the Walnut Diary

We moved back to Forfar after graduation, and Bet and I soon decided to build a house.  Dad severed the orchard on the top of the hill for our use, and banker Greg MacNamee agreed to finance the project on no more than a signature until I could arrange a mortgage in the fall.  It was an exciting summer for a couple in their very early twenties, but by October 15^th we had the building up and were ready to move in to meet a deadline for the grant the province offered that year to new home buyers.

The only problem was the tile bed.  Young’s Hill is a drumlin.  That’s a pile of very coarse gravel, so coarse, in fact, that I could never get a machine operator to return to the site for a second day.  Mixed in with the boulders is a layer of clay.  My dad’s tractor had a good loader, but it lacked the traction to do any meaningful work among the rocks in the clay.

Our neighbour Ross Stone got wind of this, and before long a brand new, four wheel drive Fiat tractor turned up on the site.  Ross didn’t say much beyond a few encouraging words, but that Fiat made all of the difference.  The thing was just wonderful with its four driving wheels, differential lock, power steering and large bucket.  Over the three or four days that I hogged the Stone Family’s best tractor, I carried several truckloads of weeping stone into an impossible location and built a perfect substrate for the tile.  Then I laid the pipes and carefully straddled them with the tractor as I put the covering stone on to complete the aggregate work.

When the inspector looked at the job he complimented me on the accuracy of the grades, if not the site’s neatness.

Ross seemed a bit embarrassed by my gratitude when I returned the Fiat, but he made it clear that if we needed help in any other way, we should just let him know.  Over the years when we met occasionally Ross was always friendly, but what struck me was how carefully he listened when others talked to him.  From what I could see Ross never interfered or offered unsolicited advice, but he proved quick to help, if needed.

Ross passed away this year, but in the community his wife Marion and sons Lloyd, Grant and David carry on the gentle tradition of the Stone Family.

A little while after we built the house on Young’s Hill, Johnny Chant gave me permission to hunt grouse in his woodlot which adjoined Myles Young’s gravel pit.  At the time I was an ardent collector of lumber for furniture, and I discovered this outstanding cherry tree in the northwest corner of John’s property.   At 24″ in diameter at the stump, tall and straight, it was easily the largest black cherry I had ever seen, and I wanted it.

I ran into John at an event in Forfar Hall and began negotiations with an offer of $100 for the tree.  John responded, “Get permission from Mylie to take the log out across his property, then cut the tree and let the fence down where you can.  We’ll talk later about how much the log is worth.”

Myles and my dad were agreeable, so one hot August day I dropped the tree  and then faced the task of pulling a 20′  log up a very steep slope to the top of the hill.  Dad’s draught horses had plenty of power for the task, but the harness wasn’t as strong as they were.  Several whiffle trees shattered, an evener, even a tug needed repairs before the sweating Belgians made it up over the summit and out to the flat land in Young’s pit.  Four smaller logs came easily.  It hadn’t crossed my mind to cut the large one up into shorter pieces.

I worked a day repairing the fence and loading the logs onto the hay wagon with Dad’s tractor.  Then off I went to Lyndhurst and Don McGregor’s mill with my load.  The tree produced four hundred board feet of fine, wide boards.  I was ecstatic.

I went to see John, prepared to double my offer for the log.  “I’ll take twenty dollars,” he said.

I gaped, “But that tree gave me 400 board feet of choice lumber.  When it’s dry it will be worth a small fortune!”

John smiled knowingly.  “That cherry was dying.  If it wasn’t cut it wouldn’t be worth anything in a year.  What’s more, it was growing on the steepest hill in this country.  How much harness did your dad’s horses break pulling the logs up that slope?  Then you had to cut and mend the fence, load the logs, haul them down to Don’s, pay for the sawing and haul them home.  That took time and fuel, as well.  Those boards will be worth some money, but they won’t be ready to use for five years, so until then they’re just an expense to you for storage and piling.  Now if you do the arithmetic, you’ll realize that my price of twenty dollars is exactly what that tree was worth.”

I handed him the twenty and shook his hand.  I’d been bested by an expert in the art of neighbouring.

Forfar is the less for the loss this year of these two excellent men.