Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Humans

My Own Actions Cause Big Trouble

     Some time after the “cut off his ears” fiasco, we moved to the other side of town. My dad worked at one of the two big sawmills in our area, and to augment his small wages he rented a five-acre plot of ground next to the railroad tracks, where he raised potatoes. The place was irrigated by water from a nearby canal. A series of small gates and earth berms diverted the proper amount of water into the proper ditches.

     One day my dad complained that some kids must have been playing in the potato patch because someone had blocked the flow of water to a section of it.  The patch was only a few blocks from our house, so I appointed my then eight-year-old self to monitor it. Sure enough, I went to the far bottom end of the patch one day and found a ditch closed. I dug out the dirt and made sure the water flowed free again.

The next day brought big trouble. The low-lying house of a neighbor just adjacent to the potato patch had flooded during the night. My dad hit the ceiling. Those kids! Not only had they endangered his crop by blocking off the water but now they had opened a ditch and flooded the neighbor’s house. And my dad was responsible! 

Not able to vanish into thin air and unable to think of anyone who would quickly adopt me, I figured I had better tell my dad the truth. He believed me that I had only been trying to help, but he pointed out that my good intentions did nothing to dry out the neighbors’ house. I would have to go with him to the neighbors and see what we could do to make things right.

You can only imagine the dread with which I walked beside my father to the neighbors’ house that day. I wondered what the man would do to me, and maybe even to my dad. I felt a little better when the man who came to the door was almost a head shorter than my dad, carrying a paunch and obviously out of shape. I knew the man wouldn’t stand a chance if they came to blows.

My father was apologetic and offered to do whatever he could to make amends. He explained the problem he had been having with kids playing in the patch and diverting water. The man looked at me suspiciously. “Is this the kid who did it?” he asked.

     I could scarcely believe my ears when my dad replied, “No, no, this is my son. He’s a good boy. In fact, he has been trying to keep an eye on the patch for me. But now I’ll have to build a fence and put up no-trespassing signs.”

Neither my dad nor I ever said another word about the incident, but I knew I had a staunch defender in him and one who would stand by me when I got into difficulty. It was a kindness I determined not to abuse.

Say what you will about my father. He had plenty of rough edges, and maybe he sat a bad example with his lie to the neighbor. But he knew how to treat his son, and I for one am willing to cut him a little slack on account of it. He never yelled at me or beat me, but consistently “saved civilization” in the one place he had the power--and the responsibility--to do it. In our family.