Ridiculous and sublime

Due to technical difficulties today I had to suspend the story of my grandfather and post another story I've written.

If you're a Newfoundlander, you've lived with the reality of the environment, the rocky soil, the outcrop or erratics deposited by melting glaciers. If you're a visitor, you too have seen the rugged coastline, thrust upward by the moving mantle eons ago, with the thin layer of soil which has managed to cling to the windswept landscape.

Our ancestors toiled long and hard to establish soil rich enough to grow vegetables in most parts of the island. I watched my grandfather use seaweed and manure to bolster the thin soil in Maddox Cove. Dig a shovel into the soil and you quickly dig your way to rocks of all shapes and sizes, small enough to extract if you're lucky. Large boulders or bedrock could also be the find however. Not so easy to manipulate!  The beaches of my youth weren't sandy but covered with sea-sculpted beach rocks of various sizes. We live on 'The Rock' for sure. 

Port aux Basques epitomizes 'The Rock' to me. Approaching the town by car or ferry you see the outcrop covered with thin soil. The road to the ferry is blasted through an impressive wall of rock. It's rugged but so beautiful in its way!

You could call Newfoundland ridiculous for rock. 

We lived on 'The Rock' for over fifty-five years. We are from a people who forged a community and a livelihood on this rock, the rock which played a huge part in our formation as a people. Surviving in that craggy, rock strewn environment created a self reliant, practical people. (The weather is another issue entirely.) The starkly beautiful environment is our ancestral home; the roots are deep though the soil is thin. They are wrapped around the rock for anchor. It is an incredible place to live and raise a family.

Then in 2010 we moved to Prince Edward Island. It was difficult to leave Newfoundland. It's as if a part of me is still attached by the root around that rock. However, this move was the best thing we could have done. To live near our family finally is a gift we give ourselves every day.

The year after we moved here, Rick and I, 'old school' as we are, wanted a clothes line in our back yard. We proceeded to dig the hole for the pole and were shocked after a lifetime of rocks, not to find one. We could dig forever it seemed and not a rock was to be found. (So that's how they grow all those potatoes!) After we filled in the hole again, we couldn't find any small rocks to place by the side of the pole to stabilize it and discourage the dog from digging there. There wasn't a rock to be found in the neighborhood and four years later, there still isn't. Some people actually buy rocks!

A trip to many beaches here is an experience of miles of red sand. The shoreline in many places may look like layers of sandstone but isn't compressed enough to be rock. Drop a piece of this 'rock' and it crumbles to sand.

Prince Edward Island is sublime for its lack of rock.

However, like many things in life, rock or the lack of it each has its place. After all, while a rock-free vegetable patch is ideal, it's important to have a good rock when you need it!

Pop Pretty, Part 1: Tarring the Roof

Some of my earliest memories are of my grandfather Pretty; my brother and I called him Pop. Mom, Dad and I lived with my grandfather and his housekeeper, Juanita, from the time I was born until I was two or so.  At that time my grandfather worked at the roundhouse in St. John's, still employed with the railway, but not as an engineer, as he had been until 1949. He worked shift work and when he came home from work in the morning, I wanted to be with him. He took me into his bed and I jumped and climbed over him. He loved it and so did I.  Juanita always tried to take me away so he could get some sleep. Pop would gesture her away. (Juanita was deaf.) I loved my Pop from an early age.

                                                 Samuel Pretty 

Samuel Pretty only had one given name according to his birth certificate. However, he is listed as Samuel Bernard Pretty in the marriage announcement when he married Ida Stewart, my grandmother. I learned this information long after my Pop's death though. He wasn't one to talk about things, unlike my mother. While he wasn't talkative, Pop had a commanding presence. The grandfather of my childhood was tall, with a huge belly, and white hair which was balding on the top. He had a light complexion and burned easily in the sun.  My father had a dark complexion, more like his mother.

Pop had a good sense of humour and my grandmother O'Brien always enjoyed any time she spent visiting with him. He always had a joke or story and he kept her laughing with that silent shaking laugh of hers.

If Pop was at our house and I came home from school and asked where Mom was, his response would always be,

"She's up tarring the roof."

It was his catch phrase for every query about someone's location.

Recently, I asked Claire what her plans were for the day. "I'm going up tarring the roof now in a few minutes," was her cheeky reply. She and I both laughed. We knew!

Three generations later, Pop's phrase is still in use in his family, and has taken on a wider usage than he had for it. Evolution!

Family

 On Saturday, we had a family celebration of Caitlin's first birthday. It was a fun party for a sweet little girl. Then on Sunday, Ben looked after the kids while Claire worked. Part way through the day she phoned to say that she had come down with the flu and had to come home early. She couldn't drive herself so we assisted her. By the time we got her home, Ben and Caitlin had it too. Rick and I stayed overnight to take care of the girls if they awakened. Ben and Claire were deathly sick. Meanwhile, Rick and I wonder when we will get it. It seems inevitable.

