I make a hard right onto the driveway, sliding dangerously in the snotty snow and barely missing that beat up poplar with the orange survey ribbon on it - a ribbon that doesn’t appear to have protected the old tree one bit from the countless bumpers that have hit it over the years. I fishtail to the top of the driveway and see John hauling an armload of wood into the basement as I pull to a stop.
“Hey,” he yells, “I’ll be right back,” and disappears through the door.
I shut down the motor and climb out of the car as John re-emerges.
“What’s up,” he calls.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got a CV joint with a badly torn boot. It’s been clickin’ away for a while, and now it’s sounding like it’s ready to go. I made an appointment in Whitehorse to have it replaced but I’m not sure it’ll make it in with all that grit on the road. Whaddya think my chances are?”
“Let me take a look at it,” he replies, pulling off his hat and slithering underneath the car to view the damage. After a little grunting and scuffling, he slides back out, stands up and leans against the car door, wiping his hands on an already greasy pair of Carharts.
“Yeah, it looks pretty bad,” he says, “I think we might be able to figure something out though. Let me grab some stuff.”
Minutes later, he’s back with a bunch of rags, a pot of grease, some baling wire and a pair of wire snippers. Pushing the grease pot ahead of him, he shimmies back under the vehicle.
“Ok,” he says, “pass me the stuff as I need it,”
Now John Kilmer’s a dreamer, but right now he’s a man on a mission, and when he flips that techno switch of his, he becomes a critical care surgeon operating on a dying patient. It’s all business - 'scalpel, suction, suture'. I’m little more than a surgical assistant in this procedure, so I do what I’m told. I tear, I bend, I clip, I hand the results to the waving hand protruding from the underneath the car. So far, it sounds like it’s going well. The patient’s prognosis at the moment, however, isn’t entirely clear.
Still, I’ve seen John at work countless times and in all kinds of situations. The man does indeed have the hands of a surgeon and the skill to match, so I’m cautiously optimistic. He cleans out the joint, packs it with grease, then wraps and seals it with the rags, cinching them tight with baling wire. Finally, hauling himself out from under the vehicle, he pulls himself up and leans against the passenger door to wipe his hands on the one remaining rag.
“I think that should hold ‘er,” he says, breaking into a big smile.
Now coming from anyone else, “that should hold ‘er” offers no guarantee of success whatsoever. But coming from John, that statement means that the job is done and you are good to go.
The following morning, I find myself pulling into that garage in Whitehorse sporting a big grin; and with time to spare.
John Kilmer Sept. 14, 1949 – Dec. 23, 2024
John Kilmer was a man of a thousand talents. In his early years he was a sound engineer for CBC. He also mixed and recorded live events all over the North. He was a luthier, an electronics wizard and an all-round mechanical genius. Nothing fazed him. Whether he was rebuilding an engine, rebracing a Martin or wiring a mixing board, he took it on with a competent equanimity that never failed to stun me.
But that’s what John DID, who he WAS. He was the guy who crawled under my car that day in the wind and snow to wrap my CV joint so I could make it to the repair shop. He was the guy who gave everybody and anybody a helping hand when they were in a jam; the problem solver willing to share his remarkable skills and innate grace with all those around him. But better than all that, he was my friend.
After all the toil
and play
After all the suffering
and joy
After bearing the indignities
of injustice
And revelling in the vindication
of truth
After all the blows have been taken
The demons faced
And the battle won
We will be judged only by
how kind we were to our fellow man -PL
POSTSCRIPT
For the record, when the mechanic in Whitehorse inspected the wrapping job on that mangled CV joint, he looked up at me from under the hoist and called out,
“Who wrapped this? Whoever it was did a fantastic job. You could have driven another thousand miles on this thing.”
“John Kilmer,” I replied.
He laughed.
“Kilmer! Of course it was!”
Paul Lucas has lived in Atlin since 1979.