Read these personal accounts of what life was like way back when in Newfoundland and Labrador, sent by our readers.
A Hardy Newfoundlander
I sailed through the Narrows aboard the USS General Muir in April of 1953 for a two-year assignment at Fort Pepperrell; a 19-year-old farm boy from South Texas who had never been out of state; I was fascinated by the beauty of ... click to read moreI sailed through the Narrows aboard the USS General Muir in April of 1953 for a two-year assignment at Fort Pepperrell; a 19-year-old farm boy from South Texas who had never been out of state; I was fascinated by the beauty of Newfoundland. To make a long story short: I fell in love with Newfoundland, and with a Newfoundlander that has been my wife going on 58 years; once married, my tour was extended to three years.
Which brings me to the subject of my article: as I read "Bringing John Home," my father-in-law (George Roosevelt Nicholl) came to mind; 'Dad Nicholl' was born in St. John's and lived on Gilbert Street. And, as with John Crotty, his childhood was cut short with the death of his father, Leonard Nicholl, who was aboard the Florizel when it sank. His body was one of several that were not recovered. Ten-year-old George bid his father farewell, never to see him again; there would be no funeral, no grave to visit, no closure.
'Dad Nicholl,' the eldest of five brothers, became the sole support of a mother and four brothers; "Someone had to provide for the family, and as the oldest boy, the task fell on me," he said with a smile, "and I would do it again."
Delivering messages took him to all areas of St. John's, and often to ships docked offshore. There were no bicycles; messages were delivered by foot, or whatever means available. "I remember rowing to the Exotic and the Seabird on a borrowed dory; that was hard work, but fun as well."
During his long tenure of service, he worked as Messenger, Letter Carrier, Mail Sorter and Railway Mail Clerk; the latter position would take him to most outports.
Although he only possessed a 6th grade education, 'Dad Nicholl' rose "through the ranks" from messenger boy to Personnel Supervisor. He retired at age 66 with nearly 53 years of active service; the longest tenure of service in the Canadian Postal Service, not only in Newfoundland, but throughout Canada as well. On his retirement, he was recognized with a service award signed by Prime Minister Trudeau for his invaluable contribution to the Canadian Postal Service. "I was good to the Post Office, and the Postal Service was good to me," he was quoted as saying at his retirement.
When asked to share the secret for his long and successful career: "Always arrive on time and give your boss an honest day's work; it's as simple as that." Simple indeed!
Dad married Violet Pollet from New Harbour. They had five daughters and one son; sad to say that Mom Nicholl died in 1967. On becoming a widower, Dad became a world traveller, and avid photographer. His travels took him to Europe, Africa, many of the United States and Mexico.
No Tea in Tupelo
While visiting the birthplace of Elvis Presley, we stopped for a mid-afternoon tea. "Tea, please," Dad told the server. "Right away, sir," she replied, and soon returned with a huge glass of tea brimming with ice cubes. "But what I wanted was a cup of hot tea," Dad told the lady. "Sorry, sir, we only serve iced tea." Dad didn't get his tea in Tupelo, Mississippi...
Never Too Old to Learn
Though due to circumstances, hr was unable to attend school as a youth, he made up for it during his retirement years. He studied the French language at Memorial University, then spent summer with a non-English-speaking family in France; while visiting Mexico, he became acquainted with the culture and language.
Proud Newfoundlander
"My father-in-law is Canadian," I would say by way of introduction to friends. "Newfoundlander, Roger, I am a Newfoundlander; I may live in a Canadian Province, but I will always be a Newfoundlander," he would quickly correct me.
Faithful Man
Church was important to this hard-working, God-fearing family man. While inclement weather may have kept many at home, he would tow the younger children across the fields to church in a sled.
The trek from 265 Blackmarsh Road to St. Paul's United Church was a fair distance, but that did not stop him. "Didn't you find it difficult?" I asked him. "Yes," he said, "but we couldn't miss prayers." Dad left his descendants a legacy of faithfulness to God and service to his country.
