Glengarry Lessons in Ladder Lending by Ronald Mackay
In Glengarry County, in the ’70s, I saw many older farmers subsist on little more than what they themselves produced. I dubbed them reluctant farmers. They’d inherited their 100 acres and lacked the interest to farm well or the skills to find off-farm work.
There were exceptions. Charlie MacKinnon was a millwright in Alexandria. His brother Gerald had operated heavy machinery on the DEW line sites across the Arctic. Others found paid work in Ottawa. Daily, they drove the 60 minutes there and the same back neglecting their farms.
Most bought a steer in spring and fattened a pig. When the first snow-flew, they’d help one another slaughter and freeze. Some salted pork in 45-gallon drums bought empty from Genstar Chemicals in Cornwall for $5 each. Their wives harvested vegetables, picked apples from the remnants of the orchard, and boiled and bottled to see the family through the winter.
Money was so tight for most, that they traded among themselves even the simplest tools and implements. Chainsaws, power drills, wheelbarrows, even mowers and balers were lent and borrowed. Payment, if any, was made in kind, never cash.
As the first buds burst on the maple trees round my house, Gerald Mackinnon’s lime-green LTD trundled down my lane and parked facing out. All visitors parked this way. To guarantee a quick getaway if they’re not welcome? I wondered.
“Gidday, Ron.” Gerald extracted himself from his omnibus-size automobile. “How’s she goin’?” His smile was innocent.
“Glad spring’s on the way. My woodpile’s low.”
When Gerald came to visit, he had a reason. He’d take his own time to reveal it.
“Sap’s runnin’.” Gerald pointed his chin at my maples.
“Leo’s tapping already.” I could smell the woodsmoke from Leo’s sugar shack.
Gerald nodded.
He’s come to borrow spiles, sap cans and the boiler I’d uncovered in the loft of my drive-in shed, I guessed. My farm had stood abandoned for years. No neighbour would have missed the chance to poke around everywhere.
“Now take Leo, Ron. Fifty jars of syrup every spring an’ who sups it? Leo does! Himself! Wife an’ kids don’t dare touch it. But Leo sups his saucerful.”
My ‘English’ neighbours talked poorly of the ‘French’ and vice-versa.
“You plan on tapping yours, Gerald?”
Gerald sucked air. In Glengarry that quick intake of breath meant ‘No way!’
Wrong guess! So, what has he come for?
Ten minutes later I learned why.
“See yer not usin’ yer ladder!” Gerald’s strategy was to tell a neighbour he wasn’t using something to make it impossible for him to refuse to lend it.
“Sorry. I don’t have one, Gerald.” I pointed to snow melt dripping through my rotten eaves troughs. “I’ll have to rent one!”
“Oh, you got one, Ron! She’s a beut! Forty-foot with her two flies out. She’ll reach my roof, easy. Wanna see?”
He led me into my drive-in shed as easily as if it were his own, then upstairs into the chaos of the previous owner’s miscellaneous bits and pieces.
“There she is!” His smile was triumphant.
Hidden under empty fertilizer bags. No wonder I’ve never seen it! Gerald must have searched long and hard to find it.
“She’ll be back here with ya in coupla weeks Ron!” By confidently declaring the world or anything in it be so, Gerald believed it was so. He smiled persuasively.
Right, I could afford to be generous. My eaves troughs can wait!
I helped Gerald tie the heavy wooden ladder to the improvised roof rack he’d attached to his limo.
Cold nights gave way to days when white clouds chased across the sky. Migrant birds arrived to devour swarms of insects. Trees burst into leaf. Fields and hedgerows turned green. I seeded newly ploughed and disked fields to a mixture of oats and peas to sell standing, in August.
Fieldwork done, I turned attention back to my long-neglected farmhouse. The leaking gutter reminded me of how much I had to do. Gerald still has my ladder! Almost two months! I went in search of him. He wasn’t at his barn, but my ladder, fully extended, was propped up against the wall of his two-story farmhouse.
“Whatcha doin’?” The sharp challenge came from Gerald’s tiny, wiry mother, well into in her ’90s.
“Came for my ladder.”
“Gerald’s usin’ her! Leave her where she is!”
Best not to argue. “Mrs MacKinnon, please let Gerald know I’ve got an urgent job needs doing. Can he bring it to my place tomorrow?” She scowled.
