Baker's Dozen

1. The Beginning!-1

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING!

The late October wind, coming off the Lake was cold and bitter and was rapidly performing its task of stripping the trees, of their colourful foliage, now that the first frost, that occurred a few days previous, had taken its toll. It seemed to slice right through Dan’s heavy leather jacket and gloves with ease and made him shiver. He, piloted the bright orange, knucklehead, bobber, off the long meandering country roadway, through the beautiful stone archway that marked the entrance to the Cemetery’s narrow driveway.

He cruised at an easy pace, the throbbing heartbeat of the big, V Twin motor, breaking through the absolute silence. Nearby birds took flight and several squirrels sought shelter in nearby trees! He proceeded along the driveway, winding between the various plots and monuments, and followed it along until it opened up to a wonderful vista of the lake and the rapidly diminishing cavalcade of colour that was, the surrounding woodlands. This marked the spot where would he veer off, down a small pathway for a hundred yards or so, then glided slowly and carefully across the well manicured grass that was quickly being covered by an immense carpet of leaves, towards a recently occupied gravesite.

The Cemetery, was tranquil, and serene, as well as almost empty, save a few souls who were dressed to suit the inclement weather. It served as fair warning, that Winter would soon hold us in its icy grip. These folks, were visiting loved ones of their own and went about their business of tending to the graves. They did however, cast curious looks towards him, as his arrival had caught their attention, firstly, for being out on a motorcycle, that wasn’t exactly quiet, on such a cold, inhospitable day and secondly because they recognised him.

He noticed that some floral arrangements were still in place, as he came to a stop, beside the grave. The cold wind, once again caught him a little off his guard and a sudden chill, ran through his body, as he sat there just staring at the grave for several minutes. He let the motorcycle sit, at its signature, pulsating, uneven idle, before he twisted the throttle a couple of times in quick succession, listening, as the throaty growl reverberated throughout the cemetery, before shutting it down and dismounting. The sound was pleasurable to him and he knew it would certainly appeal to REB, should he be able to hear it. What the Hell? It didn’t do anybody any harm even if it couldn’t reach REB’s ears. He breathed in deeply, enjoying the musky, heady, scent of the decaying leaves, that hung in the crisp Autumn air, filling his lungs and soothing his senses with its invigorating fragrance.

“That should get your attention!” He said out loud, and slowly walked over towards the grave, until he was standing directly in front of the handsome, large black marble headstone, that marked the place they had laid his friends body to rest just a few short weeks ago. He reached out and touched it, perhaps hoping to feel something other than the cold hard surface and then examined the offerings that had already begun to accumulate atop the grave marker. Different, personal items, that had been left there as tokens of love and respect, by friends, who, like himself, had come here for some private time with him, and to make peace with his spirit. There was a small Inukshuk, possibly, built and left there by Tramp, or perhaps his Uncle or other family members to mark this as a sacred place in accordance with the ways and beliefs of their indigenous culture.

Some of the items, could be considered to be junk to some; various bottle caps (Guinness mostly), pocket knives, buttons, patches, locks of hair, lapel pins, rings and other various jewelry items and trinkets that had some connection or meaning, between them and their departed Brother. There were also envelopes, containing various amounts of cash, obviously, to settle debts owed, and were now considered to be paid. He left everything undisturbed, other than leaving an item of his own, an old, Swanton Harbour, Chief of Police shoulder flash that he had encased in clear acrylic resin.

On the tombstone, it was inscribed; Robert Edward Baker, Sept 12, 1945 – Sept. 12, 2020 – R.I.P. – G.BN.F. – L&R – A&F. Loving Son, Husband Father and Brother. There was the Club Logo emblazoned on it with; The Bakers Dozen in a rocker above, and below, it said; President and founder. He will be missed!

“Well old friend; It has been quite a ride and an adventure! And we’ve certainly come a long way, on roads that I ever would have imagined I would travel, and to destinations that I hadn’t planned on going! It has been quite a transition from Chief of Police, to where I am now! I guess, I really have turned the page.”

Dan took off his gloves, unzipped the front of his jacket, and extracted a bottle of Wiser’s Deluxe, Rye Whiskey, that he had tucked in there. He unscrewed the cap and poured some of the potent liquid on the ground just in front of the headstone. “Sláinte, Mo Chara!” He then raised the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. He could feel the comforting warmth, as the strong liquor made its journey to the depths of his stomach. He would repeat that procedure several more times during the course of his visit.

“I got your message the other day! Trust you, to throw one last curve at me, you, old coot! You know I’m a sucker for an inside curve, and I guess I should have expected it!” He said with a grin while shaking his head.

He poured them each another stiff shot, and just sat there on the ground, with his old friend, while looking out at the lake, watching the white caps form on the waves, before they crashed against the rocky shoreline. The wind, suddenly picked up, sending leaves scattering between the graves in little eddies and another shiver ran through Dan’s body. He quickly did up the jacket, and then just sat there, leaning back against the black marble monolith, in silence.

