The Little Black Book

One of the most valuable items we own is a little black book. This book has nothing to do with dating and conquests as many such named books imply. And its value is not monetary. Rather, it contains part of the history experienced by my husband's grandfather, Ern Smith, and provides glimpses into the lives of people in Corner Brook, Newfoundland in the 1930s during the Depression.

At that time, Mr. Smith worked as a relief officer in the west coast town. Ern worked at the paper mill but quit his job when he witnessed an industrial accident which killed a co-worker. This incident had a tremendous impact on Ern and for years he suffered from post traumatic stress which was undiagnosed at that time. However, Ern's work as a relief officer was not easy either as he could not provide people with everything they needed during those difficult times.

The book documents events such as quarantines for communicable diseases like diphtheria, men killed working in woods camps, leaving young widows and children without any means of support, seniors who were cold and hungry, living alone. Tragedy after tragedy happened to people during some of the toughest times in the history of the colony.

Ern also did food inspection in stores and restaurants and disposed of spoiled food. In the days prior to modern packaging and handling of food products and refrigeration, it was common for food to spoil. Someone had to insure that such food did not make it to unsuspecting consumers.

During this period, Ern worked very closely with police as well. Confiscating food products from merchants was not a popular move. They did not want to lose money and hungry people were upset to see food being destroyed. Ern often needed support on the job.

On one occasion, he discovered a case of bully beef, canned cooked corned beef, which had spoiled. Every can of beef was blown, meaning the meat inside had spoiled. The whole case had to be destroyed. Ern knew he needed help getting rid of the poisonous food.

He walked into the police office on his way home from ABC Grocery with the case of beef. Bob Jones was on duty. 

"Mornin', Bob."

"How ya gettin' on, Ern? What's up taday?"

"Just been to ABC and found a case o' spoiled bully beef. Got ta get rid o' it, ya know, Bob," said Ern.

"Yes b'y. I knows. Bringin' it ta da dump, ar' ya?"

"Na b'y. Ya know we can't do dat. Too temptin' fur the people who scavenge dere even if we took the labels off the cans. People'd get sick for sure."

"Could bury 'em I s'pose," suggested Bob.

"Na, dat's too risky too, b'y. Someone could dig 'em up." Ern paused for a moment, then added, "But maybe we could take 'em out in the bay an' dump 'em overboard. What do ya tink?"

"Alright, b'y. Nice afternoon for a row out da bay. See ya at one," said Bob.

"OK, Bob. Meet ya down on da wharf. Meanwhile, can I leave this stuff here rather than cart it home 'n' you bring it to the wharf?"

"Alright b'y."

Promptly at one o'clock, Ern met Bob at the wharf where the skiff was tied up. The boat had various uses and only recently was used to retrieve a body from the bay. Ern noticed that Bob had his hunting rifle already in the boat. Seeing Ern eye the rifle, Bob said, "Thought I'd bring 'er in case we spotted a few bull birds. I'm sick o' salt fish 'n hard tack."

Ern figured that would make the trip worthwhile, giving one type of food back to the sea and taking home another, not such a waste of time and energy! "Good idea," he said to Bob, already tasting the delicious gravy and pastry Bessie would make with the birds.

The two rowed for all they were worth and after thirty minutes were far enough off shore so as not to attract too much attention. Ern opened the case of twelve tins and quickly dumped them overboard, anxious to go birding.

As he turned to put the box in the stern of the boat, he heard Bob say, "Oh-oh."

When Ern looked around, he saw it too. There were the cans of bully beef floating around, bobbing with the tide. The air in the cans created buoys out of the spoiled beef.

"They're all going ta float in on da tide," said Ern. "We can't have dat."

"May as well have a bit o' target practice," said Bob. He reached for the rifle and methodically picked off six of the floating cans. Then he passed the rifle to Ern. Not as skilled with the rifle as Bob, it took Ern nine shots to get his six cans. 

Watching the last of the peculiar buoys sink into the depths, the men knew the chance of fresh birds for supper sank with it. As they rowed home, the two were quiet, each lamenting the loss. They had used all of the ammunition to shoot the wrong bull.

Note:

This is a true story based on the life of Ernest Smith. The names of the police officer and the store are fictional. 

Thank you to Aunt Marie Smith for the great memory.

 

Clear Sailing

Going through some pictures this week, I discovered this photo of a tall ship in Summerside, Prince Edward Island in 2014 to commemorate the Charlottetown Convention. 

The convention marked the beginning of the process which formed Canada as a nation in 1867.

This ship has two staysails, triangular sails set forward of the foremast. The foremost sail is the jib which acts as an airfoil, reducing turbulence on the leeward or downwind side of the mainsail. It increases performance and stability of the vessel.

