A Northern Light(36)
By the time we settled ourselves in the parlor, Pa had made a fire in the cylinder stove. He was mending Pleasant's bellyband—he was always mending something Pleasant had broken—and Uncle Fifty was oiling his boots. My uncle is a riverman and a riverman's boots are his most prized possession. The soles, studded with calks—metal points—help him keep his footing as he walks on floating logs. The best ones are made in Croghan, New York. Pa used to tell Lawton never, ever fight with a riverman in the winter. If a man gets kicked by a frozen Croghan, he is a goner for sure.
Uncle Fifty drank his whiskey while he worked, and he told us stories—which is what wed all been waiting for. He told us how a bear got into his bunkhouse a month before and all the jacks ran out except a man named Murphy, who was sleeping off a drunk. As the rest of the jacks watched through the window, the bear sniffed him, then licked his face. And Murphy, still sleeping, smiled and put his arms around the bear's neck and called him sweetheart. He told us about the raging glory of the river drives, when the ice went out and a dam was opened and thousands upon thousands of logs were sent through the sluice and downriver, churning and rolling, crashing against rocks, plunging down falls. He said the noise alone would take your breath away. He told us about the jams and the danger of breaking them up and how he'd been on a jam when it suddenly gave way and then had to ride a log half a mile down the Saint Lawrence before he could leap to safety. And how two other men didn't make it and how their bodies looked when they were finally pulled out, all twisted and smashed. He told us that he was the number one champion birler on the Saint Lawrence, and that he could knock any jack off any log, any jack at all. Except for one—my pa.
It had been years since Pa worked a drive, but I could tell from the look on his face as my uncle talked that he missed it. He flapped a hand at the stories and tried to seem all disapproving, but I saw the pride in his eyes as Uncle Fifty told us that there was no one more skillful with a bateau, no one faster or more fearless. He said my pa was the most surefooted riverman he'd ever seen, that he stuck to logs like bark. He said he'd seen him dance a hornpipe on a log once, and do a cartwheel and a handspring, too.
They were whoppers, my uncle's stories, every one. We knew it and we didn't care. We just loved the telling. My uncle has a beautiful North Woods voice. You can hear the dry bite of a January morning in it and the rasp of wood smoke. His laughter is the sound of a creek under ice, low and rushing. His full name is Francois Pierre, but Pa told us his initials really stand for Fifty Percent, because you can only believe half of anything he says.
Pa and Fifty are four years apart in age. Pa is forty and my uncle thirty-six. They have the same rugged faces, the same blue eyes and black hair, but that is where the resemblance ends. Uncle Fifty is always smiling and my father is always grim. Fifty drinks more than he should. Pa only drinks on occasion. Fifty sounds like the Frenchman he is. My father sounds like he was born and bred in New York and has no more French in him than Barney the dog does.
I once asked my mother why Pa never spoke French, and she said, "Because the scars run too deep." I thought she must have meant the ones on his back. Pas stepfather put them there with a belt. Pas real father died when he was six. His mother had seven other children and married the first man who asked her, because she had to feed them. Pa never talked about his mother or his stepfather, but Uncle Fifty did. He told us that the man beat them and their mother for nothing. Because the supper was too cold or too hot. Because the dog was in when he was supposed to be out, or out when he was supposed to be in. He did not speak French and wouldn't allow it to be spoken in the house, because he thought his stepchildren would use it to talk behind his back. My father forgot once and that's how he got the scars. Uncle Fifty said their stepfather used the wrong end of his belt and the buckle took the skin clean off. I try my best to remember those scars whenever Pa is harsh. I try to remember that hard knocks leave dents.
Pa ran away from home when he was only twelve and found work as a chore boy in a lumber camp. He worked his way south, into New York, and never went back to Quebec. His mother died some years back, and his brothers and sisters scattered. Uncle Fifty was the only one he ever saw.
Our uncle kept us entertained with his stories for hours. But around eleven o'clock, Beth got sleepy-eyed and Lou started yawning and Pa told us it was time for bed. As we were all standing up to say good night, Beth cast one last, hopeful glance at our uncle's satchel. Uncle Fifty saw her do it and smiled. He opened the bag and said, "Well, I plaintee tired myself. I tink I get out my nightshirt now and ... ba gosh! Wat is in here? Where you tink all dese present come from? I don't reemembair to buy no present!"
Beth jumped up and down. Lou squealed. Even Abby was excited. I was, too. Uncle Fifty always gave the nicest presents. Pa said he drove the peddlers crazy, making them unpack everything, choosing this and that, then changing his mind and starting all over again. He never gave horrible gifts, like handkerchiefs or mints. He always picked out something special. That night he started with Beth and worked his way up, always pretending he'd forgotten to get something for the next one in line. It was agony waiting for your turn and agony when it came. We didn't get many presents and weren't used to the drama and anticipation. Beth received her very own harmonica with an instruction book and loved it so much, she burst into tears. For Lou, there was a carved wooden box containing a dozen hand-tied fishing flies. Abby was given a gold-plated locket, which made her flush pink with pleasure. And then it was my turn.