On his retirement, he was quoted as saying, "I remember reporting for my first day of work on a beautiful sunny morning, and I still recall the delight with my new job and new-found wealth of 49 cents per day." As I look at my own thirteen-year-old great-grandsons at play, I marvel that one so young would assume such an important role; George Roosevelt Nicholl was truly a 'hardy Newfoundlander!'
Dad's tenure of service may have been surpassed by another Newfoundlander (Edgar Walters) who was still serving at the time of Mister Nicholl's retirement. That being the case, the honour of longest tenure of service will remain in Newfoundland. I am confident that there are countless numbers of individuals such as John Crotty and George Nicholl - boys that became men overnight, but succeeded in spite of adverse circumstances.
It was my privilege and good fortune to have become acquainted with George Roosevelt Nicholl as my father-in-law and friend.
Roger Herrera
Photo: Dad Nicholl in Mississippi, posing next to a mail box constructed from a pot-bellied stove.
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Another Hardy Newfoundlander (1 comments) I sailed through the Narrows aboard the USS General Muir in April 1953 for a two-year assignment at Fort Pepperrell; a 19-year-old farm boy from South Texas who had never been out of state; I was fascinated by the beauty of Newfoundland. ... click to read moreI sailed through the Narrows aboard the USS General Muir in April 1953 for a two-year assignment at Fort Pepperrell; a 19-year-old farm boy from South Texas who had never been out of state; I was fascinated by the beauty of Newfoundland. To make a long story short: I fell in love with Newfoundland, and with a Newfoundlander that has been my wife going on 58 years; once married, my tour was extended to three years.
Which brings me to the subject of my article: as I read "Bringing John Home," my father-in-law (George Roosevelt Nicholl) came to mind; 'Dad Nicholl' was born in St. John's and lived on Gilbert Street. And, as with John Crotty, his childhood was cut short with the death of his father, Leonard Nicholl, who was aboard the Florizel when it sank. His body was one of several that were not recovered. Ten-year-old George bid his father farewell, never to see him again; there would be no funeral, no grave to visit, no closure.
'Dad Nicholl,' the eldest of five brothers, became the sole support of a mother and four brothers; "Someone had to provide for the family, and as the oldest boy, the task fell on me," he said with a smile, "and I would do it again."
Delivering messages took him to all areas of St. John's, and often to ships docked offshore. There were no bicycles; messages were delivered by foot, or whatever means available. "I remember rowing to the Exotic and the Seabird on a borrowed dory; that was hard work, but fun as well."
During his long tenure of service, he worked as Messenger, Letter Carrier, Mail Sorter and Railway Mail Clerk; the latter position would take him to most outports.
Although he only possessed a 6th grade education, 'Dad Nicholl' rose "through the ranks" from messenger boy to Personnel Supervisor. He retired at age 66 with nearly 53 years of active service; the longest tenure of service in the Canadian Postal Service, not only in Newfoundland, but throughout Canada as well. On his retirement, he was recognized with a service award signed by Prime Minister Trudeau for his invaluable contribution to the Canadian Postal Service. "I was good to the Post Office, and the Postal Service was good to me," he was quoted as saying at his retirement.
When asked to share the secret for his long and successful career: "Always arrive on time and give your boss an honest day's work; it's as simple as that." Simple indeed!
Dad married Violet Pollet from New Harbour. They had five daughters and one son; sad to say that Mom Nicholl died in 1967. On becoming a widower, Dad became a world traveller, and avid photographer. His travels took him to Europe, Africa, many of the United States and Mexico.
No Tea in Tupelo
While visiting the birthplace of Elvis Presley, we stopped for a mid-afternoon tea. "Tea, please," Dad told the server. "Right away, sir," she replied, and soon returned with a huge glass of tea brimming with ice cubes. "But what I wanted was a cup of hot tea," Dad told the lady. "Sorry, sir, we only serve iced tea." Dad didn't get his tea in Tupelo, Mississippi...
