Jack Ensor

Some time after my mom and my dad divorced, my dad bought an acre of land in the mountains of Alberta. At that point in his life dad was still trying to recover whatever piece of himself he could and was truly scrambling to find peace in his heart. Their divorce had been quite amicable as divorces go, but still, the death of a twenty-something year-old marriage is painful nonetheless. So dad had a project. I don’t know whether this project was to help him move on, or to help take his mind off the gore that he felt inside his heart, or if it was simply something he had always wanted to do. But dad built his log cabin in the woods mostly in solitude and mostly without help.

He loves to tell me a story from his experience building that cabin; in turn, I love telling this story to anyone who will listen. It gives me hope in times of trouble and it brings me peace to know that I am just one man.

Shortly after the title to the land was handed over to dad, he was faced with the daunting task of clearing a spot to lay the foundation of his mountain home. To paint a picture, standing on the road looking at the property, there was nothing but dense, dense forest. The acre, covered with mostly conifers, had a tremendous amount of under-growth which made it difficult to walk even a few steps off of the road. The foliage was beautiful, however, the undergrowth needed to be cut out as it posed a fire hazard to a home. Somewhere in the thicket, a driveway would also need to be laid, but thick pines and spruce trees freckled the lot and clearing a path would be difficult.

Dad jumped right in, demolition has always been his forte. With a chainsaw and more than a few gallons of two-stroke fuel he cleared many of the trees that stood where his home would someday be. He fell tree after tree and cut out bush after bush piling all the remnants toward the centre. In a matter of a few days he had cleared all he needed to clear, leaving some of his favourite trees as if he had carefully placed them there himself. As he cut the last of the growth and added to the pile he brushed himself off with a smile. He had done a lot of work.

The smile faded quickly.

What remained on the property was a huge pile of debris. The pile overshadowed his work. It was twice as tall as dad and at least forty-feet deep and almost that wide. In spite of all of his labour, he faced a pile of garbage that overwhelmed him. Standing next to his half-ton truck he recalls, “the sight of the thing nearly brought me to tears.” The spot where his cabin would go was occupied by a massive task that was bigger than the cabin he intended to build. How was he ever going to move this pile?

Fear and frustration consumed him. He took pity on himself as he stood there looking at his daunting bane. It got worse. What about those stumps? There were so many of those, and they’d need to be dug out, which anybody will tell you is not easy. The pile dwarfed my father’s truck. It dwarfed him. Overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness and impotence, dad looked to the sky saying, maybe to God, “how am I ever going to do this? Where do I even start?”

God did not answer, or at least not in the way I think dad expected him too. With tears welling up and weighed down by his task he asked himself again, “where do I start?”

Looking at his feet, he saw a branch from a tree he had cut down. At first he sighed, then a feeling of peace came over him. Still looking at the branch he said to himself, “well, I guess I’ll start right here.” He picked up the branch and threw it in the back of his truck.

Many, many unexpected things happened over the period of time that dad built his cabin. Problems came up. Worker’s hired and paid, didn’t work or do the things he hired and paid them to do. The weather caused setbacks. Pipes froze. Trucks broke. Boards and logs measured twice and cut once still came up short. Chaos insued at times. But he built that cabin; he’s still building it.

Dad’s cabin is one of my favourite places on earth to be. It’s very peaceful there. I enjoy sitting on his couch next to the fire and drinking coffee in silence. Out the front windows the view is of a few well-placed trees and a driveway where stumps once sat. Sometimes I wonder if that cabin is a great metaphor of my father’s life. He is, after all, a hopeless romantic, and building that cabin may have been a courtship. You see, dad, at 47 years old had never really met himself, he’d never really liked himself either. But in building that place he met someone new. He met someone strong and brave and loving. In the two-years it took him to build a home in the mountains, dad fell in love with a truly remarkable person; a person who he had never gotten the chance to meet. He built a home, and met himself.

It all started with a single stick at his feet.

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 28th, 2009 at 6:12 pm and is filed under The Moose. You can follow any comments to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.