This past few weeks I've worked on my grandfather Pretty's story; a story of tragedy, with his parents and four of the eight children dying from tuberculosis. One of the boys died, then the father, mother and the other three children. Tuberculosis was so contagious and often passed through a family. While Rick and I wait for the flu, they waited for tuberculosis. What must that have been like? How did three of them escape the bacteria? As each got sick in turn, did any of the remaining family members question whether to care of the afflicted person? Did the three surviving boys remember any good times before all the sickness? 

So many thoughts about events of one hundred years ago run through my head. The fact that any of my grandfather's family survived is incredible in itself. How had that experience impacted their lives? My grandfather didn't talk about it. You know what they say about still waters.....

 

Jim Jams

Seeing a package of date cookies at the grocery store recently reminded us of a recipe that we used many times during our early years of marriage. Hunting it down, we discovered that the hand written recipe we got initially from Rick's mother, was in fact a recipe from his great grandmother, Clarinda (Moulton) Mercer.

Clarinda was born in English Harbour West, Newfoundland, in 1880. She grew up in Burgeo. Her father was Thomas Moulton, a fish merchant there. This fact always amused me because my mother's family was always indebted to the fish merchant, as were many fisher families in Newfoundland. Some people in Rick's family tree were on the other side of that dynamic.

Clarinda Moulton married Rev. Richard Frederick (R.F.) Mercer. Their wedding was a big social occasion in Burgeo. As a clerical family, they were posted in various towns of the province, including two postings in Catalina, Trinity Bay. Clarinda was organist in Church everywhere R.F. served. She eventually lost part of her left leg due to cancer which made it difficult to play the old organs with their foot pedals. She could walk around easily enough however.

After R.F. died, Clarinda lived for two winters with her son Dick's family in Corner Brook. Clarinda loved opera and listened to it on the radio all the time. Her granddaughter, Sylvia, had a record player that played forty-fives. She got the player and records from her boyfriend Melvin, who worked on the Corner Brook, a ship which delivered paper made in Corner Brook to markets in the United States. Sylvia thought she had the world when she got the player. One of the songs which was popular and which Sylvia played all the time, was Ghost Riders in the Sky, written by Stan Jones, sung by Burl Ives. Her grandmother hated the song!

Eventually Clarinda moved to St. John's where she bought a house on Gower Street and lived with two of her daughters, Maud and Faith. R.F. is buried in Catalina while Clarinda is buried in St. John's.

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Clarinda's recipe goes like this:

Jim Jams

2 cups flour

2 cups rolled oats

1 cup brown sugar

1cup shortening 

1/2 cup milk

3 tsp baking powder 

1 tsp salt

Mix flour, oats, brown sugar, baking powder, and salt. Cut in shortening as for pastry. Add milk. Roll thin and cut into circles of desired size. Place filling in center of circle and fold circle in half. Pinch semi-circle together.

Filling:

12 oz dates

Water

Cook until tender.

Bake Jim's Jams in moderate oven until golden.

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This past week two generations of Clarinda's descendents made Jim Jams, her great grandson, Rick and her great great great granddaughter, Sylvie. Descendents from two other generations, Sylvia and Claire, enjoyed them too. They were crispy on the outside, tender inside. 

          Rick and Sylvie making Jim Jams

The grandmother in me thinks that Clarinda is smiling!

Cooking Class

We were new to Prince Edward Island and not knowing too many people, I decided to go to a cooking class at one of the local supermarkets.  I had never gone to such a class before but I decided it was a good way to meet people and find out about the community which was now home. Besides, I loved to cook and did it every day.  It would be good to get some new recipes, tips, and have a chef prepare a meal for me.  It seemed like a great idea.

I remember the first time I went to the class.  The co-ordinator for the cooking classes was L J, a short, light haired, bundle of energy.  I had spoken to her to reserve my place in the class and she was so welcoming that I felt I had known her forever.  

The chef was a wonderful young man who had grown up in Ontario and moved to PEI to work.  Now he had roots here with a family of his own.  It was wonderful to watch him in the kitchen, and his food was so tasty, an incredible blend of spices which could leave you wondering what the various components might be, even though you had watched him put the items together.

Throughout his demonstration, the chef gave lots of tips and suggestions as to how to work more efficiently in the kitchen, what to buy when items are unavailable and how to serve the food.  The cooking component of the class was a huge success.

Just as successful however was the social interaction with other class members, many of whom were regulars.  Through them, I learned many things about PEI, how things were done, what to expect, what was available here.  When Rick joined me at the classes, he too enjoyed the food and the people.

L J was always there, steady, cheerful, kind, friend to all.  She opened her arms and her heart to everyone who came to class.  People became her friends, not just customers at work. 

