by Pamela Dean Bonta

The old house stands empty near the intersection of Bar Road and what is now called “Trinity Drive.” The open door of the traditional low-roofed Newfoundland-style square home swings diligently back and forth in the breeze as I watch, reminding me of Jack, a man I never met and whose last name I did not know, but who holds an unforgettable place in my childhood memories.

You see, the only memories I have of this short and stocky man are of him dressed in his red and purple checked flannel shirt and grey-green overalls and rubber boots and blue hat with the ear-flaps, a shovel in his hand, either digging in the ditch in front of his house or taking a break from digging in the ditch in front of his house. I didn’t know if he was married, had children, lived alone, had pets. I didn’t know how old he was, what his last name was, what he did for a living. I don’t even know when he died. The only thing I know is that whatever this man was, whoever this man was, he left a legacy behind. It’s a somewhat small legacy, and probably only important to me, but a legacy, a gift handed down from one generation to the next, nonetheless.

You see, Jack’s ditch never overflowed. His pipes never clogged. His trench rarely had to be re-dug by the Department of Highways. No overgrown weeds or scraggly alders dared make their appearance. No rocks, frost-hoven from a cold winter, or mud, loosened by spring rains, blocked the steady flow of water in front of Jack’s house. At the first sign of rain or storm or spring thaw, there was Jack with his trusty shovel, diligently ensuring that his small part of the world, his tiny parcel of earth, was free from whatever vagaries Mother Nature threw his way.

Jack has been gone for many years now. His ditch is slowly filling in. The garden is overgrown. The windows in the house are broken. The paint is peeling. Yet, however small it may be, Jack’s legacy lives.