ROBERT D. McCLINCHEY looks back at a long and fruitful life in this memoir, beginning with his birth on the family farm in 1926. Growing up in East Wawanosh Township in Ontario, he found plenty of adventure-often getting into mischief with his six siblings. The family worked together, struggled together and had fun together. From an early age, one of the keys to Robert's life was music, which the family enjoyed playing together. Whenever he played the fiddle, he was at peace with himself and others. It also led him to his late wife of 58 years, Frances. In 1950, the two were married. In this candid look back at his long life, Robert remembers his varied careers, including fisherman, pool hustler, machinist, mechanic, ice-road trucker, gasoline station attendant, road-builder, snowplow operator, bus driver, farmer and syrup maker. More importantly, he explores what it means to be a husband, father, grandfather and great-grandfather while being a Jack of All Trades and Master of None.

Jack of All Trades and Master of None

an inventory of my life and timesBy Robert D. McClinchey Gregory W. McClinchey

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Robert D. McClinchey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4024-4

Contents

Author's Note.......................................ixForeword............................................1A Fall off the Mangel Wagon.........................3A Trip to the Cellar................................9Poor Pete...........................................12Fiddling to the Mill................................16A Pox on the House..................................19Wilf, Harvey and Me.................................22A Smelly Lesson Learned.............................25Teeswater Fair......................................28An Apple in the Eye.................................31Fire in the Belly...................................34Fowl Tempered.......................................37Stompin' Bob........................................40The War at Home.....................................44Memories and Milford's Tow..........................47Eighteen Wheels ... of Cheese.......................51My Door Was Always Open.............................55Miss Frances........................................61Setting the Date and the Course.....................65Fifty Acres of Near Poverty.........................71Building a Future...................................77A Super Test........................................83The Grand View from Here............................87Back to Bus-ness....................................92Wednesday Night Class...............................95One Last Home Together..............................106Epilogue............................................112Appendix 1..........................................115Appendix 2..........................................117

Chapter One

A Fall off the Mangel Wagon

When you look back at your life, the greatest happinesses are family happinesses. —Dr. Joyce Brothers

I was born quite young on a frosty Tuesday, January 19, 1926. As was the custom at the time, I was born at home on the farm rather than in a hospital, as commonly happens today. My father, Edward Gordon McClinchey (1899–1989), was the second-youngest son of John McClinchey and his wife, Julia Daer, of Irish/German descent. On the other side of the family tree, my mother, Lillian Dell Anderson (1904–1988), was the daughter of William Anderson and Florence Patterson, who were of English and Scottish ancestry, respectively. Together, through the Great Depression and WWII, my father and mother raised a happy and healthy family of five boys and two girls. In addition to me, the McClinchey family eventually consisted of Eileen Florence (July 22, 1927), William John (May 25, 1929), Lillian Jewel (March 25, 1933), Norman Gordon (July 14, 1935), David Edward (April 25, 1940) and John Currie (November 7, 1944).

My earliest memories of home take me back to our simple life of a hundred-acre farm two miles north of Auburn, on Lot 28, Concession 3 of East Wawanosh Township (83609 Donnybrook Line, Auburn). Today that same farm is owned by my brother Norman McClinchey and his wife, Lila. But before Norman assumed ownership of the family homestead, it was my mother who used her formidable skills and talents as a former schoolteacher to corral and wrangle her energetic children, to care for a busy husband and to keep a house for a growing and rambunctious family. She was a tremendous homemaker, and looking back I have often wondered how she managed to do it all so effectively without using the many modern household conveniences and gadgets, such as a freezer, an automatic washer, a refrigerator or a microwave, many of which are taken for granted by today's families.

As the wife of a busy farmer, in addition to her role as mother, nurse and primary caregiver to seven children, my mother never failed to prepare three hearty meals each and every day. This, coupled with the ongoing necessity of churning butter; canning and preserving fruits, vegetables and meats for the winter months; and washing and repairing a never-ending pile of clothes meant the days were long and arduous. Despite this endless to-do list, my parents always made time for family.

