Every copper’s a prisoner! by Ronald Mackay
“Was that one o them Paquettes in your lane?” As usual, Donald A asked the obvious. He and Alex knew everybody who came and went from my farm.
“Yes.”
“Gilles?” He knew it wasn’t.
“No.”
“Armand?” They both knew it hadn’t been Armand.
“No.”
“André?”
“No.”
“Leo?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t being intentionally evasive, simply learning to cater to my curious neighbours’ preference for lengthening even the simplest of exchanges. They were lonely and so adopted ways to savour human contact for as long as possible. Conversation was rare. It had to be drawn out like toffee and savoured.
“Don’t mix with the French!” Donald A looked at me seriously. Alex nodded.
“No?” I feigned ignorance of the longstanding prejudices between these communities.
“Tricky folks,” said Donald A.
“Swindle you,” said Alex. “Even swindle each other!”
“Really?” I feigned ignorance.
“Fixin’ somethin’ was he?”
“My reciprocating pump. It was running all the time.”
“Fix it, did he?”
“He did.”
“Charge you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?’
“Leo wouldn’t take a penny. He asked for a tiny hex wrench worth less than 50 cents.”
“You was overcharged,” said Donald A. “Always overcharges, Leo.”
“He’ll sell it for 75 and keep the coins.” Alex asserted.
“With them French, every copper’s a prisoner!” Donald A closed his fist to emphasise there was no escape -- not even for a penny.
“He came as soon as I called.” I defended Leo. “Showed me what was wrong. In future, I can fix it myself.”
Donald A looked and Alex just shook their heads at my naivety.
“Leo’s the worst. Tight as a porcupine’s ass,” said Donald A.
“Cheats his own kind,” Alex nodded knowingly
A newcomer like me found the gulf between the communities inexplicable, often amusing. To the French it was simpler -- there were simply two communities, the “English” and themselves. To the non-French there were Scots, English, Irish, Welsh, Polish, Ukrainian, Ruthenian, Lithuanians and more. Some were the offspring of first settlers, others, fugitives from past wars, famines, and changes in national borders. Though their reasons for coming to Ontario were long forgotten, the idiosyncrasies they had brought lingered on. The most powerful of these was language.
Donald A continued. “Come to Canadian Tire at closing time. Saturday. You’ll see.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“You’ll see!” Alex would say no more.
Michel Tremblay owned the Canadian Tire store in Alexandria. His son Robert managed it. The Tremblays lived on a 100-acre farm on our concession road and so were our – and Leo’s neighbours. Their store was patronised by all being the only place for miles that sold everything needed by local farmers, home-handymen, trappers, hunters and fishermen. Besides, Robert and his assistants gave reliable advice on what to buy. Last fall, the store had attracted more customers than usual because Canadian Tire was offering something new – a range of motorised snow-blowers that eliminated the need for long hours of shovelling. They were called Snowbirds. Every machine they’d ordered had quickly been bought except one, the biggest and the most powerful one. For some reason, it wouldn’t start. So, for the entire winter, it sat at a reduced price. Attracted by the bargain price, many had made valiant attempts to get it going. All had failed.
Now Leo Paquette was the youngest of a family of 21. My age, he farmed his 100 acres with help demanded from his wife and three children under 10. We’d become friends the first time we met. My height, he’d looked me straight in the eye. ‘Je suis Leo Paquette,’ he’d offered his hand. ‘Je suis Ronald Mackay,’ We shook hands.
Over weeks and months, we got to know each other. He was impressed that I spoke French, bore few prejudices, and was enthusiastic about bringing my long-abandoned farm back into production. I admired his work ethic – a trait lacking in many farmers on our concession road. I admired the schedule he kept to, never abandoning a job until it was finished. I specially admired his practical skills. He showed me the byre cleaner he’d built himself from scrap metal to make manure removal faster and easier; how he never let the manure pile build up until it became blocked. Regularly he removed the pile and spread it on his hay fields. He showed me the barn he’d built without help; his workshop, and the rust-free farm tools he was collecting by buying them used at farm sales when older Glengarry farmers moved into town because, in their ‘80s, they could no longer cope.
The day following the gratuitous lesson Donald A and Alex gave me about the deviousness of the French, Leo paid me another visit.
“Just passin’, me. Pump work OK?”
“Perfectly!” I knew that he enjoyed the appreciation I showed him. “What’s happening on Saturday, Leo?”
“Saturday?”
“At Canadian Tire?”
“Me? Dunno, me!” I could see from the hint of a smile that it wasn’t true.
“Tell me, Leo!”