That is something that they did quite regularly throughout the years, just sitting in silence, together, gathering their thoughts and formulating their conversation, until one of them figured that they had thought long enough, and decided it was time for discussion. They found that often, silent time with someone that you’ve bonded with, could often be as comforting and as stimulating as conversation! Sometimes, words are just so unnecessary.

For Dan, now, it was time to ponder, reflect, and assess the things that had occurred over a lifetime, along with recent choices and decisions that were made. Right or wrong, good or bad, would be determined by others, after life had left his body and his time on earth was done. This would be based on how these people, perceived him, personally, weighed things out, and calculated his worth as a human being. He hoped they would approve, but as REB would say; “f**k ‘em if they don’t!”

For men like he and REB; they just tried to do the best they could, and lived the best they could by their own rules and the standards, that they set for themselves. In the end; what if, you could take one final look back and make a final assessment, what would you change, if you could? That was a question he had no answers to.

Shaking his head, and smiling, he rose to his feet, and they shared one last shot of the whiskey! He then said out loud; “Your secret, is now our secret, my friend, and it goes to the grave with me! I’ll leave this, here with you, Mo Chara, so you’ll have something to share, with me or the next person that comes up to visit you! I will bring more.” He then placed the half empty bottle on the grave, leaning it against the fine, black marble marker.

This place, held more cherished memories for Dan, and he was not done visiting quite yet. He solemnly, made his way down to the next plot, where the bodies of his wife and two children also lay. He was now crying, as he sat on the cold ground, amongst his family, overwhelmed by the sense of loss and sadness. He had no words, he just sat there for and immeasurable amount of time, sobbing and trying to make sense of it all. He again, rose to his feet, regained his composure, but still not able to bring voice to the words that stuck in his throat. Not wanting to just leave without expressing something, he simply, blew a kiss towards the graves, turned and quickly walked away, a lump burning in his throat like he’d swallowed a blazing ember!

Dan, then, walked back to the orange motorcycle, that he and his friend both loved, and one kick brought it back to life! The harsh bark of the short exhaust pipes, breaking the silence and sanctity of the place once again. This, was a far cry from the sound of the massive Funeral procession, that had filled this place, not so long ago.

He then raised his right hand pointed towards REB’s grave, in a familiar, one finger salute, which he quickly converted to a thumbs up. Smiling broadly, he gave the throttle a good twist, before heading back through the rustling leaves, and off into the chilly late afternoon, Autumn splendour! The rumble of the exhaust marked his passage and soon faded off letting silence and serenity once again be restored.

Dan’s journey through life continues, however, there is a void that could never be filled. Although, his family’s and his friend’s body, may well lie cold, and lifeless, beneath the hallowed ground of this place, their spirit rides away with him on that bright orange bobber. He could feel REB’s presence as he turned from the driveway onto the paved road, twisted the wick and roared off with the cold wind stinging his face. That was the winds kiss, and that, brought him to life and he twisted the throttle even further, leaning into the turns of that winding road like it was a challenge! He could almost hear his Brother urging him on! REB may be gone from this Earth but his, legacy, memory, and his achievements will live on in the hearts and minds of many for years to come.

Robert Edward Baker, was born to Francis and Edna Baker, on a bright sunny late summer’s day on September 12th in the year 1945. They were of solid Irish stock, who left their Native Ireland, to forge a better life here in Canada. They had very little in the way of money, and very few possessions, upon arrival in the Country, and worked at whatever jobs they could find, until they could get enough to open the Bakery shop of their dreams. Jobs, was the operative word as they both worked multiple jobs, and it seemed that they were always working.

They had rented a small house, from a farmer, just outside Town. It wasn’t much more than a shack, but it was a roof over their heads, which they desperately needed as Robert was due any time. They even had a spot to grow a small garden, which was essential to their survival.

Francis, got hired on as a carpenter’s helper, and put in long, hard, tiring, days, then pitched in, to help his landlord with chores, in the evening and on weekends to help pay the rent. He would chop wood, worked in the fields, harvesting crops, and loading hay onto a wagon with a pitch fork. He was hard working, tough as nails, multi talented and determined to succeed. There was no day of rest for these folks, and they didn’t expect one.

Edna, cleaned houses, took in laundry, helped picking crops, and would bake, cookies, scones, cakes, bread, biscuits, pies and tarts, that she would load into large wicker baskets, and trudge ten miles into Town and sell to the General Store. Her baked goods, got to be very popular, and sold out almost as fast as she could put them out. Francis made her a small wagon, to transport her goods and in winter a sled that he fashioned out of scrap material served her well. They weren’t getting rich, but they were managing to save some money, and when a shop in town, with living quarters above came available, they were able to put a small down payment on it, and that was Baker’s Baked Goods first home.