Rose Coloured Memories

By Jack Elliott
Correspondent

Herman was waxing poetic. Besides, a guilty conscience needed cleansing. The burden over the years was increasing to the point, he could scarcely tolerate it. The matter came to a head at the debating table at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek the other week as the tale of Pickle tuning the Runt’s tiller was unfolding.
Herman is part of the early shift at morning coffee, pausing half-way through his morning constitutional to partake of an order of raisin toast with peanut butter AND jam- the added jam is five cents extra. Herman’s order had just arrived and he was in the middle of the delicate task of completing an even spread when a tear rolled down his cheek. At first it seemed he was having a good laugh, but then the corners of his mouth turned down and he confessed.
“You know having a unit get away on you is no laughing matter. Someone could get seriously injured, let alone the potential for property damage,” he lectured in somber voice.
“Why Herman? Did you lose the brakes on a unit running the grade into Thunder Bay?” I asked sure he was talking about his days on the railroad.
Herman paused in mid stroke of mortaring his second slice of toast and stated, “Oh no, it had nothing to do with work,” and continued the sticky process licking the excess off one hand.
“Well what was it,” I demanded not willing to let him off the hook.
Herman sighed, set his toast down, inspected his coffee cup before holding it out for a refill and pushed back his chair at last resigned to spilling the beans.
“A bunch of winters ago, I went to fire up the snow machine. It was a tough sucker to start. You had to do it just right,” he started finally ready to make a clean breast of it.
“Before I figured out the proper routine, I’d pull on that starter cord, cranking for half an hour without success. Ruined the rotator cup in my right shoulder and couldn’t play ball one season and was off work for nearly a full year,” Herman recalled with obvious pain.
“Wow! Off work for a year that must have hurt the old pocketbook,” I noted trying mentally to tally up the amount.
“Nah, managed to get covered by a compensation claim. Wrecked my shoulder lining a stiff switch. But I sure missed the baseball, even if I did get in a lot of good fishing that year,” claimed Herman dismissing the potential hardship.
“Anyways I finally figured out to start the beast up you had to hold the throttle full open with one hand and give a good pull with the other. She’d start first pull every time and if it jerked ahead, when your hand was pulled off the throttle it stopped,” he added as heads knowledgeable on snow machine techniques nodded with approval.
“That particular morning was extra frosty and when it fired up, the machine shot ahead and kept on going. The throttle was stuck full open. It jumped the ditch and the snow bank, shot across the road and came right back at me,” remembered Herman the fear still plain on his face.
“Then the beast bounced off the bank and headed for the neighbours trailer, but got distracted by his garbage cans. Hit ‘em dead on and then died. Took me an hour to stop shaking,” he concluded once again concentrating on his toast.
“Told the neighbour, dogs tipped over his garbage, but I’d managed to run ‘em off with my snow machine. Even volunteered to help him clean up the mess, but he had it all cleaned up by the time I’d finished coffee.”
His mind now at ease following confession, Herman pushed back to continue his walk. He concluded, “Didn’t see any point in telling the truth at the time, besides, he needed new garbage cans.”