As a boy during the Depression, my father stood in Ottawa’s Byward Market with his father, selling eggs and chickens from a modest family flock. In June or July, the worst thing about these Saturday routines would probably have been the boredom and the thought of what he might be missing out on because of this tedious business of helping the family keep body and soul together.
But in January and February, it would have been a different story: The truck seat, cold and hard beneath him as they traveled through the sub-zero morning darkness; the anxious search to claim a good spot on the perimeter of the pavilion; The effort to clear it of snow, arrange cartons of eggs on the tailgate, and set up the chopping block and wobbly plucking table; the fight with frozen canvas to make a wind break around the crated birds.
By mid-morning the sun would be strong enough to begin to melt snow from shed roofs and window ledges, and send rivulets of icy water through the slush in search of leaky boots and frayed gloves. It would tease the backs of raw chapped hands at the plucking table and lure the boy into brief catnaps between customers.
By late afternoon, as the sun retreats up the side of the buildings across William Street, the temperature again drops quickly. Toes can no longer fight the soaking cold. Chickens fade into a listless trance and as their feathers ruffle and their heads droop, they lose any appeal to the dwindling crowd that trudges past. Grandpa’s mood darkens as these late-day shoppers push him with ever-decreasing stocks of civility for a give-away deal. They know he must accept at least some of their offers to scrounge the last dollar from the day.
As hope of additional sales fades, crates and tools would be broken free of the ice and loaded back onto the truck, to the refrain of familiar unspoken questions. Is this more or less than we took home last week? How much money did we make?
Will the truck start?
Will there be dry socks in the laundry hamper?
What’s left on the stove?
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