Chapter 1 - Burtons’ Logic

I have been walking around in adulthood for several years now and I must confess, since my arrival I have been rather disappointed. No, I have been deeply disappointed. When growing up I often found myself being a bit perplexed by some of the logic, or the decision processes, and quite frankly what appeared to me then as the downright idiotic problem-solving approach of some of the adults I would come across, but I knew the promise of adulthood was waiting for me just over the next hilltop. Soon I too would arrive at a place where I could grasp hold of this higher knowledge that would make these seemingly dumb adult conclusions understandable to me. I watched with anticipation and studied adults as they tackled life’s roadblocks and quite often, I would find some of their solutions a bit confusing, even amazing.

Take the story of Burton Helgason, the man must have been eighty years old or maybe a hundred and eighty. Burton lived alone in the same old farmhouse where he was born, not more than three miles from our house. Burton drank a bit but everyone around the area knew this and kind of looked out for him. He would sometimes walk the five or six miles to the closest town to get a bit to eat and then make his way over to one of several local taverns and drink a bit of dessert… Then a bit more. And then a bit more. At the end of the night, or afternoon or morning – this, of course, was dependent on if he went into town for dinner, lunch, or breakfast – Burton would start the trek home. There were four roads out of town, and someone would usually get Burton walking down the right road so he could just follow the paved road until he started going up a majorly steep hill.

And this was indeed very steep. So much so that when my grandfather would drive down the hill he would shut off the engine to save a little gas. You’d think we lived in a mountain range. It wasn’t that big of a hill. Just steep winding.

No matter how inebriated Burton had become while in town he knew that once he started going up that really steep paved hill road all he needed to do is turn right and walk up the really steep gravel hill road. That would be his driveway and would lead him right to the front door of his house. Sometimes Burton would decide to just lay down by the mailbox at the end of that steep gravel road and sleep it off, at other times he would stop a mile or two out of town alongside the paved road and sleep it off. Still, at other times he would simply put his head on the bar and sleep it off. Many a time someone would be driving up the coulee road and see Burton's legs sticking out from the tall grass along the side of the road, pull over, help him up and into the car, and take him home. People just did that, even though it was a bother and at times Burton did not smell very good, people helped the guy home. They may have judged him and talked about how Burton should sober up nevertheless they helped him home where he would be safe.

Burton never had a job or much money so from time-to-time farmers around the valley would drive over to his house and ask if he wanted to do some work and to earn a little money. Burton was never given a task that involved too much exertion and never was Burton given a chore that involved moving parts, sharp objects, or a motor. Usually, farmers would call on Burton to fix a fence or help move livestock. Little things like that. Burton was a good worker as long as he wasn’t left by himself for long. There was a well-known story that made the rounds about the time when Ronnie Shelby – a local dairy farmer - had hired Burton to do some fencing – Now, the term fencing in farmland means to repair or fix fence for keeping cattle in and/or people out, just so we’re clear we are discussing mending wire fences here not parry, parry, thrust, and thrust fencing. I just want to elucidate so everyone is getting the right mental image. Please erase from your mind the picture of a slightly staggering, drunken elderly man swinging wildly with a rapier in his hand shouting “Parry, thrust, parry thrust…”

After leaving Burton a couple of hours earlier at the fence line to where grazing and wooded areas came together. As the story goes, Ronnie Shelby, upon his return discovered Burton, a pleasant smile on his face, with his head lying comfortably on his jacket which he used as a pillow. Burton had in his lunch pale a 5th of whiskey, a chocolate bar, a sandwich, and an alarm clock. The empty whiskey bottle and the alarm clock propped neatly near his head. Ronnie, when telling the story – laughing the whole time – said “He looked so comfortable like he was having such a nice nap, I didn’t have the heart to wake him, so I just finished up the fence…”

On another occasion, my dad and I drove our pick-up truck to Burton’s house as we were hiring him that morning to help us move some hay bales around in one of our sheds. It was winter and this would be a good way to make sure Burton had a good couple of meals in his stomach – he would eat lunch, have some cake and coffee in the afternoon and then stay for dinner before we took him back home – a little bit of change in his pocket to be sure he was doing okay otherwise as well.

We weren’t giving charity, as that would have embarrassed us and insulted him. We were not going to make a trip over to his house just to check a health check on him. That would be shameful for all of us.

Here, there was a place for honor and respect amongst men. I think sometimes we have lost that to a certain degree. I don’t know maybe that is just a country folk thing. Perhaps I’m just wrong.

The county snowplow did not go up Berton’s driveway and the snow was pretty deep that winter, so we got out of the pick-up truck and walked the two hundred yards or so up to the house. The house was probably built in the nineteen twenties and had shed its last coat of paint many years ago. The house, not unlike the man who inhabited its wood and plaster walls were moving from a time when it looked clean and new and vital. And like its inhabitant took on a hard to describe grace in doing so. You know, in a Zen way this is how we move through time and this is what time does to us as we move through it.

I think that time is static, and all things simply are moving to it or perhaps moving through it. As if passengers in a train station, moving about getting tickets, munchies, and magazines, then moving on as the next train leaves the station. The station is static. Always static. Life is fluid. The passengers are fluid always.

As we moved closer to the house my dad made mention of the chainsaw motor blaring from the back of the house. We walked to the front door as the chainsaw noise came to a crescendo. My dad peeked into the front of the house through the door window. He looked at me gave a big smile and shook his head. He moved to open the door, twisted the knob, and push a little with his shoulder. The door opened with a bit of a squeak. As he opened the door the chainsaw noise became deafening. Then suddenly the noise stopped.

My dad hollered out “Burton!!!” “Ya, Ya” came the response from the kitchen at the back of the house. As I walked through the living room to the kitchen entrance, I began to understand what Burton had done. I had to keep myself from laughing. Burton had decided rather than going outside in the cold winter weather to cut firewood he would instead bring the wood into the house. Makes sense to me.

There was sawdust on the floor, the kitchen counters, as well as on the stove. There was sawdust everywhere and on the kitchen floor, the sawdust soaked up the chainsaw oil that had leaked slowly from the chainsaw which now rested on the kitchen table, right next to Burton’s coffee, toast, and whiskey. “Are you about ready to go move some hay bales, Burton?” Dad said trying his best to appear oblivious to the absurdity of the situation.

“Ya, Ya” replied Burton. “…Want a cup of coffee?” “No, no thanks but take your time Burton finish your coffee…” my dad responded. We headed for the front door…

Burton’s brilliance should have been so obvious to me; I just needed to see it. Why go outside in the cold air and deep snow of a Wisconsin winter when you could drag the wood inside the house and just cut it up on the kitchen table? The house was dry and warm, he’s got his coffee, donuts, and whiskey right there. Just take the coffee off the stove, add a little spice to help the hangover, brush off the sawdust, put out a little flame on the floor that ignites now and then, and cut away.

I always did my best to hold back judgment knowing that one day I would arrive at adulthood myself and then I too would understand this logic only obtainable by living many years on this earth. I longed to possess the same adulthood brilliance with which these people ran their lives. I was witness to it!!! Sometimes, at first glance, these actions and activities could be brushed off as simply silly, but I knew all I had to do was remain patient and wait for that day when adulthood and understanding, and perhaps brilliance would come my way.

Burton's Photo ~ Jacqueline Macou ~ Saint Gély du Fesc ~ France - Burton's House Photo ~ Imad Click ~ Kashmir