to find a bed space for one, let alone two or three.
Grandfather was given a dormitory bed and meagre meals, and classes taught by local priests. And when he was old enough—eleven—he was told to find himself a job. The orphanage’s method of encouraging job hunting was to turn all boys over ten years of age out of doors after morning porridge. Thus Grandfather found himself wandering within the watching crowd one bright spring day, as the ice was cracking on the St. Lawrence River. It heaved house-sized blocks atop one another and over the banks, creating massive white dams, which diverted not only the bored and sensation-hungry residents of higher ground—who had nothing to fear—but the river itself. The first of the joyous rites of spring: the annual flooding had begun.
With a stolen clothesline and a spade—his first, but not his last—he walked down to the shore and saw thetenements of Griffintown sinking like the ghetto of Venice into canals where streets had been. Furniture and wooden boxes bobbed and drifted with the waves and the current; blocks of ice as big as trucks snapped signposts and broke whole door frames as they slammed past; dogs swam, happy or confused. Families were leaning out of upper-storey windows, calling for help or waiting it out. Neighbours from the ground floor and even higher were doubled up with relatives and friends still higher, if they were lucky. Some not so lucky were gathered blocks away, in the street above the high-water mark, with whatever they’d saved thrown into a pile; some were trying to start a fire to dry out. Here and there a boat went along the street, bringing bread and dry blankets to the stranded, throwing them in through windows.
Out of this misery, Grandfather created his first job.
He hunted along the shore until he found them: two lengths of wooden sidewalk not washed into the St. Lawrence, but dumped well up out of the swell into a cramped back lane. It was a large job for a young boy by himself to drag them into the street. He arranged them side by side and tied them together with his clothesline. Dragging and pushing, he finally got the damned things afloat, though he’d been soaked with frigid water up to his chest.
Hauling himself aboard with a grunt, he cast the spade over his head and the momentum lifted him to his raft, which pitched violently. The spade made a poor oar, and the raft tended to spin. He foundinstead a pole floating by and, taking it up, became a gondolier, ferrying the stranded to solid ground.
The job had its dangers. His ankles were always awash in filthy, freezing water; some customers insisted on overloading the raft and tumbling everyone and everything into the drink—for which Grandfather was not paid—or simply ignored his calls for payment. Grandfather quickly learned to get his cash up front, and was not one to bargain. Late in the day he’d come back to the orphanage exhausted, starving and shuddering, but with money in his hand.
Flooding was a short season, only a matter of days, so Grandfather worked as long and hard as he could. As the waters and the ice began to recede, the shoreline became a gauntlet of slime and mud, with half-buried objects or drowned cats or rats, and a hellish stench rising in the spring sun. It was a relief to get to the water and rinse his feet, even though it chilled them to the bone. Now, too, was when the unlucky ones were found: those caught by surprise, or too old or sick to flee when the warning came. The drowned.
Because his raft was large enough, Grandfather got the job of taking empty coffins around to the houses of the dead and bringing them full back to shore. Only one at a time would do, for a drowned corpse is waterlogged and heavy, and even one by itself was probably not safe, with the slats of the raft barely lifting above the brackish water.
It was a crowded district, this slum below the tracks, and though they’d been dealt a severe blow, the inhabitants, like anyone
Grandfather was given a dormitory bed and meagre meals, and classes taught by local priests. And when he was old enough—eleven—he was told to find himself a job. The orphanage’s method of encouraging job hunting was to turn all boys over ten years of age out of doors after morning porridge. Thus Grandfather found himself wandering within the watching crowd one bright spring day, as the ice was cracking on the St. Lawrence River. It heaved house-sized blocks atop one another and over the banks, creating massive white dams, which diverted not only the bored and sensation-hungry residents of higher ground—who had nothing to fear—but the river itself. The first of the joyous rites of spring: the annual flooding had begun.
With a stolen clothesline and a spade—his first, but not his last—he walked down to the shore and saw thetenements of Griffintown sinking like the ghetto of Venice into canals where streets had been. Furniture and wooden boxes bobbed and drifted with the waves and the current; blocks of ice as big as trucks snapped signposts and broke whole door frames as they slammed past; dogs swam, happy or confused. Families were leaning out of upper-storey windows, calling for help or waiting it out. Neighbours from the ground floor and even higher were doubled up with relatives and friends still higher, if they were lucky. Some not so lucky were gathered blocks away, in the street above the high-water mark, with whatever they’d saved thrown into a pile; some were trying to start a fire to dry out. Here and there a boat went along the street, bringing bread and dry blankets to the stranded, throwing them in through windows.
Out of this misery, Grandfather created his first job.
He hunted along the shore until he found them: two lengths of wooden sidewalk not washed into the St. Lawrence, but dumped well up out of the swell into a cramped back lane. It was a large job for a young boy by himself to drag them into the street. He arranged them side by side and tied them together with his clothesline. Dragging and pushing, he finally got the damned things afloat, though he’d been soaked with frigid water up to his chest.
Hauling himself aboard with a grunt, he cast the spade over his head and the momentum lifted him to his raft, which pitched violently. The spade made a poor oar, and the raft tended to spin. He foundinstead a pole floating by and, taking it up, became a gondolier, ferrying the stranded to solid ground.
The job had its dangers. His ankles were always awash in filthy, freezing water; some customers insisted on overloading the raft and tumbling everyone and everything into the drink—for which Grandfather was not paid—or simply ignored his calls for payment. Grandfather quickly learned to get his cash up front, and was not one to bargain. Late in the day he’d come back to the orphanage exhausted, starving and shuddering, but with money in his hand.
Flooding was a short season, only a matter of days, so Grandfather worked as long and hard as he could. As the waters and the ice began to recede, the shoreline became a gauntlet of slime and mud, with half-buried objects or drowned cats or rats, and a hellish stench rising in the spring sun. It was a relief to get to the water and rinse his feet, even though it chilled them to the bone. Now, too, was when the unlucky ones were found: those caught by surprise, or too old or sick to flee when the warning came. The drowned.
Because his raft was large enough, Grandfather got the job of taking empty coffins around to the houses of the dead and bringing them full back to shore. Only one at a time would do, for a drowned corpse is waterlogged and heavy, and even one by itself was probably not safe, with the slats of the raft barely lifting above the brackish water.
It was a crowded district, this slum below the tracks, and though they’d been dealt a severe blow, the inhabitants, like anyone
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