As a kid, summer holidays at my cousins was like living in an episode of Darling Buds of May.
Jack (second eldest of nine) taught me the questionable joys of milking cows by hand.
How to drive cats mad, then satisfy, with a wavering stream of hot milk straight from the teat.
Showed me, although I’d never have the knack, how to strip down an old “junker”, get its last mile, fly up a river hill flat out, spin ‘till the engine choked, ease down without rolling.
Taught me what it meant to stack green hay bales until your muscles were hard and your back brown from the sun.
Showed me how to spit and split wood.
How to get dyed yellow and scratched bloody from rogueing wild mustard and Canada thistle in a 40-acre oat field.
How to swim in a muddy river, or swim out beyond a lake shore smothered by algae.
How to go through a chunk of summer without shoes.
How to snare a weasel, skin a beaver, things that didn’t take, but fascinated me because Jack — tireless, tumble-down-a-hill, fleshed-out-Huck-Finn — did them.
I was there when he played the clown at an auction sale: walking into machinery, rolling in the grass, making me roll with laughter. Finally told to stop because the auctioneer couldn’t keep the crowd.
He had cracked-clay, hardpan patches in his life. He gave up much, lost more.
At times, he was taken advantage of, responded without retribution.
Had that kind of heart.
Had that kind of uncluttered, unencumbered faith.
He never thought to make a mark.
Never concerned himself with grand schemes.
Was not sophisticated. Fact is, he scoffed at sophistication. Not with words,
but by quietly living without our culture’s blinding self-consciousness and preening competitiveness.
It was Paul Ricoeur who wrote about a second naiveté, a spiritual progression from face-value thinking, through critical reflection, to a kind of reengaged innocence.
But Ricoeur didn’t know Jack. Jack was born to it. For him, all three were one in the same.
Which made him a giving person. The kind Jesus was thinking of when he coined, “salt of the earth.”
One winter morning after a Saskatchewan snowstorm; radio warned of impassible roads. But there were chores that needed doing. My dad was cautious, said, “Chickens can wait for the snow plow.” But Jack had no qualms. And I was up for the ride.
The farm was four miles from town. We made it three. Smacked through a dozen drifts, hard white waves hitting the hull of the one-ton Ford. Jack, hammering the gas pedal between drifts, but we were slowing with each one, the snow coming higher, flying over the windshield.
The last drift was mean. High and crusted hard. Stopped us like a nail hitting a knot. Killed the engine. Jack looked surprised. Jumped out, started shovelling. Steel grain shovel arching, swinging with rockabilly rhythm and I thought the truck might start moving on its own.
I tried to help. Pulled snow from around the engine. Jack worked the packed blizzard out from under the body, axles, then made a trail through the drifts ahead.
Under the crystals hanging in the distance, he was a dervish blur of snow and steam. I stood watching, freezing in the minus 30, arms hanging, hands going numb, thumbs folded in palms inside my leather mitts.
Jack was back at the truck, grinning, “Lets give her a go.” Then noticed, said, “Your freezing, give me your hands.”
He took them both into his. And we stood there, in front of the truck grille. His hands hot, radiating, thawing mine.
The truck kicked to life.
He rocked it back and forth. Took a few runs and broke free.
And that’s just how he lived.
And I’m guessing, how he died.
The last time I talked to Jack (too long ago), I asked him how he was doing. He said, “If I was any happier they’d have to put me away.”
Jack’s affluence was life. Because of that, today, the world proper, is a little poorer.
That was so perfect Steve and a perfect match to his photo. I can see him so vividly in all those experiences you had with him.. and I know many more. Thanks for this.
I am so sad for his passing – for his family, siblings and us, his cousins.
Thanks Joanne. And yes, these early memories and others are still vivid after all these years.
I’m glad to have met Jack on the occasions where I did, but this narrative & description of his character perfectly reflects what I’d seen of him and heard about him. Thanks so much for writing this.
Thank you Nolan. Really appreciate that.
What a great blessing to have shared a life
and these memories.
Sorry for your loss my friend.
Thanks so much Tamara.
Cousin Jack reminds me of some relatives from Upper Michigan. I am so sorry for your loss, but thank you for letting us get to know Jack a little through your words and memories.
Thank you Diane.
Jack’s grounded nature reminded me of this:
“There is no one so great as the one who does not try to accomplish anything.” – Masanobu Fukuoka
Such an intimate and heart warming tribute
Thank you for kind encouragement Ananda. And that’s a wonderful quote.
Jack was one of a kind…an infectious laugh, a personality of his own a strong work ethic and love of family. Thanks Steve for all the memories of Jack
He was indeed! Thank you Paul.
Steve you are a word artist. That drive to feed chickens is a keeper, a lot better than a video of the whole thing. I am guessing that was in the seventies? Very comforting to hear that. Though we couldn’t have been more opposite (reading a book pained him; thankfully I never tried to track a moose), he leaves a huge gap. Right now I can’t imagine home.
Thank you so much Gus! Yes, sometime in the 70s, farming, but living in the remodeled store in town. I feel too, that huge gap you speak of.
I had very many happy hours in that store. The only place where I could watch TV. It was always so warm and cozy. And I think I remember a visit when you were there with Debbie. I so looked forward to Berg visits. Unfortunately they became very scarce in my life. I will be very diligent to try and get a few more.
Thanks, Gus, I remember that visit, and many others, that store/house/home was able to accommodate the entire crew of us. And warm it was. It was, and is still, in my mind, the axis mundi of my growing up, maybe not always an oasis, but always a place I could retreat to, in spite of all my days of misspending.
Thanks for sharing all these stories of my uncle Jack. As is so often the case, those of us left now wish we could have known the person we have lost a bit more. Your narrative makes me wish that as an adult I had taken the opportunity to go to Camp Konkel and spend more time with my Konkel relatives, and gotten to know Jack better.
Thank you Melanie! I think we all understand that ‘wish’, and how, too often, life crowds in, and we forget to take the time.
Thanks so much for this, Steve – and of course much more could be written. What comes to mind now – one of the things – was the size of his arms and hands – witness to the work he did.
Oh my yes, and not one day in some gym! So true, much more could be written. Thanks for this Sam.
So very sorry for your loss and thrilled you enjoyed so many incredible experiences with him. Our condolences to you and all who loved him.
Thank you so much, Rianne.