Mckenzie Quilter & Mustache Grampa

This poem was found in my dad John Pauls stuff. He didn’t write it but is listed as one who was in Savanne Ontario conscientious objector camp during WW2. I believe he spent a couple of winters in the lumber camp in alternative service.

Chonchies at Savanne

Dear auntie Kath and cousin Dan
Now at long last we are here again
We hope your happy, feeling well,
Because some things we have to tell.

We thank you for your lengthy letter
No one could treat us better
For being slow to write we’re sorry
And so we tell you now a story.

We have a friend in Mr. Blair
He sends us here he sends us there
One fateful day it was decreed
That to Savanne we should proceed.

Dan the faithful with his truck
Pete, my brother, with our truck
Hied us (me) off and wished us luck.
Bade us (me) farewell in the city
Half with envy half with pity.

At seven thirty in the night
We found ourselves set for flight
Within an overheated car
At mercy of the C.P.R.

The locomotive lurched ahead,
With noise enough to give us dread.
With gathering speed it left the station
Camp one-0-six our destination.

We sped across Ontario hills,
Though darkness veiled her lakes, her rills.
And in between our fitful naps
We munched aunt Katherine’s ginger snaps.

Expectantly we neared the place,
Misgivings plain on every face.
The trainman shouted “next Savanne”
Soon down we floundered thirteen men.

We looked around and lo a light,
Gave evidence of life in sight.
We steered our course toward this spot,
And found for rest a lowly cot.

When morning dawned we hiked away,
To find our camp as well we may.
We reached the place a large affair,
Then registered and settled there.

Pulp cutting was to be our lot,
For tools, and ax and saw we got.
Though doubtful was our task and new,
Intent we were our best to do.

From dawn till dusk we toil and sweat,
Enormous appetites we get.
When tired of cutting , piling sticks,
We go for supper sharp at six.

Expectant near the door we hang,
Until we hear the gong, cling -clang
Off to the cook shack then we tear,
And do our best to get our share.

And in due time we leave the place,
Contentment shows on every face.
Then round the bunkhouse stove we crowd,
To praise the cook with voices loud.

Three hours are now for us to spend,
To read or write and darn or mend.
Indulge in talk different merit,
What ever mood may rule the spirit.

When we discuss the daily news,
“Sam-tup” would air his home-brewed views.
Yet we had hopes to polish him,
Invincible is still his vim.

The next in question is the clerk
He always wears his pipe and smirk.
His Scotch decent is evident,
For money matters is his bent.

Gus is the foreman so they say,
He stands around and draws his pay.
His English has a foreign ring,
His wife does all the laundering.

Escorted by his mangy hound,
The strip boss makes his daily round.
In halting words he gives advice,
“slow stumpr” and “turnaround” make nice.

The fireman’s an eccentric gent,
On roasting us he is always bent.
He haunts the place with flickering light
And keeps us sweating through the night.

On words of wise philosophy
Our mustached friend Pete Doell we see
With radio and comedy
Pete Teichroeu is the remedy.

Friend Bartel cuts two cords a day
And eats and talks his blues away.
Von Pappen drives an N-8 truck
He says with skill we say with luck.

The driver of the cat one night
Made noises weird that gave us fright.
Then Herman Issac took a notion
To make an end to such commotion.

The driver in the upper bunk
Received a poke that made him jump.
Next morning in belligerent tone
He vowed he’d knock off Herman’s dome.

Now Henry’s the assistant clerk
Minus the pipe but not the smirk.
His brother Herman plays the game
At cutting pulp his winning fame.

A character is David Dueck
He is sometime slow he’s sometimes quick
His governor has no control,
He sits and dreams of his payroll.

Jake Bartel is the second cook,
The flunkies tremble at his look.
Honest Abe our bull cook friend,
Solves crossword puzzles without end.

Pet Koethler is a heavy weight,
The scales report two seven eight.
George Mandler large of heart and figure,
Has actions small, ambitions bigger.

Our cheerful Ed with muscles brawn,
Fared forth to work with hopes at dawn,
And started with his usual speed,
To carefulness he gave no heed.

Applied his ax unto a root,
It slipped and cut both flesh and boot.
Doc Sproul sewed up the laceration,
Result two weeks on compensation.

Bill Issac has a clever wit,
For making poems he’s a hit.
He thinks up verses over night
Worthy of a copyright.

Ask for hasty coy advice,
Unrau gladly gives it twice,
He rolls his eyes and twists his nose
Even as we now compose.

Half a cord is Kroeker’s quota
He can’t be moved for one iota.
He’s wasted many a precious day
While other earn their meager pay.

Johnny Pauls without a question
teams with many an odd suggestion.
John Loewen has another trait
His look is apt to aggravate.

Our list is getting rather long
We feel that soon we’ll end this song.
And still we’ll mention just a few
Before we quit and make it do.

There’s Dueck and Penner skidders fine
George Brandt is barely home on time.
Kornelson, Peters Wiebes and Plett
Are working hard but getting fat.

There’s Unger, Harder, Jansen, Friesens,
And Hildebrandts here for different reasons.
And other men with brawny backs
Complete our line of lumber jacks.

So that about describes the lot
The funny whims and traits they’ve got.
And if you think some are unusual
Then give this poem one more perusal.

Now if you read these verses right,
The scale you balance finds us light
For there is many a line of jest
But little of the things that last.

We do not want to leave it thus
Yet add a bit we feel we must.
For we’re not always light of mind
Forgetful of eternal time.

On Sunday morning as a rule,
We have our time for Sunday school.
We join the groups around the table
And sing some songs as best we’re able.

Then bow our heads for word of prayer
And ask the Lord to meet us there.
Then read and learn from word and scripture
And talk of Christ the perfect picture.

We speak in terms of right and wrong,
And when we’re done we sing a song.
And through the day from work we rest
And spend the day as we think best.

So with these lines we bid adieu
And leave commenting up to you.
A message may these verses bring,
In memory of the following.

Authors of this composition
are by G.L.P’s permission
Bartel, Toews and Issac brothers
Peter Doell and several others.