastward.

     Trotting past their usual collection area, Theodore continued down the narrow, sloping trench towards the end of the line. By the time he reached Zaggerman Steel Co.’s loading docks at Bayview, he was forced to admit defeat.

     Disheartened, cold and miserable, he backtracked uphill towards school when a long piercing whistle warned of an on-coming passenger train. He quickly scrambled up the bank for safety. Fascinated with engines and their mechanics he stood there mesmerized, observing its cautious descent and final approach.

     Thank God he did, Dad stressed, or he would have missed a most remarkable discovery.

     From this particular vantage point, he watched in amazement as the engine veered sharply south, about fifty yards beyond Bayview, disappearing under the Wellington Street Bridge − the junction station.

     Passenger cars creaked and swayed then leaned dangerously to one side as each in turn negotiated the curve.

     His heart pounded with excitement as he envisioned the coal cars in their stead.

     Back in school, Theodore spent the day consumed with strategic planning, secrecy taking foremost importance.

Knowing any deviation from the norm would be suspect and curbing the urge to check out the new spot, he grudgingly joined the group after school, filled his shoe-bag, then hurried home to prepare for tomorrow’s expedition.

     Dad said that Friday was the longest school day he had ever known. The hours dragged on like a turtle climbing a mud pile.

From his window seat he marvelled as the sun, fast disappearing behind low, dark clouds, cast a brief crimson glow upon the land. Intermittent gusting winds swirled powdery snow up along the outside wall. A lone pigeon hovered motionless for five seconds before gliding gracefully out of view. The whistling windows, half-frosted with intricate fern designs, rattled to near breaking point.

     By 3:30 the storm was in full swing. With his view below obscured, he could only imagine what the road conditions were like. Indecision dampened his restless excitement.

     The bell rang.

     Encumbered by his gear, Theodore was the last pupil to reach the outdoors. Peering across the street through a curtain of white, his mates, already in claimed positions, dotted the rail embankments.

     It was the price of survival, to brave any storm for a handful of coal.

     Snowshoes secured, decision made, he sashayed south at record speed, away from prying eyes.

     Through a maze of back roads, the blizzard hampering every step, he arrived at Bayview and crossed the tracks mere seconds before the slow, cautiously advancing train blocked the last of four access routes to Mechanicsville.

     Twilight, blinding snow and frozen, exhausted limbs slowed his progress to a crawl. Faced with such adversity, the young Theodore battled with the desire to abort.

     Yet he forged on, one step at a time.

     Trespassing over unfamiliar city-owned open terrain, he laboured through a thick blanket of virgin snow along the base of the north bank, the faint sound of the clanking train his only guide.

     Nearing his destination, he paused and peered through the biting whirlwind in time to see the roof of the last two cars pass by. He hastily released the toboggan cord, slipped off the snowshoes and scurried up the high bank.

Lying safely on his stomach, eyes squinting against the updraft, he focused on the caboose as it completed the turn.

     And there it was – a long curving ridge of blackness – the mother lode.

     He quickly gathered his things and slid down to the tracks.

     Momentarily warmed by the thrill of discovery, crates and bags were filled to brimming then secured. Pulling with every ounce of remaining strength, he inched his way through the fast-forming drifts back to the road.

Although only three blocks away, it would be hours before he reached the shelter and warmth of home. The load was heavy; the storm, harsh; and his plan, this day, included three furtive deliveries along the way.