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Becoming a Man

© Florence Cardinal

Dust like a January blizzard engulfed the makeshift wagon, turning the grimy canvas cover a dingier shade of grey. Bone- thin horses snorted to clear clogged nostrils.

Sandy grit penetrated everywhere, sifted down shirt collars, mingled with sweat beneath hat bands to create smudged rivulets on leathery faces. Arid prairie soil tainted even the bitter, chicory-laced coffee. The atmosphere was heavy with the dust of shattered dreams as the drought of the Thirties left its searing impression on Saskatchewan farmsteads.

William worked with intense concentration on a gift for his mother. Perched in the rear of the wagon, he whittled, first quickly, because her birthday was only three days away, and then slowly because the intricacy of the design required precision. His ten-year-old mind imagined the finished article, a prairie rose in remembrance of the flowers that once bloomed beside the cabin they had left far behind on the drought-ravaged prairie.

He shifted from buttock to buttock on the hard wagon deck, compensating for each bump with the knife's movement. His task held him engrossed, so he was quite unprepared for the cuff to the head that knocked him from the wagon. The sharp blade slashed his thumb and he screamed with pain and surprise.

He looked up at his brother, John, standing the rear of the wagon, every inch of his fourteen years bristling with fury. The horses slowed to a snorting, jingling halt. Curious faces peered back.

Will Morgan, long, lean, dusty, strode back to investigate. His lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. "Fall asleep, son?"

"No, sir. He hit me!"

John jumped to the ground, somewhat dismayed by the ruckus he had caused. Anger still had him in its grip.

"He was using my knife!" He snatched it out of the dust and held it aloft. "For carving wood! He wore out his knife, and now he's wrecking mine."

He picked up William's carving, the result of hours of tedio0us work, and heaved it into the thick, yellow weeds. Startled by the intrusion, grasshoppers sprang into the air.

Will was an easygoing man, slow to anger, but this uncalled for abuse of his younger son riled him.

"Let down your trousers," he ordered. "Bend over," and he removed the heavy leather belt he wore

Red welts appeared as Will inflicted the punishment, but John refused him the satisfaction of tears. At last, arm weary, Will hurled the belt with savage fury into the wagon.

"You can walk behind and eat dust until you learn to act like a man," he said as he walked away.

His mother seated young William, thumb neatly bandaged, beside her and the wagon moved off through the rising dust. William

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