Fire! by Ronald Mackay
I’d been in Canada for only two years when I bought my first farm in 1978. The day I signed the cheque for $60,000 and in return received the deeds of ownership for 200 acres of overgrown fields, woods, and beaver swamp in Glengarry County, was one of the proudest of my life. I was 36 years old and had wanted to be a farmer since I was a child.
The farm, like many in the area, had been abandoned for decades. It stood on a concession road three miles from Alexandria, Ontario. From there, I was able to take a train the 100 kilometres to Montreal where I taught project design, management and evaluation at Concordia University.
“Concession roads” in Ontario had been laid out on a grid system by surveyors in the mid-1800s and the land subdivided into 100 or 200 acre lots. “Main roads” ran north and south, “concession roads” ran east and west. Each settler, in the first year, would fell cedar trees to build a log cabin, and clear a few acres to grow food enough to see the family, a workhorse and a cow through the winter. In following years, they would clear more land until they had arable and grazing to suit their needs. They’d leave a woodlot extensive enough to draw on for construction lumber and winter stove wood.
For well over a hundred years, families subsisted happily in this way. As Canada developed, opportunities emerged for further education and careers in Ottawa and Montreal. Parents urged their children to grasp these. The result was that within the space of three or four generations, few family members were left on the farm. Usually only those without the desire or the ability to find more lucrative and less back-breaking work elsewhere.
Neighbours were spaced between more or less a kilometre apart. Far enough to conserve privacy and close enough to allow cooperative work when needed.
In the first few days of my taking up residency in my 100-year-old log-and-timber-framed farmhouse, I learned what being a neighbour meant in rural Ontario.
“Donald A!” He thrust out a grubby hand.
“Alex!” He thrust out his.
Both in worn green farm pants, grubby green shirts, unlaced boots, and frayed jackets that reeked of cow urine.
“Ronald!” I felt hands that were hard and horny.
“Scottish?”
“Born and bred.”
“We’re Scottish,” Donald A added.
“Brothers,” said Alex.
Their parents or grandparents were Scottish, I figured.
“We’re your first neighbours.” Donald pointed west. The McDonald brothers were men of few words.
“First neighbours?” I queried.
“Look,” said Alex. He pointed east along the gravel concession road and then west.
It took me a moment to grasp his meaning. Ah, closest neighbours! Their farmhouse, though a 1000 meters distant was maybe 200 meters closer than the neighbour to the east.
“I’m glad to meet you.”
“First neighbours gotta get on,” Donald A continued.
Alex nodded.
Am I being told that there must be an amicable relationship between closest neighbours?
“Something happens,” continued Donald A, “we come to you.”
Alex nodded again.
I’ve got it right!
“Tea?” Their stony faces told me I’d suggested the wrong beverage. “Beer?”
Their faces brightened.
Two beers later, I’d learned that, at 80, Donald A was the elder and Alex two years younger. Both born on their farm. Their grandparents, from Scotland, had been the first settlers on their piece of land. When their parents died it became theirs.
When I asked, “What part of Scotland your grandparents come from?” They’d shaken their heads. I learned that they’d attended a one-room school on this very concession road until their 12th birthdays and then had left to help work the farm.
“We didn’t always live here.” Donald A claim confused me.
“Not in winter,” Alex shook his head “Father sent us to a lumber camp in the Ottawa Valley.”
“We were fellers. Rafters floated the logs down the river,” added Donald A.
“We stayed in camp from the day the first snow flew until thaw. So mother didn’t have to feed us,” Alex explained.
Life was hard for first settlers, I reflected, but I’d no idea it was that hard!
“Milking time.” As one, both brothers stood, shook my hand and began the longish walk back to their dilapidated farmhouse, their woodshed and barn where they would milk the single cow they’d kept after the cheese factory closed and milk cans were no longer collected at the end of farm lanes.
Months passed. I came to know Donald A and Alex better. And their penchant for beer. I also met my second neighbours. I’d visited once, to introduce myself. From their limited and accented English and my few words of Polish, I learned that Rudi and Ewa were Ukrainian Poles. They’d been displaced by the Second World War. After walking from Lviv to a refugee camp in Germany, they’d been admitted to Canada as Displaced Persons. Somehow, they’d acquired a 100-acre farm. I noted the domestic animals and the hens they kept, and the well-tended vegetable garden surrounded by blooming hollyhocks. They were clearly self-sufficient in the labour-demanding way that the rural poor accept as normal. They pointed to the vegetable stall they’d built where their farm lane met the concession road.