For example, once the work was done on Saturday nights, we would all head to Auburn where my brothers, sisters and I would receive our weekly allowance of 10 or 15 cents. With our pockets jingling full of our newfound wealth, we would dash off to the store where a five-cent ice cream cone, or perhaps some liquorice candy, awaited us. This was also the day when Mom and Dad would socialize with the neighbours and stock up on essential household supplies for the week ahead.

But Saturday night was not the only time when the McClinchey family headed to town. After the chores were done early each Sunday morning, the entire family would don our Sunday best, harness the team and head off to Sunday school and Sunday service at the nearby Auburn United Church. Following the homily, we would spend the rest of the day visiting friends and relatives, enjoying fiddle music and filling up on home cooking and fellowship for all. Put another way, we were building memories that were to last a lifetime.

One of my earliest childhood memories stems from when I was very young, perhaps 2 or 3 years old. My mother and father were taking up mangels near the back end of the farm and loading them onto a wagon. There was a time when mangels were a common crop, but for those who may not be old enough to know what mangels are, they are also known as "fodder beets." Mangels are very easy to grow, producing large roots that store well. The mangel roots grow quite large, in some cases up to two feet long, and in days gone by, these hearty roots were used as a staple food for cattle. In emergency situations, the roots and leaves could be prepared for human consumption in a way not unlike the sugar beet. Father always grew a few rows of mangels to pulp for cattle feed, and every night each of the horses received a mangel to munch on as a reward for the day's work. He even split a couple for the hens to pick at as he claimed they were good for their digestive systems.

On one of our many mangel-pulling days, I guess Father and Mother forgot about me playing on and around the wagon, and as they advanced the wagon down the row, a small thump and a loud whimper quickly jogged their memories. On that particular occasion I had opted to play in the path of the wagon, and to my detriment, I quickly found myself under a heavily loaded mangel wagon. All jokes aside about falling off the turnip—or mangel—truck, my mother was less than impressed with the entire ordeal. I still remember her frantically gathering me up and carrying me the entire way back to the house, followed by an eventual checkup with Dr. Weir. Although my injuries were not critical or apparently long-lasting, I vividly remember a sharp pain on the left side of my body. Today, despite the subsequent eighty-plus years since my run-in with a mangel wagon, I still have a clear memory and an occasional weakness on my left side as a result of that day. Given what might have been, I guess I should consider myself pretty lucky that I am still here to pen this story.

Chapter Two

A Trip to the Cellar

He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it. —Clarence Budington Kelland

My father was tough but fair, and generally it wasn't a good idea to cross him. He was certainly not unjust or mean, but my brothers, sisters and I knew the rules, and more to the point, we know what would almost certainly happen once Father learned of any transgressions should we decide to step over the line. With the benefit of hindsight, I have to respect him for his even and reasoned temperament, even if I didn't really appreciate these virtues at the time. In the same vein, I drew many of my other life lessons from my father, whether I knew it at the time or not. Just as I would eventually become, my father was really a jack of all trades, something you had to be in those days if you were to be a successful farmer. Unlike modern farming operations, a breakdown in the 1920s, '30s or '40s was something that was usually dealt with onsite, by the farmer, rather than by an outside expert or specialist. With time, money and the availability of certain outside skills all in limited supply, survival required Father to be a mechanic, a machinist, a mill operator, a labourer and a herdsman all rolled into one.

In addition to his own chores and responsibilities, my father never failed to help our neighbours butcher cattle, doctor sick animals or deal with other on-farm emergencies as they developed.

I remember one such instance when Billie Boyle, who operated the General Store in St. Augustine, found himself stuck in a sinkhole on the side road not far from our gate. Being early spring, the frost was almost gone and the gravel roads were pretty soft in places. As a result, father had a near full-time job pulling cars out of the mud with his team of horses. In the case of Billie Boyle, he joked that the McClinchey family must make a pretty penny by pulling passersby out of this wet and muddy hole night and day.

My father, never one to miss an opportunity for a quip, replied, "We don't pull anyone out at night because that is when we haul the water to muddy the road ..."

Billie scoffed as if to sarcastically suggest that he believed what Father was saying. Father howled with laughter and went back to his work. My father had a very active sense of humour and never took himself or his work too seriously. Perhaps that is why he lived such a long and healthy life.

