Little Man
One of My Father’s Stories
My father was an amazing storyteller who packed a lot of life into 64 short years. He told me countless stories about his life and coming of age as a young Black, poor kid, one of 12 in eastern Canada during the Great Depression and WW2. For many years, I’ve been toying with recreating his stories and compiling them into a book. This is one of those stories.
December 1938 was colder than usual. The ground, while frozen, was only lightly dusted with snow. Rudy marched behind his father along the field and toward the woods. The pre-dawn air chilled him to the bone.
He shuffled proudly. His brown eyes twinkled with anticipation. He’d walked this same path all week, across the street, over the field and through the woods to work with his father. And today was Saturday, payday.
He could think of nothing but the feeling of the crisp $5 bill he’d have in his pocket at the end of the day. An honest week’s pay for an honest week’s work and right before Christmas too.
He remembered his father’s warning the Sunday night before, “If you’re coming to work with me,” his deep-set eyes narrow, “you got to work like a man. No fooling, no complaining. Keep up or keep out.” And for the entire week, he did. He worked alongside the men and kept up.