Newfoundland, a British colony until 1949 when it joined Canada, is steeped in British culture and traditions, though often with a local twist. One example is from the British Navy, where the wish, "Long may your big jib draw," is a holdover from the era of the tall ships and a hope that one experiences clear sailing. It is a common saying in Newfoundland as well, especially during Screech-In ceremonies when people become honorary Newfoundlanders and are wished lives of clear sailing.

The vessel also brings to mind the replica of the tall ship, Hector, 

which we saw in Pictou, Nova Scotia. 

The original Hector brought early Scottish immigrants to the Pictou area in 1773, almost a century before Canada was founded.

One branch of my family is from the Scots in Nova Scotia. There was a connection to the Hector in that branch of the family and in the 1880s, one ancestor, Thomas Stewart, moved to Newfoundland. 

                                     Thomas Stewart

He fathered my paternal grandmother, Ida.

                                       Ida Stewart

One can only imagine what conditions were like on that vessel in the North Atlantic in the 1770s, with cramped conditions, above and below deck.

The vessel arrived in September at the height of hurricane season. How many ships were lost due to the storm-tossed Atlantic, sailing without the benefit of engine, weather forecasts or modern navigational aids? These were brave people, looking to better their lives, sailing into the unknown.

In a small way, they parallel the journeys of people making the dangerous ocean crossings today, in lesser vessels, looking for better lives for themselves and their children. The immigrants who formed Canada and other nations were hardy, brave people, taking risks to improve their lives. 

We are seeing a reflection of our own heritage laid out before us today in the travails of the millions of refugees searching for safe homelands.

In keeping with my own immigrant heritage and my Newfoundland culture, I say to each newcomer to Canada, "Long may your big jib draw."

Note:

Screech is a rum associated with Newfoundland. It is a strong rum of forty percent alcohol by volume,

                                                         Kissing the codfish

                             

which makes people "screech" when consumed. At a Screech-In, people say a verse, kiss a codfish, then drink a shot of Screech.

                            Some Prince Edward Islanders trying Screech                     

The ceremony is popular among tourists and is performed at bars or privately with local families.

Honourary Newfoundlander wearing his sou'wester and holding Newfoundland flag.

Porches

Winter has us in its grips now, and we do everything we can to heat our home efficiently. This past autumn, we installed a new door and storm door, although a porch keeps in the heat as well.

The porches of homes in our birthplace of Newfoundland are important. The prominence of porches there is connected to the elements which can be harsh. Porches separate the main living area of the house from the outdoors, like a weather or wind break. Years ago they also served as storage areas for wood or supplies. 

Weather is an important part of the culture and lifestyle of Newfoundland because so much of what people did, the fishery, hunting, or harvesting wood, depended on weather conditions. Even today, you consider the weather as you plan your day or look ahead at the week. However, the best laid plans can be foiled because like most of eastern Canada, the weather can change in a few minutes. "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes," is a common saying in Newfoundland and other parts of Atlantic Canada.

As a result of the often harsh conditions, homes in Newfoundland are designed for the elements. Whether it is a room attached to the outside of the house or the entry part of the interior of the home, a porch is almost essential to any Newfoundland dwelling.

However, it is common to hear the word 'nar' with reference to porches. Nar means no, and is used to qualify items such as, "We caught nar fish today," or, "I got nar cigarette." But it is the use of nar with the word porch, a room which provides an entry to the house, which is most curious. 

The importance of the porch to the Newfoundland home is understood by the saying,

"The worst thing you can have on your house is nar porch." 

True.

It's a Matter of Habit

Growing up in Newfoundland, in many communities, the people knew of the divide between Protestants and Catholics. In places like Petty Harbour, the two groups lived on opposite sides of the harbour. Other communities had people of one religious affiliation. In larger communities, you knew where the other group lived but you did not go to school with those children. Each group had their own denominational school.

As Catholics living in the St. John's area, my brother and I went to a Catholic school several miles from our home although there was another school in our neighbourhood. It was never a consideration for us to attend the nearby school even though walking to and from our own school was a challenge for us as young children. We had Presentation sisters at our school, with one as principal and our church in the same building.

Meanwhile, on the west coast of Newfoundland, my husband's family went to the Protestant school, knew who the Catholics were in their neighbourhood but did not affiliate with them. The Smith family home was near a convent and the family was accustomed to seeing the nuns in the area. This was in the days of the habits which covered the women from head to foot, leaving only their faces and hands exposed. You did not see their feet often so it looked as if they floated across the earth.

My husband's Aunt Marie and her son, Jeff, lived in the family home with her widowed father, Ern.

Mr. Smith had a Fix It shop attached to the house where he spent his days working on locks and keys, as his surname would suggest. Among his customers were the sisters of the nearby convent.

Jeff, a preschooler, loved his grandfather and spent every minute he could in the shop. One day, Marie went into the shop to find Jeff staring up at two nuns who were waiting for Ern to finish a key. When he saw his mother, Jeff ran to her and said, "Look Mommy. Batman."