Never Too Old to Learn
Though due to circumstances, hr was unable to attend school as a youth, he made up for it during his retirement years. He studied the French language at Memorial University, then spent summer with a non-English-speaking family in France; while visiting Mexico, he became acquainted with the culture and language.
Proud Newfoundlander
"My father-in-law is Canadian," I would say by way of introduction to friends. "Newfoundlander, Roger, I am a Newfoundlander; I may live in a Canadian Province, but I will always be a Newfoundlander," he would quickly correct me.
Faithful Man
Church was important to this hard-working, God-fearing family man. While inclement weather may have kept many at home, he would tow the younger children across the fields to church in a sled.
The trek from 265 Blackmarsh Road to St. Paul's United Church was a fair distance, but that did not stop him. "Didn't you find it difficult?" I asked him. "Yes," he said, "but we couldn't miss prayers." Dad left his descendants a legacy of faithfulness to God and service to his country.
On his retirement, he was quoted as saying, "I remember reporting for my first day of work on a beautiful sunny morning, and I still recall the delight with my new job and new-found wealth of 49 cents per day." As I look at my own thirteen-year-old great-grandsons at play, I marvel that one so young would assume such an important role; George Roosevelt Nicholl was truly a 'hardy Newfoundlander!'
Dad's tenure of service may have been surpassed by another Newfoundlander (Edgar Walters) who was still serving at the time of Mister Nicholl's retirement. That being the case, the honour of longest tenure of service will remain in Newfoundland. I am confident that there are countless numbers of individuals such as John Crotty and George Nicholl - boys that became men overnight, but succeeded in spite of adverse circumstances.
It was my privilege and good fortune to have become acquainted with George Roosevelt Nicholl as my father-in-law and friend.
'I Remember Newfoundland' - 57 Years of Bliss: June 28, 2009
Memories like rare jewels are our true happiness; also like a wonderful family, who are our "miracles" of living!
I was so fortunate in my life to have so many of those God-given miracles & opportunities. A truly amazing saga my life ... click to read moreMemories like rare jewels are our true happiness; also like a wonderful family, who are our "miracles" of living!
I was so fortunate in my life to have so many of those God-given miracles & opportunities. A truly amazing saga my life has been!
I was born in Riga, Latvia - the "Amber Land." A long time ago, as a little girl, I discovered Newfoundland in Riga. The name "Newfoundland" was in large print on a wooden barrel with herring inside. There was always a wooden "three-prong fork" hanging securely from it.
These barrels were always outside in plain view for customers to see, in front of fancy delicatessen stores.
As a child shopping with my grandmother, I was surprised how she picked the fattest herring ever. Bringing it home, she would clean all the bones out, and then she would soak it or steep it overnight in buttermilk. Later, we would partake in a feast of new boiled potatoes with dill, the herring morsels in sour cream & beet, radish & cucumber salads.
Much later, at 13 years of age, Aug. 20, 1944, escaping with my mother on a Red Cross wounded "German Troop" ship from Riga Harbour to Danzig in Germany. Surviving World War II (by many miracles) with my father and mother, we arrived in London, England in Jan. 1948, just after Queen Elizabeth & Prince Philip were married in 1947.
My father was a paper producer in Latvia, and an expert in it. So in London, he went to see Sir Eric Bowater & asked for a job in one of his many paper mills.
Sir Eric asked my father: Where in the world would he like to work? My father said: "The biggest and the best." Which happened to be in Corner Brook, Newfoundland.
So our journey to Newfoundland began, by boatplane to Gander.
Gander Airport as it is today is 50 years old. But in 1948, it was just a US Army depot from which 20,000 aircraft refueled on the way to Europe during World War II.
As we had to wait for the famous Newfoundland train, the "Newfie Bullet," we stayed for three days in the US Army Base Barracks.
