The Tale of Two Roy's

My friends have often said that I need to learn how to say “no”. Sometimes life leads us on roads and trails for a purpose.
Way back in the mid-eighties my neighbour, Lornie Roulston, asked if I could lend a hand north of Kenora doing some training with a new de-limber. If you ever knew the late Lorne Roulston you would know he did not know the meaning of the word “no”. He was a man who was community-minded, always helping where he could. I said, “Sure Lornie, I would be glad to help out.”Down the dusty Jones Road I traveled, brought out the limber; and met the guys he had to run it. The bunchers and grapple skidders were stockpiling the tree lengths at the wrong angle for the limber. The operators had never run anything other that a cable skidder before, we gave them a basic lesson on the unit and they went to work.My accommodation was a belittled shack in the bush, next to some old trailers and broken down pickup trucks on the edge of a gravel pit. What had I gotten myself into? This was going to be a long week down the Jones road.One of the trailers parked in the bush was a tiny little shell, its door open wide. A man sat inside, elbows on his knees, head down, staring at the floor. He ran his hands through his hair, combing back the long black strands. It was hot, very hot; he sat in the shade, in the trailer. I did a double take, watching him sit there alone. He finally looked up and our eyes met.“Roy?” I asked, in disbelief, “Uncle Roy?” He smiled as he heard my voice.Roy was the guy who drove those big old shiny cars way back when we all use to gather in Prawda Manitoba when I was a child. He had men working for him, trucks, skidders, and a fancy house on the east highway. What had happened?In the corner of the trailer stood a 22 rifle. Roy motioned with his eyes to the gun.“Many times I’ve thought about shooting myself,” and then smiling, “but I have this terrible habit of surviving.” More smiles. He told me about how a relative of his was always in trouble. He kept bailing him out of jail or paying off bad loans for him. Eventually Roy lost his skidder and his truck. Now he was running someone else’s old beat up skidder. No safety pants or mitts, living his life alone in the bush.It was just like Roy to help anyone in trouble; it was just life to him.
I invited Uncle Roy to Ear Falls and he showed up a few weeks later. He had a huge grin like he always did. His uncle in Toronto had passed away and left Roy his entire estate. Roy was headed down easy street. I went with him out to the bush to pick up that old trailer. He wouldn’t need to cut wood anymore.That summer we fished, worked on my trailer, made perogies and had many cold beers together. We found his old canoe on a small pothole lake down the Windfall road (Roy’s lake) and made the time to smile a lot. Roy had a great, wonderful smile.Over the next few years Roy came back to visit often. On one of his last visits with me we put up 47 sheets of drywall, mucked and taped and worked hard together. Roy had a bad cough. Was it the dust of the drywall that made him cough? Some months later my father called to invite himself fishing. He had something to tell me. We went out on the lake. He told me that while Roy lay on his death bed he sat up and said to his sister Ruth,“ I am going to the other side.” Ruth said, “ You’re not going anywhere, you’re too sick.” Roy argued, “ I’m not afraid to go.”At fifty-six, Roy went to the other side without fear, without anger, a man of wit and humor. A man that I had never heard say an unkind word about anyone. Someone, who in my childhood, was one of my role models. Now he was someone I’d never had a chance to say good-bye to. The canoe lays in the grass on the edge of Roy’s lake, down the Windfall Road, right where Roy left it years ago.