Honorable Men

The Canteen was wedged between the breakwater and a row of tumbledown fishing shacks, a disreputable piece of real estate that had been precariously built so that it's entrance rested on the side of the road and the balance of the building was supported on wooden stilts. It was a shaped like a boxcar, always in a state of disrepair and not at all the sort of place where "nice girls" were seen.

When the noon whistle blew, The Canteen came to life with factory workers of all ages. They wore overalls under their slickers, heavy flannel shirts and rugged, rubber boots. Young or old, they were all rough looking, working men, coarse-voiced from smoke, whiskey, and hard living. They walked heavily and shouted good natured curses at one another while they ate huge plates of smoked fish and overcooked vegetables and downed cup after cup of bitter black coffee. When the whistle blew again at one, they gathered their gloves and leather aprons and bloody boning knives and returned to the factory, leaving a blue tobacco haze hanging in the air.

In the evenings, having washed off the factory smells and changed clothes, they returned. They smoked and drank and played cards and argued about who was better, Patsy Kline or Kitty Wells. Fights were not infrequent but they never amounted to much - two fools get themselves all likkored up, can't even throw a straight punch was Nana's assessment. On the rare occasion that someone was hurt, he was dragged up the road and she would grimly doctor them in her own kitchen. Ain't a man among you worth the price of the ammunition it'd take to shoot you she would say loudly as she washed away blood and applied bandages. And in the event of an under their breath curse word,
You best mind your tongue, boy, you ain't too old for me to wash your mouth out with soap. And these great, hulking fishermen would hang their heads and mutter apologies. The next day there would be a basket of fresh vegetables or just baked bread or fresh haddock filets at the back door. These were men who paid their debts - mostly uneducated and unskilled, plain spoken and poor, sometimes a little frightening, but honorable.

A hurricane devastated the fishing fleet, the industry, and The Canteen as well. It's remnants slowly disintegrated and then disappeared altogether, the grass grew up the hillside and wildflowers blossomed in the ditch. No trace of the little roadside dive is left except in the memories of the old men who spent so much time there and the children who hung at the windows and watched.

Without change, something sleeps inside us and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken. - Frank Herbert