It was warm, spacious & cozy, and the food was abundant, delicious & it smelled mouthwatering to the three of us war survivors, after living for five years on imagination, improvisation & war rations.
They called us Displaced Persons, D.P. for short.
The only complaint I had was my mother's drilling of 70 English words per day. I spoke three other languages: Latvian, German and French.
The US Air Force Barracks had a bowling alley and a ballroom with a "Jukebox" - it cost 10¢ to play a tune, & someone was always feeding it. It played Bing Crosby, Vera Lynn, Perry Como & the Goodwin Orchestra.
Eventually, the Bullet arrived, puffing, with two locomotives pushing & one pulling it. It was a stormy day over the "Topsails." We had been waiting in a cabin with a pot-bellied stove inside & a lot of people to go "West my son!"
When we climbed aboard, I noticed the plum-coloured upholstery and elegance of bygone years. The draperies were also maroon, & with coloured tassels. And the dining car was absolutely glamorous, with sparkling crisp white linen & gleaming silver everywhere. The waiters were ever so friendly, smiling & kind in white smocks & gloves.
I said to my parents, full of apprehension: "This is just like in the film Anna Karenina by Tolstoy, which we saw in London, & I am afraid we are going to Siberia!"
My parents calmed me down, & we ordered a fabulous meal: fresh Newfoundland salmon, a melody of "good-looking" vegetables, & the"puffy like white clouds" Newfoundland bread & buns. Oh my! Some good! They floated in air! For dessert, my father ordered "bakeapples' with cream. When it arrived in sherbet goblets with yellow-looking raspberries, he called the waiter and complained, "Where were his baked apples?" The waiter showed him the menu, explained the confusion and introduced us to something new & remarkable, "the best in the world," also known as cloudberries in Sweden. This is one of the good stories of newcomers to Newfoundland. Very amusing!!!
As the scenery flew by, we marvelled at the rivers, gullies & moors, the rocky hills, the beauty of it all. We we beginning to fall in love with Newfoundland and its ruggedness. But the very best was yet to come.
As we arrived in Corner Brook, we just stayed in the West Port Inn, a hotel not far from the Downtown or West Street, & quite near to the Bowater Paper Mill; where almost everyone worked. Corner Brook was only 25 years old at the time.
West Port Inn was a square grayish-blue building, two storeys, with lots of bedrooms & communal bathrooms. All rooms had "guillotine windows," as I called them - not to be opened in winter for the snow, nor in summertime for the "no-seeum" flies. No French windows anywhere, period!
There were a lot of permanent guests: engineers, draftsmen & salesmen - mostly young and unattached, not many families.
We stayed two or three weeks before relocating to Elswick Road to an apartment with Mr. & Mrs. Janes.
The first evening in Corner Brook, my parents & I were invited to the home of the Chief Engineer, Mr. & Mrs. Lang, on Marcell Ave., next door to my future husband & parents-in-law. A miracle?! Absolutely!
That evening, I met my future sister-in-law, who took me to school the next morning to Grade Eleven on west streets by the Girls' Entrance, up the stairs to the principal, Mr. Mercer (he was a remarkable teacher of English & Shakespeare). I wore braids around my head & a miniskirt & I had not much English to speak of.
In the classroom, we all sat where we wanted to, all integrated - boys and girls. The students were so kind, so hospitable, so welcoming, so full of empathy - a miracle! They were so kind & generous, welcome & helpful & sharing.
I had arrived in God's Country! At recess time, they offered me "Kit-Kat" chocolate bars, & many times invited me home for cake & sauce. Newfoundland spirit & hospitality - it is the miracle of the people of Newfoundland!!!
That summer, I met my future husband of 57 years, Alexander Reader, It was a marriage of happiness! It also was our song, "My Happiness." He was an exceptional human being. He hated herring, and I loved it so!
He was my miracle.
'I Remember Newfoundland' - Honeymoon Night: June 28, 1952
Memories like rare jewels are our true happiness; also like a wonderful family, who are our "miracles" of living!