I think of L J as an ambassador for PEI.  She helped us settle into the community and feel like we were home here too.  That wasn't an easy feat because we had lived in Newfoundland all of our lives. Now, we are lucky enough to call L J, friend.

Winter

It was a calm, cloudless night; the sky was black except for the stars, millions of them. New moon meant that the edge of the Milky Way was obvious in the blackness of the setting.

We had taken our snow machines across the street from our mobile home to the huge bog surrounding Buchans where we lived. We were prepared to boil the kettle, or in this case the old juice can, have a cup of switchel (plain black tea), over an open fire in the country.

We could see the lights of Buchans in the distance as we stopped to take in the view. After a few minutes Rick started a fire and added tea bags to the 'kettle' which by now contained a few twigs and soot as well. The tea had a taste unique to the setting. The fire added to the beauty as sparks drifted upward, drawing the eye with them. Despite the bitter cold our little spot seemed cozy. The only things missing tonight were the Northern Lights. However, sitting on the snow mobile seats there, I swear we could hear the earth hum.

We did this periodically, enjoying the time of year when the daylight left us so early that the night seemed endless. When we went snow mobiling though, the nights weren't long enough to take in the beauty of our place in the universe.

Buchans was a place where you could enjoy nature in winter because it was so easily accessible. 

We haven't been snowmobiling in years. Winter just isn't the same.

Buchans

The town came into view in the distance, buildings in the middle of the wilderness. Except for the little community of Buchans Junction, about thirty kilometres away, we were as far into the wilderness of Newfoundland as it was possible to go, by road.

Rick finished work at Light and Power in Corner Brook and I finished work at Student Aid in St. John's. He visited my family in Mount Pearl for a few days and was headed to a teaching position on the southwest coast of Newfoundland while I was headed to Buchans to teach Science. Rick had a car and drove onto the Buchans highway at Badger to drop me into Buchans.

It was a beautiful day when we got there; the heat of late summer was oppressive that Labour Day.  Rick left me at the Teachers' Hostel. I'll never forget that feeling, watching as he drove away. It was windy and dry, so the wind, which came to be a familiar companion of the next number of years, was blowing around a fine sand/dust. There weren't many trees or grass in the community which I found unusual. Our house in Mount Pearl was bordered by a green belt and everyone had lawns that they groomed with such care. Here, in the middle of town there were few trees or grass. It was different from my home. I didn't know what to think that first day.

I was assigned a room at the hostel, unpacked and made my way to the school. The school seemed old but clean, parts freshly painted. An auditorium/gym had a low ceiling and was small. The lab was adequate. I was pleased overall and looking forward to the first day.

The Teacher's Hostel housed teachers from two schools and the female teachers worked really well together. It was good to live with other teachers. There was always someone to talk to and I never felt lonely that first year. It was good to share problems and ideas with fellow teachers. I can honestly say that staying there was the best thing I could have done that first year.

Buchans had a Teachers' Hostel because it was a company mining town and housing was difficult to acquire. The hostel ensured that teachers who came to the community had a place to live.

The cook/housekeeper, Rita, was just excellent. She provided the cooked meals and we shared the grocery bills and took turns doing the menu for a week. We took care of our own washing and rooms. It was like residence in university but we had money now because we were teaching. 

At twenty-one, it was an ideal place for me. I saved for a car and by Easter that year I bought my first one. I was so proud of it. I had also saved and paid off my student loan, before the interest started to accumulate at the end of the interest free period. Since I had lived at home, my loan was small.

It's funny how a place can grow on you. The dust that settled everywhere was a product of the mining process but it was also a reflection of the hard work of the people, some of whom gave their lives in the effort to extract the minerals from the earth. The dust was a part of life there. The content of the soil made it difficult to grow things in town as well. However the surrounding wilderness gave perspective as to how hard the people had worked to build a community there. We were surrounded by wilderness which could be beautiful but harsh in the cold, biting winds of the winter months when drifting snow resulted in white-outs. However that same location enabled some of the best winter activity anyone could want. Summers were hot and beautiful as well.

When I think of Buchans though I think of the people, hard working, talented, warm and accepting of new-comers, which they, their parents or grandparents had been at one time. There was a terrific work ethic and children were open and appreciative of everything. The men relied on each other at their jobs and the result was a tremendous sense of community. When the mine eventually closed, they fought to keep the town alive and they succeeded.

I eventually became principal of one of the schools but the personal cost to me of that job was too great. We left there, not easily though, and our daughter who had been born while we were there, always considers herself as being from Buchans, rather than from Grand Falls where we moved. In Buchans children played outside and had the freedom to go throughout the community. Such was not the case in our neighborhood in Grand Falls. It was a big adjustment when we first moved there.

Our family was lucky to have had the experience of Buchans in our lives. It was a unique, special place that we were lucky enough to call home.