Another of my father's distractions, perhaps an even greater one than his unique sense of humour, was his love of music and, in particular, fiddle music. He was known to occasionally grab the fiddle and play for a house party or a dance if asked. He was quite a capable amateur player for certain, but with a glass or two of the right liquid lubrication under his belt (unbeknownst to Mother), his playing was elevated to a whole new level. In later years, as a fiddle player myself, I have come to appreciate the value of a small nip while playing for or with friends. In Father's case, the choice drink of the day was a well-aged apple cider. Father always had a 40-gallon barrel on hand for emergencies. When a neighbour or two arrived at the door for an impromptu card game, the first thing that appeared was a pitcher of the good stuff. He also kept a batch of dandelion wine on the go as a back-up ... just in case.

As a kid, I have more than a couple of memories of our secret trips to the cellar for a sample sip from the bottles stashed carefully on the shelves. One day, I even recall Father telling his hired man that his dandelion wine must be evaporating through the corks so he'd put a pencil mark on the bottle to monitor that "evaporation" a bit more closely. In hindsight, I am absolutely sure he knew very well what was causing the unexplained evaporation, but he opted to give us a little leeway. In any event, we were much more careful, and a little more creative, during our less frequent trips to the cellar. Armed with our newfound understanding of Father's monitoring system, and a pencil of our own, we simply adjusted the pencil marks on each bottle following each visit. Despite our ingenuity, I suspect he knew what was actually afoot although he never admitted it, nor did he question us about it.

Father was also particular in his organizational approach. He was quite strict about putting a fork, shovel, hammer or any other tool back in its proper place once they were no longer required for the job at hand. He expected a dirty shovel to be cleaned thoroughly before it was returned to the shed or barn, and he could be quite crusty if he later found an improperly cleaned tool hanging in its place. As a child, I was more than once found guilty of this terrible crime, but with the benefit of a few more years' experience, I now appreciate and have adopted his meticulous approach to tool care in my own life. I may even have passed it along to my own son. I guess the apple never falls too far from the cider jug.

Chapter Three

Poor Pete

If variety is the spice of life, then recreation is the sugar. —Kimberly Grandal

In the days before radio and television, one of the McClinchey family's favourite winter recreational activities involved each other and music. Once our chores and supper were done, the entire family would retire to the parlour to play some old-time, toe-tapping, family-gathering music before bed. Father would take the lead on the fiddle, Mother would tickle the ivories of the piano and I would strum away on a guitar—or whatever else was available at the time. This evening "music time" at home served as the backdrop to some of my favourite memories growing up and, in many ways, that important tradition has lived on into my own family and home life years later. Just as I passed many enjoyable evenings with my father and mother in this way, as a parent myself I was often known to take to the fiddle, my wife to the piano and my son to the guitar for an evening of memories and enjoyment. That love of old-time music, instilled in me as a child, is, for me, a defining aspect of my life in my youth and throughout my adult years.

In addition to music, given that work was such an important part of life on the farm, we also tried to find fun wherever we were. To help with the work, my father hired a man to help with the labour until his children were old enough to be useful on the farm. The hired man's name was Norman Wilson and Norm stayed with us for seven years. In this time period, Auburn had a championship baseball team and Norm was their catcher. Between chores, in the evenings and on certain select Sundays, I used to catch the ball for him when he practised. I am not sure how good I actually was, but I suspect that playing with Norm taught me to love baseball, a sport that remains a favourite of mine to this day.

In addition to his abilities on the diamond, Norm was also good with horses. In those days, the plowing, cultivating and most other heavy farm work was done with a team of large Clydesdale horses. These horses weighed upward of a ton each, and with the distinctive personalities of each animal at play, it took a skilled and patient hand to make them do what was expected of them. In addition to the Clydesdales, Father also kept a team of light horses for sleigh and cutter work and to deliver the mail. As a way of augmenting the family income, Father regularly delivered the mail on Rural Route #2, out of Auburn. Beginning in Auburn and heading north to St. Augustine, west through Dungannon and then back to Auburn, the 30-mile trip was often marred by snow, blizzards, hail, heavy rain and sweltering heat, but as the saying goes, the mail must get through. I remember several days when Father would be as late as 11:00 p.m. arriving home from the mail route for supper. These were the difficult realities of rural living in those days.

