Some history. My Dad died on his way to work in May of 1990. His truck was crushed by a crane that fell off a flatbed; the accident happened about a half kilometre from our house. It was a shitty day.
Twenty-three years later, I can talk about it without tearing up, but there is part of me that will never recover. I'm still sad. I really miss my Dad, especially when Nathaniel tries his hand at fishing or I hear Fleetwood Mac.
Here's my story.
********************
Regrowth
I yank back on the
muck-laden handle, hard and fast, and hear a loud slurp as I expose a gash of
wet earth. My hand rummages in the deep
pouch on my right. When my planting bags
are full, it is sometimes difficult to grab just a single seedling. The rubber gloves I wear to protect my hands
from pesticides and pine needles don't help.
Got it. My fingers find a
tree and stuff it into the ground, whisking in the roots. I gently pull up on the tree by its tip until
it is perfectly straight. I stomp once,
packing the earth at the base of the tree, chuffing out air.
Next.
My eyes scan the rough
terrain for a decent microsite and seeing one, I lunge to the left. I screef furiously with my shovel, rapidly
clearing away the duff and barky bits. I
drive the shovel into the earth, opening up another pocket of rich soil. I grab a tree, whisk it in, stomp and move
on. I repeat these movements several
thousand times a day.
Some days I plant like an
automaton. I thrust my shovel into the
ground with all the strength that I can muster.
I'm reckless; I know that if I hit a rock, the reverb will injure my
humerus, but I don't care. The pain is
welcome. I can't stop. I won't stop.
Poverty is a great motivator for those who are paid by the tree.
I continue my jagged,
freeform bush-dance. In the distance, in
the slash – the coarse, woody detritus of the logging operation - I see a
blood-red splotch of cloth weaving back and forth but definitely moving toward
me. It's Greg, my foreman. I hope he's not coming to bitch at me about
my quality. I had to replant a few days
ago because my spacing was off. You
never want to replant; you're not making any money. You plant the tree once,
and do it right the first time.
He won't meet my eyes.
“Hey. You have to come with me. It's your
Dad.”
I don't answer. I am trying to process the information. It's difficult. I can feel sweat rolling down my back and
into the waistband of my spandex. Odd to
sweat like this, when the rain pours down.
It must be his kidney
stones.
I push away other darker
thoughts.
I focus on Greg's back and follow him
to the stash, which is where we bag up.
We walk in silence, listening to the rain patter on the earth.
There's not a soul in sight
on the barren road. I grab my pack and
climb into the front seat of the truck.
Greg says nothing; his eyes focus on the muddy ruts. The dull landscape
is starkly beautiful: the slash a jam of broken wood stacked haphazardly, trees
riven to ragged javelins. We pass a
prescribed burn - scorched wood and burnt earth, ash and dust, dots of new
growth here and there. The bits of green
look electric in this dead field.
I am nauseated. My clothes
are stuck to me. I watch the wipers swish back and forth and try not to
vomit.
*****
Even thought it's the
middle of the morning, the bar is dark.
The shades at the windows are drawn and it feels like evening. It smells like smoke, beer and small town
desperation.
I'm shown the payphone and
Greg plunks in some change. There's no
answer when I call home. I dial the
operator and ask to be connected to the hospital. I'm shaking.
When I ask to speak to my Dad, I'm transferred three times and I speak
to three different people, all of whom put me on hold. The last nurse I speak with tells me to call
home: “there's been an accident... I'm
sorry... ” Her voice trails.
I thought he was still
alive.
*****
When I run out of the bar,
into the street, I sound inhuman. I wail
at an incredible volume. The street is
empty save for three Natives, who are walking towards me. They look worried. I smack a concrete wall and hurt my hand, and
then I cling to a post, sobbing. The
Natives are concerned for my welfare.
The eldest of the three tries to peel me off the signpost and I push her
away. I know that I'm being unkind but I
don't care. I don't want to share my
grief. It's mine; I won't explain.
*****
After the flight home, I
light up a smoke, right in the living room.
I haven't smoked in the house before, in fact, until this moment Joanne
doesn't know that I smoke. Wisely, she
says nothing. We are waiting for my
brother to get changed into his new suit so that we can go to the Funeral Home
to see my Dad.
The funeral director is
pale and bespectacled; his hair is weathered teak. It's plastered to his head with grease. I want to send him an anonymous letter, tell
him to change his hair.
He smiles a smile that is
reserved for families like us. He greets
us, murmurs apologies and leads us down the hall. As we're walking, he casually mentions that
my Dad doesn't really look like he normally does.
We stop. This is news.
“His head might look a bit
swollen”. He walks on.
He leads us into the room,
and I can see the coffin, a body inside.
Is that really my Dad? As we
approach, and I get a better view I am speechless, initially.
My father's head is indeed
swollen; it is gigantic. It's the size
of a medicine ball. His features have
stretched to accommodate his new head and the result is horrific. He's like a prop from a B movie – waxen and
otherworldly - and I can see that the undertaker has used coverup to hide some
cuts on one of his hands. The colour is
unnatural; it's a bit on the orange side.
I can't look, but I can't look away.
I have never seen anything so sad, so wrong.
What was my grandmother
thinking? And the funeral
directors? Are they completely
insane? How could anyone think that an open casket was a good idea after seeing this
head?
I can't get over the size
of it.
“That's not my father,” I
sputter, bolting from the room.
No one follows me.
*****
A few weeks after the funeral, I
receive a package postmarked from Timmins – it's the last of my things from up
north - my tent, a sleeping bag and some clothing. There's an envelope addressed to me and the
handwriting is my Dad's. I open it
tentatively. Inside is a phone bill, and
a letter from the university. Attached
to it is a sticky note with the words “Luv ya!” scrawled across it. I wonder if he would have said more had he
known that he wouldn't be here a few days later.
My heart breaks,
again.
*****
This morning, I wake up to
the sound of a chainsaw roaring. I throw
off the bedclothes and peer into the yard.
I see two workmen in hardhats.
One of the men is using a sawzall and the other holds a massive chainsaw. There is a truck with a wood chipper parked
on the road beside the grass.
I grab clothes, run
outside.
I'm heaving; I can't
breathe. My body is on fire and then I'm
sobbing, bent over in pain.
They look at me,
stunned. One of them approaches me. He considers my appearance, my
behaviour.
He gestures at an erratic
crack down one side of the trunk.
“It won't live. It's damaged.”
Lightening struck the tree
two summers ago. It's a Blue
Spruce. My Dad staked it and we hoped
for the best. It is our favourite tree.
The one that he adorns with lights at Christmastime.
Today, they are chopping it
down.
He's not here to see
it. We buried him three weeks ago.
I can't watch.
*****
I return to the bush the
following year, thinner and hard-hearted.
I listen to a lot of Ella and Louis.
It's hardly planting music, but it calms me. I'm numb but the smell of the earth is rich
and I inhale it deeply. It is springtime and things are waking up.