“Beans, peas, korniszony, potatoes, kapusta, apple, gruski,” Ewa listed the seasonal vegetables and fruit they sold from spring till fall. “Take. Money in box. Exact only!”
I also learned that they preferred their own company and so, while I often visited Donald A and Alex, I respected Rudi and Ewa’s privacy.
One glorious early fall evening, I was enjoying the shade of two great maple trees that kept my house cool in summer and the orange light that spread across my fields and backlit the stubble. Barn swallows, ready to head south, twittered on the telephone wire.
I sniffed. Smoke? I’d become sensitive to smells since adopting the life of a part-time farmer. Stubble fires were a danger. Damp hay bales could ignite spontaneously. Stovepipes full of creosote could catch fire.
I rushed inside and checked my stove, then to my barn. Nothing! But now the smell was even stronger.
Then I saw it. A slow stream of blue smoke rose from Rudi and Ewa’s farmhouse. I leapt into my car, tore down my lane, along the concession road, and up their lane. Suddenly, I stopped and reversed back down to their vegetable stand. I’d remembered that behind their house was a gas tank full of propane.
“If the fat-boy blows…” I feared for Rudi and Ewa. They were nowhere in sight. “They’ll be in the garden or stacking cordwood.”
I spun my car around and tore back to my farmhouse.
While I was dialling emergency, I heard a massive blast. Their gas tank had blown! Their farmhouse was a ball of fire!
Frantic ringing reached my ears before I saw of the fire truck from Alexandria. It roared up the farm lane. Helmeted figures leaped out. Within minutes the fire was extinguished but the house was a pile of smoking rubble.
From far and wide, neighbours arrived in farm trucks and stopped at a safe distance. I joined them. Fire was a major calamity in rural Ontario. There but for the grace of God go I! was on everybody’s mind.
Soberly, the firefighters approached us. “All’s well. We traced Rudi and Ewa. They’re in Ottawa for the night.”
Ottawa for the night? Bizarre! They seldom leave the farm. Never go further than Alexandria!
There were nods from the farmers at the good news. Wordlessly, they climbed back into their trucks and drove off.
That night, I tossed and turned. Could I have done more? Should I have called the fire brigade first? If I’d thought more quickly, might I have saved their house?
I tormented myself for not doing more. What will they do now? Their quiet way of life gone, their livelihood come to an end!
Early next morning, I was wakened by a repeated rat-tat-tat! on my door. Donald A and Alex stood poker-faced.
Surely, they haven’t come for a beer at 8 on a Sunday morning?
I made tea. Of course! They want to talk about the fire! Fire is everybody’s worst nightmare.
“You called the firefighters.” It wasn’t a question and Donald A’s tone was as accusing as the look on Alex’ face.
Should I have rushed to the ft-boy and turned off the propane? Are they accusing me of thoughtlessness or fear?
“I called,” I admitted.
In unison, Donald A and Alex took a mouthful of tea. Their silence was accusing.
“You see, I was afraid that…”
Donald A held up his hand. He looked at Alex before both turned their gaze on me.
“Never interfere with your neighbour’s fire!”
What does that mean?
“The firefighters might have put the fire out.” Donald A looked at me sternly.
“If you’d turned the gas off, the house might be there still.” Alex eyes held mine.
I still struggled to understand.
“Then Rudi and Ewa couldn’t claim insurance.”
Now I understand!
The three of us finished our tea in silence.
Together, Donald A and Alex rose. At the door, Donald A turned to me.
“Never interfere with your neighbour’s fire!”
Alex nodded.
Stunned, I watched them walk home.
Alex MacDonald and Ronald, Glengarry, Ontario, 1980
Alex MacDonald with his milk cow,
Glengarry, Ontario 1980 
My mother with Alex MacDonald
Glengarry, Ontario 1980 |
Ronald at the door of his recently-bought farmhouse, Glengarry, 1978
Alex MacDonald on his farm, Glengarry, Ontario 1980
Ronald broadcasting pasture seed,
Glengarry, Ontario, 1980 
Rudi and Ewa's famhouse before the fire
Viviana on a nostalgic visit to Glengarry, Ontario 1998
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