Next day I resumed my work in Montreal, too busy for the rest of the week to bother with ladders. By Friday evening, still no ladder! I drove back to Gerald’s
“Gerald’s away.” His mother was even more cross.
He’s gone to the hotel to drink beer and tell lies, I guessed.
“I got Gerald’s permission!” I lied.
As I passed Donald A and Alex’ woodshed, they stood up, the better to see what I was about.
By the time I unloaded the ladder and extended it to reach the leaking gutter, Donald A and Alex were waiting on my porch.
“Borrowed Gerald’s ladder!” Alex declared.
“My ladder!” Gerald borrowed it in spring.
“Finished with it, is he?” Donald A raised his eyebrows.
“He’s had it for three months.”
Neither Donald A nor Alex spoke, but the look in their eyes suggested they’d run out of beer, so I gave them each a bottle. “Can’t join you,” I told them. “Need to see how much eaves trough I need to replace.”
“It’ll still be there tomorrow!” Alex’ solution was to postpone.
“You should do less, Ron.” Donald A said. “You can never get ahead of the work!”
I examined my eaves troughs as they drank and shook their heads at my doggedness.
“Another Molsons? Me? I’ll go get new eaves troughs.”
“Yer too late!” Alex was gleeful that I couldn’t finish my task.
“Canadian Tire’s closed. Stocktaking.” Donald A let me know.
I gave my neighbours another beer and made tea for myself. I still had chores.
On Saturday, I drove to Alexandria.
“Eaves troughs, 6-inch, galvanized? Sure, Ron!” Robert, manager of Canadian Tire, pointed outside to the yard. I chose the lengths I wanted, bought spikes, paid, and loaded all into my truck.
Once home, I unloaded and turned to the task of removing the old.
Odd! I thought. I’m sure I left the ladder on the north side of the house! Puzzled, I walked to the east side, then to the south and finally to the west side and back again. No ladder could I see!
For once, Donald A and Alex are right, I told myself. I’m way too busy. Can’t even remember where I left my ladder. Having a full-time job in Montreal doesn’t help. Open your eyes, Mackay! Look again! It must be right under your nose!
But the ladder had disappeared into thin air.
From their woodshed, Donald A and Alex, bottles in hand, watched me.
What’s that? I looked more closely. A third person! A lime green LTD parked by the farmhouse! I walked a few yards up my lane to get a better look. I should have known! Gerald MacKinnon! My ladder was tied to the roof of his automobile.
Furious, I began to jog towards my neighbours, then stopped. I can’t carry that heavy ladder back by myself! I turned to my truck.
Before I’d reached the end of my lane, Gerald’s lime green monster was already weaving unsteadily towards the west. My ladder swayed up and down like a boat on a rough sea.
I sped up. Then I stopped. He’s been drinking. What if he refuses to cooperate? I can’t risk an argument in public! Taking a deep breath, I drove to my neighbours’ woodshed instead.
Donald A smiled. Alex offered me a Molson’s. Lost for words, I brushed wood chips off their chopping block before sitting down, defeated.
Donald A stretched his legs and crossed his feet, a sure sign that he was ready to tell a long story. I wasn’t ready for a parable. But I can’t let my anger rip! I jerked the top off my Molson’s, took a large mouthful and sat in helpless silence.
“Gerald came for his ladder.” Donald A said evenly.
“My ladder.”
“Lent it him, dincha?”
“He borrowed it.”
“Took it back, dincha?”
“I need it.”
“Gerald ain’t finished.”
“Three months! He hasn’t even started!”
“Busy man, Gerald.” Donald A said it as if it were true.
I was angry. I know what busy is! Two full-time jobs! The brothers sat in silence, watching me. Are they trying to tell me something? I forced myself to relax. Took another, slower mouthful. Maybe I need to listen?
Alex found a new case hidden under the blocks of silver birch and handed a bottle to his brother. Donald A smiled and recrossed his feet.
“Listen up, Ron. This isn’t Montreal. Lend something to a neighbour? Wait till he brings it back.”
Alex, eyes accusing me, nodded.
Donald A began his story. “Remember old Laurence, Alex, ’member? ’Member how he once borrowed a set of infrared lamps for his day-old chicks…”
I half-listened. So much to learn about becoming a member of this community! I’m lucky to have these MacDonald brothers as my first neighbours. They’ve the time and the patience to teach me!
Gerald Mackinnon, 4th Line of Kenyon Township, Glengarry County1977
