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What I remember is
By Peter Christensen
Op-Ed Commentary
My father was heavy powerful man, made his living cracking rocks with a sledgehammer to build the road between Radium and Banff, cut Christmas trees, lived in an uninsulated shack just north of Edgewater that is still standing.
After ‘the war’ he and his bride migrated to Central Alberta and took over a run-down farm that needed a strong back, faith, sons and fellowship with a community of farmers.
What I remember is
he was older, forty when he married
she having been through the war
they met in ‘37 during his pilgrimage
to the ‘old country’
there were no letters for seven years
wrote to her after the war in ’47 and asked
would she be his wife, come to Canada
start a new life
I admired his bruised workman’s’ hands
with which he kept an elegant log
while sitting at a plywood desk
in the corner of the bedroom
the commerce of his farm
the exact penciled arithmetic
never worked on Sundays
went to church at eleven,
Mother buried Sunday dinner in their bed
so it would be hot after service
then he would sleep
arms folded over his chest
in the gold-coloured armchair
placed in front of the south facing window
his callused hand occasionally found its way
across the side of my head, a stinging blow
that held anger and released it
I could be stupid, he hoped I had learned something
read the bible every morning
after devotions, a few novels
about heroes who lost their way
and found joy in returning to the fold
my favorite image is of him
climbing the small steel ladder
that let a man reach deep into the hopper of the combine
take a handful of grain
chew it, taste it, the chop falling from his mouth
measure for hardness the kernels of barley
for their keep worthiness
wait for the sun to dry the swath
what more could be granted
to a poor man whose desire became belief
in the lord god almighty
in grain, a family, a tractor, sons.
– Peter Christensen is a Columbia Valley based writer and poet