Similarly, I remember when one of our heavy horses, the one we called Pete, developed lockjaw and couldn't eat or drink.

In the 1940s there was no cure for lockjaw, so after a couple of weeks, Pete passed away. Unfortunately, the concept of an external dead-stock removal service was still several years away, so when an animal died, large or small, it had to be disposed of on-farm—by hand. I can still remember Father and Norm digging a grave, with hand shovels, for hours in an effort to excavate a hole big enough to accommodate Pete's tremendously large frame. After nearly an entire day's work, the imposing hill on the north side of the barn became Pete's final resting place. The loss of an animal like that was a horrible blow to the entire farming operation, especially given the difficult times associated with the Great Depression. Despite this, we needed to continue, and as he always did Father fixed the problem in a matter of days by acquiring Pete's successor. Depression or no depression, there was no time to waste.

Chapter Four

Fiddling to the Mill

I never did a day's work in my life. It was all fun. —Thomas A. Edison

The Maitland River ran by our home farm and served as a nearby source of fun and recreation. From the front door of the house it was just a five-minute walk for swimming, picnicking or fishing, the latter of which being one of my favourite pastimes as a child and as an adult.

The river was a great place to wash up and cool off after a long day spent harvesting or haying in the summer sun. There was a big rock in the centre of the river that was perfectly set as a diving platform and place to cast a line from. Black bass were plentiful and were a frequent catch, much to Father's delight. He claimed that black bass were the best pan fish going. In addition to bass, we used to catch the odd rainbow trout where the stream entered the river and we could quite often catch enough speckled trout for a meal from the streams within walking distance of the farm. The Maitland River was one of the best local places to fish, and unlike today its clean water was a great source of countless hours of fishing and splashing for my brothers and me.

Those same hot and humid days that we loved as children also presented a challenge for our parents. In the days before household refrigeration and electric lighting, most of the neighbours belonged to a "beef ring." In simple terms, a beef ring is a group of neighbours who formed an association whereas they could have fresh beef delivered to their homes throughout the summer months. Each week one of the farmers in the group would supply a suitable animal to be slaughtered and divided among the members of the ring. Each family would have meat bags with their name on them, and the person who supplied the animal would be responsible for delivering the meat to the rest of the group. As an additional "perk" the person supplying the animal would also be permitted to keep the heart, liver and various other desirable yet limited parts. Today this might not be seen as a bonus, but in those days, the iron- and protein-rich organ meat was a real treat that was in relative short supply. To my recollection, the communal slaughterhouse was just west of St. Augustine and the butcher of choice was Tom Webster. His job was to slaughter and prepare the animal and then divide the spoils appropriately and fairly between all members of the beef ring. I can still remember going with my father to ensure that these bags of meat were delivered to all the neighbours when our turn came. In many ways, I wonder if it was the diversity of these early years that led me toward a jack-of-all-trades approach to life in my later years.

As the summer months faded and winter began to emerge, as kids we always looked forward to wagon or sleigh rides to the nearby community of Auburn. Often the trip was to the grist mill to have our grain ground so it could be used for cattle feed. The mill's giant grinding wheel, which was owned and operated by Harold Bogie until 1944, was powered entirely by water in those early years. Subsequent to that, between 1944 and 1953, the mill was under the ownership and day-to-day management of Warner Andrews. In an effort to achieve greater efficiency and reliability, Warner installed a diesel engine, which was used to power the mill until its eventual demise under the ownership of Worthy McNee.

I remember it costing about five cents to grind a bag of grain and it was not unusual for the entire process to take several hours. Often, while we were waiting for the chop to be ready, we would call on George Hamilton, a friend of Father's who lived nearby. Mr. Hamilton played the fiddle and usually had a generous supply of well-aged cider on hand. Of course these factors attracted my father, a man who enjoyed both the fiddle and cider. Mr. Hamilton and my father would joke back and forth about the barrel number of the cider, and after several songs and multiple pitchers of the good stuff, we would head out to pick up the chop and then go home. Father always seemed to be in much better twist during the trip home.

(Continues...)

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