Prince Rupert Station Yard /II
continued...

I grappled with the bar on the frayed wood floor hoping to avoid splinters, while trying to pick the damn thing up. It was cold, hard and very heavy.

I recalled in grade six doing research for the project everybody in the school (and most schools at the time) was involved with on Confederation, seeing pictures of laborers -Chinese and white- at the sides of the rails leaning into their labours using long staff like things. If these were the same, I figured I was either going to break this summer or get into some really good shape despite my skinny 19 year old frame.

Dragging one end of the first 'pick' on the floor, I was able to negotiate my way out of the shed to the side of the "car" which had it's wheels affixed to the sides of the rails on the spur. Even though I wore leather workman's gloves, I could feel the chaffing on the skin of my palms. The thought hit me like a slap in the face how I would complain in the autumn when raking the leaves with my dad, about the blisters forming on my palms. In my minds eye, I could see Jimmy Williams back in grade 10 up on the high bars being coached by Mr. Peterson. Despite the gymnast gloves and chalk used, he had callouses upon callouses on his hands. They were like thick pads of leather. I was seriously wondering now, how long I could take this. Whoever coined the saying was right. "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it."

The sun was just blinking through the trees from the East. It had already done so in Montreal I imagined some three hours ago. There was a mist shrouding the yard, but there was no covering the ever-present smell of tar coming from the piles of rail ties.

I had managed to pull three picks out in about four minutes and was seriously considering a break and some coffee from my thermus.

A little ways over, by the side of the track, lit up from behind in silhouette, a small crowd was gathering to watch my progress. Everyone was in gray coveralls and billy boots topped with the CN helmet. The morning quiet was littered with bits of language I could not place coming from the group. It sounded like a combination of Hindi or Pakistani, some Greek and there was some other language which turned out to be Portugese. There was one thing they all had in common - their apparent delight in watching skinny white guy trying to lug the pry bar picks.

Off to the side of this giggling coterie of linguistic jibber-jabber, (which I would grow used to over the course of the summer), a loner sat, on his CN helmet no less, one leg draped over the knee of the other, the upper foot rocking up and down ever so nonchalantly. He was was smiling, shaking his head and it was at that point the realization dawned upon me that I was the source of some hilarity.

"OK guys - help him out!"
They all moved at once .
It was the man who had given me the instruction in the first place.
There were some more picks left in the shed.

"Put it down and watch." he said to me, chuckling still.

He went into the shed, bent at the knees lifting two at a time in the mid section and passed them to the others. They hoisted the bars in smooth swings onto their shoulders and then gently put them into the 'work car'. He put his arm around my shoulder and walked me over to the group.
As the sun rose, his face emerged magically from the dark. He must have been in his fifties, but he was built like me only fuller in the arms and shoulders. His hair was silver and rust. Life had etched mystic runes upon the tawny leather above and beneath the eyes. His smile was warm. Instinctively, I knew I had an ally - a guide .
"Welcome to the gang kid. I'm Jacob or as most call me - Jake."
He extended a bony hand and I, gratefully, shook it.

Wednesday May 1976
Journal Entry

My first day at work went very well...considering...that my day consists of 11 hours of very hard manual labour.

My muscles have gone stiff on me as I write. I shall have to take a bath down the hall. My room is without toilet facilities; just a bed, a shelf, and old stove. The milk I kept on the windowsill thinking it would stay cool has curdled.

After work I made my way over to a book store in the small mall. There was a friendly lady behind the cash.

"People in this town seem nice," I said, " But they are unlike other small towns I have been in, in that I sense a general 'holding back' from strangers which I suppose is only natural."

She considered what I had said for a moment, given I suppose that I was the 'stranger' and she of course, one of the towns people. The words had already slipped out of my mouth, too late to snatch them back.

"Outsiders", she said slowly, peering at my soiled jeans, dirty hands while appreciating my unmistakable musk of sweat, kerosene and creosote, " generally come in to Prince Rupert on their way to somewhere's-else and take jobs for a while, that the town-folk might otherwise have. When they have made their money - they disappear."

"Would you like the key to the city with that ?" Handing me the purchased book, she winked. And there it was again... the smile.