ROBERT D. McCLINCHEY looks back at a long and fruitful life in this memoir, beginning with his birth on the family farm in 1926. Growing up in East Wawanosh Township in Ontario, he found plenty of adventure-often getting into mischief with his six siblings. The family worked together, struggled together and had fun together. From an early age, one of the keys to Robert's life was music, which the family enjoyed playing together. Whenever he played the fiddle, he was at peace with himself and others. It also led him to his late wife of 58 years, Frances. In 1950, the two were married. In this candid look back at his long life, Robert remembers his varied careers, including fisherman, pool hustler, machinist, mechanic, ice-road trucker, gasoline station attendant, road-builder, snowplow operator, bus driver, farmer and syrup maker. More importantly, he explores what it means to be a husband, father, grandfather and great-grandfather while being a Jack of All Trades and Master of None.

Jack of All Trades and Master of None

an inventory of my life and timesBy Robert D. McClinchey Gregory W. McClinchey

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Robert D. McClinchey
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-4024-4

Contents

Author's Note.......................................ixForeword............................................1A Fall off the Mangel Wagon.........................3A Trip to the Cellar................................9Poor Pete...........................................12Fiddling to the Mill................................16A Pox on the House..................................19Wilf, Harvey and Me.................................22A Smelly Lesson Learned.............................25Teeswater Fair......................................28An Apple in the Eye.................................31Fire in the Belly...................................34Fowl Tempered.......................................37Stompin' Bob........................................40The War at Home.....................................44Memories and Milford's Tow..........................47Eighteen Wheels ... of Cheese.......................51My Door Was Always Open.............................55Miss Frances........................................61Setting the Date and the Course.....................65Fifty Acres of Near Poverty.........................71Building a Future...................................77A Super Test........................................83The Grand View from Here............................87Back to Bus-ness....................................92Wednesday Night Class...............................95One Last Home Together..............................106Epilogue............................................112Appendix 1..........................................115Appendix 2..........................................117

Chapter One

A Fall off the Mangel Wagon

When you look back at your life, the greatest happinesses are family happinesses. —Dr. Joyce Brothers

I was born quite young on a frosty Tuesday, January 19, 1926. As was the custom at the time, I was born at home on the farm rather than in a hospital, as commonly happens today. My father, Edward Gordon McClinchey (1899–1989), was the second-youngest son of John McClinchey and his wife, Julia Daer, of Irish/German descent. On the other side of the family tree, my mother, Lillian Dell Anderson (1904–1988), was the daughter of William Anderson and Florence Patterson, who were of English and Scottish ancestry, respectively. Together, through the Great Depression and WWII, my father and mother raised a happy and healthy family of five boys and two girls. In addition to me, the McClinchey family eventually consisted of Eileen Florence (July 22, 1927), William John (May 25, 1929), Lillian Jewel (March 25, 1933), Norman Gordon (July 14, 1935), David Edward (April 25, 1940) and John Currie (November 7, 1944).

My earliest memories of home take me back to our simple life of a hundred-acre farm two miles north of Auburn, on Lot 28, Concession 3 of East Wawanosh Township (83609 Donnybrook Line, Auburn). Today that same farm is owned by my brother Norman McClinchey and his wife, Lila. But before Norman assumed ownership of the family homestead, it was my mother who used her formidable skills and talents as a former schoolteacher to corral and wrangle her energetic children, to care for a busy husband and to keep a house for a growing and rambunctious family. She was a tremendous homemaker, and looking back I have often wondered how she managed to do it all so effectively without using the many modern household conveniences and gadgets, such as a freezer, an automatic washer, a refrigerator or a microwave, many of which are taken for granted by today's families.

As the wife of a busy farmer, in addition to her role as mother, nurse and primary caregiver to seven children, my mother never failed to prepare three hearty meals each and every day. This, coupled with the ongoing necessity of churning butter; canning and preserving fruits, vegetables and meats for the winter months; and washing and repairing a never-ending pile of clothes meant the days were long and arduous. Despite this endless to-do list, my parents always made time for family.

For example, once the work was done on Saturday nights, we would all head to Auburn where my brothers, sisters and I would receive our weekly allowance of 10 or 15 cents. With our pockets jingling full of our newfound wealth, we would dash off to the store where a five-cent ice cream cone, or perhaps some liquorice candy, awaited us. This was also the day when Mom and Dad would socialize with the neighbours and stock up on essential household supplies for the week ahead.

But Saturday night was not the only time when the McClinchey family headed to town. After the chores were done early each Sunday morning, the entire family would don our Sunday best, harness the team and head off to Sunday school and Sunday service at the nearby Auburn United Church. Following the homily, we would spend the rest of the day visiting friends and relatives, enjoying fiddle music and filling up on home cooking and fellowship for all. Put another way, we were building memories that were to last a lifetime.

One of my earliest childhood memories stems from when I was very young, perhaps 2 or 3 years old. My mother and father were taking up mangels near the back end of the farm and loading them onto a wagon. There was a time when mangels were a common crop, but for those who may not be old enough to know what mangels are, they are also known as "fodder beets." Mangels are very easy to grow, producing large roots that store well. The mangel roots grow quite large, in some cases up to two feet long, and in days gone by, these hearty roots were used as a staple food for cattle. In emergency situations, the roots and leaves could be prepared for human consumption in a way not unlike the sugar beet. Father always grew a few rows of mangels to pulp for cattle feed, and every night each of the horses received a mangel to munch on as a reward for the day's work. He even split a couple for the hens to pick at as he claimed they were good for their digestive systems.

On one of our many mangel-pulling days, I guess Father and Mother forgot about me playing on and around the wagon, and as they advanced the wagon down the row, a small thump and a loud whimper quickly jogged their memories. On that particular occasion I had opted to play in the path of the wagon, and to my detriment, I quickly found myself under a heavily loaded mangel wagon. All jokes aside about falling off the turnip—or mangel—truck, my mother was less than impressed with the entire ordeal. I still remember her frantically gathering me up and carrying me the entire way back to the house, followed by an eventual checkup with Dr. Weir. Although my injuries were not critical or apparently long-lasting, I vividly remember a sharp pain on the left side of my body. Today, despite the subsequent eighty-plus years since my run-in with a mangel wagon, I still have a clear memory and an occasional weakness on my left side as a result of that day. Given what might have been, I guess I should consider myself pretty lucky that I am still here to pen this story.

Chapter Two

A Trip to the Cellar

He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it. —Clarence Budington Kelland

My father was tough but fair, and generally it wasn't a good idea to cross him. He was certainly not unjust or mean, but my...