“All I know, me, is the Tremblays, they want shot o’ that broke snowblower. Gonna auction it, them. Reserve is $300.”
“You want it?”
“Me? I won’t bid not even a Loonie, me.” Leo looked smug. “It start for nobody, it!”
“You?” I asked.
“Me? Why me? I got Camélie.” He shrugged. Camélie was his wife and he made her work like a man.
“You’re a friend of the Tremblays. Maybe they’ll accept a lower price from you. You might be able to fix it.”
“Me? Dere’s nuttin’ I can’t fix, me. But me, I won’t bid even a Loonie, me.” He shrugged.
I watched him drive off, sorry that Camélie was in for another busy winter.
Saturday came with grey sky and a light, wet snow. After all, it was April. Donald A and Alex walked over to my place. “We’re comin’ with you to Canadian Tire.”
Together, we drove into Alexandria. The parking lot was full, so we left the truck at the IGA store and walk back to Canadian Tire.
The motor-driven snowblower was on display in the forecourt, a handsome red with shiny stylish cowl to protect the engine, a rotating mechanism to pick up the snow, and a business-like chute to throw it clear.
Michel and Robert Tremblay emerged from the store and looked at the expectant crowd dressed in soiled greens and unlaced leather boots. Light snow had turned to rain. Men had their hoods up, hands in their pockets.
“Here you see it!” Michel announced in French and again in English. “Retail price 999 dollars and 99 cents. Clear your farm lane in half-an-hour! Robert!”
Robert stepped forward. “Reserve, $300. Give me a number to start.”
Silence.
“Who’ll start at 200?”
Silence.
“Who’ll start at 100?”
Silence.
“Who’ll open at 50?”
A voice shouted, “It’ll cost you to send it back. Let it go for 50 to anybody who can start it.”
Michel consulted with Robert. They knew that throughout the winter, scores had tried without success. So, to humour the crowd, Michel said, “OK!” Robert opened the fuel tank to show that there was gasoline.
Leo looked at me as if he had guessed this would happen but made no move.
A short line began to form beside the snowblower. Most had already tried and knew they’d be wasting their time.
A huge Hungarian known as Zoltan checked that the choke was closed and the throttle open and tugged the pull cord. Nothing! He took a deep breath and tried again, three times. No even a cough. The crowd laughed. Zoltan cursed, strode to his truck, and drove off.
Two more followed with increasing laugher.
A serious, neat-looking man stepped forward. Benoit was one of Leo’s elder brothers, known throughout Glengarry County as a talented mechanic. He took his time to check fuel, choke and throttle, then pulled. Five times he tried, without success. The crowd jeered and began to back away from the snowblower as if it were cursed.
Robert Tremblay scratched his head and Michel began, “OK, folks, looks like we’ll have to pay to ship it back…”
But before he’d finished, Leo stepped forward.
“Me? I gonna ‘ave a go, me!”
Robert nodded. In silenced, the crowd stood still.
Leo looked first at Robert and then at Michel. “But me? I start it, me, I give you one penny. Bien?”
The crowd roared. “A copper penny! A hundredth part of a loonie!” Delighted, they looked at each other and applauded Leo.
Michel and Robert conferred again. “Right, Leo! You start it and it’s yours for a single copper!” Why not? He was sure to fail like all the others!
Leo bent over the snowblower, checking the carburettor and the throttle. Laughter arose. Hadn’t this been done before?
Then Leo withdrew something from his pocket, something too small for most to see clearly. But I knew what it was. I knew exactly. It was the tiny hex wrench Leo had demanded in return for having fixed my pump.
Within the metal housing that protected the carburettor, Leo made a swivel motion with the tiny wrench, slipped it back into his pocket and then gripped the handle of the recoil pull-start. He paused, glanced up at the crowd, smiled, and gently but firmly, tugged once. Immediately, the motor coughed into life. He adjusted the throttle and the motor settled into a powerful and comfortable purr.
Leo pressed a penny into Robert’s hand. The crowd applauded. Michel, owner of the Canadian Tire store, stood aghast.
You, help me load this, you.” Leo and I drove the snowblower up a wooden ramp into Leo’s truck. As we secured the machine firmly, Leo whispered to me. “Safety key was missing!” He patted his pocket and winked.
In my truck, Donald A said, “See? Whaddida tell ja!”
“Tell me what, Donald A?”
“Leo cheats even his own. Treat your worse, he will.”
Gravely, Alex nodded. “Them French! Tricky folks!”
Glengarry Highlander, off to the Boer War. Foto RM
Log house like Alex'and Donald A's. Foto Glengarry Pioneer Museum, Ontario
Ronald, Glengarry Highland Games, Ontario 1980