Marie was shocked and speechless, not knowing nuns at all or how they would react. A split second of silence followed, then the nuns burst into laughter. It was a relief to the Smiths.

Hearing this story years later and having worked with them, I knew nuns as regular people. However, had I witnessed this incident as a child, I would have been surprised, even shocked. From my experience, I would have expected the nuns to be stern and to admonish Jeff. It just goes to prove that there can be a change of habit.

One Dog...

Our lives with our granddog, Georgie, continued over the holiday season as her family visited the United Kingdom and beyond for two weeks. This golden retriever has us just the way she wants us now; she completed our training last summer.

Georgie's visit coincides with my reading of the book, Fifteen Dogs by André Alexis. I am enjoying the book and can understand why it won the Giller prize. The fifteen dogs with human intelligence created a unique glimpse into humanity as well. So in homage to Mr. Alexis and his wonderful book, I am doing fifteen photos of one dog with human commentary, I'm not sure how intelligent it is.

                                                            Fifteen Photos

Can I bring a few sticks in next week?

I like this ball but forget the lights.                    

Why do you always put these crazy things on my head?

Who is this Santa dude I have to thank?

My jaws are tired and I need a drink, please.

I don't know why people like this shower business.

                                 Are we there yet?

What do I have to do to get this treat?

There's got to be a better way to pee.

How long did I get?

Nature calls again.

I just want a hug.

She forgot the crackers this time.

Playing in the snow is even better than a walk.

It's cold. I'm glad she covered my ears.

Winter Wonder

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, Newfoundland, 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 countryside.

We could see the lights of Buchans in the distance as we stopped to take in the view. Within 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 were the Northern Lights. However, sitting on the snowmobile 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 snowmobiling 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 easy to access. We haven't been snowmobiling in years. Winter just isn't the same.

The Importance of Goodbye

That summer everything changed. Dad was sick. He had no energy, and slept a great deal. This behaviour was different for Dad because at fifty-nine, since his retirement, he'd kept busy. Medical tests were negative. Then my parents attended a wedding where Dad collapsed. At the hospital a chest X-ray showed a tumour between his lung and chest wall, growing onto his aorta. He did not have long to live.

                              Dad and Mom

During this same period, my grandmother O'Brien, Nan, had vascular dementia, living in and out of the world which included her family. By February, after Dad's last cancer treatment when doctors could not do any more for him, Nan was more often in her own world than in ours.

                                 Nan

At this point in my life, I was married with one child, our daughter, Claire. In my teaching career I was principal of a small all grade school where I taught as well. My husband, Rick worked in the same school.

In February, I had a few days with my parents during which time Mom and I took Dad to see Nan. We spent every Sunday with Mom's family when my brother, Frank and I were growing up. That day, on the way to Maddox Cove, Newfoundland to see my grandmother, I realized this could be the last time I would drive to see Nan with both of my parents.

                                     My brother and me

My father had a great relationship with both of his in-laws, though my grandfather was long gone by this time. Dad's mother died when he was fourteen; he respected my grandmother O'Brien and thought of her as a mother figure though he always called her Missus. They never had harsh words and Dad helped Mom's family any way he could. There was mutual respect between my father and Mom's parents.

When we arrived in Maddox Cove, Nan was in her usual place on the daybed by the stove. She did not know me when I entered with my parents. I sat next to Nan with Dad on my right. 

Nan looked like she had for the last few years except her hair was graying at the temples now. She was thinner as well but her face was still smooth with few wrinkles. She looked younger than her eighty-five years. Her hair was lovely, kept that way by my mother who could have been a hairdresser. 

After I spoke to Nan for a few minutes, she recognized my voice, though not my adult appearance. Then, pointing to Dad, she said, "Who's that?"

"It's me, Missus. Sam," Dad replied. After all the treatment, Dad looked nothing like himself. He'd had radiation on his brain where the cancer had migrated, lost his hair and taken steroids which left his body swollen. If Nan had all her faculties she would have had difficulty recognizing Dad.

"Noooo, that's not Sam," Nan said.

"Yes... it is, Nan. He's... been sick," I said, choking back the tears.

"Noooo, that's not Sam. That's an old man," insisted my grandmother.

"Yes, b'y Missus. It's me," Dad was able to say but then fell silent.

Sat there that day between these two people, I grew up. Neither of them was anything like the person I knew and loved. Yet, here they were, in essence the same, but each fading in his and her own way. Sat there, realizing the loss already, what was to come, the finality that was on the horizon, the days which would never be again, I shed the last vestiges of innocence. Being married, having a child, working, had not matured me the way this moment had.

As I drove back to my childhood home, I felt drained. A girl had driven her parents to visit her grandmother one last time; a woman drove them home. I had a few months to assimilate what I had learned. Dad lived two months, Nan less than a year.

That day, in part, made me who I am today. It is woven into my being and as real now as it was then, a coming of age, guided by two loved ones saying goodbye.