I was so fortunate in my life to have so many of those God-given miracles & opportunities. A truly amazing saga my life ... click to read moreMemories like rare jewels are our true happiness; also like a wonderful family, who are our "miracles" of living!
I was so fortunate in my life to have so many of those God-given miracles & opportunities. A truly amazing saga my life has been!
I was born in Riga, Latvia - the "Amber Land." A long time ago, as a little girl, I discovered Newfoundland in Riga. The name "Newfoundland" was in large print on a wooden barrel with herring inside. There was always a wooden "three-prong fork" hanging securely from it.
These barrels were always outside in plain view for customers to see, in front of fancy delicatessen stores.
As a child shopping with my grandmother, I was surprised how she picked the fattest herring ever. Bringing it home, she would clean all the bones out, and then she would soak it or steep it overnight in buttermilk. Later, we would partake in a feast of new boiled potatoes with dill, the herring morsels in sour cream & beet, radish & cucumber salads.
Much later, at 13 years of age, Aug. 20, 1944, escaping with my mother on a Red Cross wounded "German Troop" ship from Riga Harbour to Danzig in Germany. Surviving World War II (by many miracles) with my father and mother, we arrived in London, England in Jan. 1948, just after Queen Elizabeth & Prince Philip were married in 1947.
My father was a paper producer in Latvia, and an expert in it. So in London, he went to see Sir Eric Bowater & asked for a job in one of his many paper mills.
Sir Eric asked my father: Where in the world would he like to work? My father said: "The biggest and the best." Which happened to be in Corner Brook, Newfoundland.
So our journey to Newfoundland began, by boatplane to Gander.
Gander Airport as it is today is 50 years old. But in 1948, it was just a US Army depot from which 20,000 aircraft refueled on the way to Europe during World War II.
As we had to wait for the famous Newfoundland train, the "Newfie Bullet," we stayed for three days in the US Army Base Barracks.
It was warm, spacious & cozy, and the food was abundant, delicious & it smelled mouthwatering to the three of us war survivors, after living for five years on imagination, improvisation & war rations.
They called us Displaced Persons, D.P. for short.
The only complaint I had was my mother's drilling of 70 English words per day. I spoke three other languages: Latvian, German and French.
The US Air Force Barracks had a bowling alley and a ballroom with a "Jukebox" - it cost 10¢ to play a tune, & someone was always feeding it. It played Bing Crosby, Vera Lynn, Perry Como & the Goodwin Orchestra.
Eventually, the Bullet arrived, puffing, with two locomotives pushing & one pulling it. It was a stormy day over the "Topsails." We had been waiting in a cabin with a pot-bellied stove inside & a lot of people to go "West my son!"
When we climbed aboard, I noticed the plum-coloured upholstery and elegance of bygone years. The draperies were also maroon, & with coloured tassels. And the dining car was absolutely glamorous, with sparkling crisp white linen & gleaming silver everywhere. The waiters were ever so friendly, smiling & kind in white smocks & gloves.
I said to my parents, full of apprehension: "This is just like in the film Anna Karenina by Tolstoy, which we saw in London, & I am afraid we are going to Siberia!"
My parents calmed me down, & we ordered a fabulous meal: fresh Newfoundland salmon, a melody of "good-looking" vegetables, & the"puffy like white clouds" Newfoundland bread & buns. Oh my! Some good! They floated in air! For dessert, my father ordered "bakeapples' with cream. When it arrived in sherbet goblets with yellow-looking raspberries, he called the waiter and complained, "Where were his baked apples?" The waiter showed him the menu, explained the confusion and introduced us to something new & remarkable, "the best in the world," also known as cloudberries in Sweden. This is one of the good stories of newcomers to Newfoundland. Very amusing!!!
As the scenery flew by, we marvelled at the rivers, gullies & moors, the rocky hills, the beauty of it all. We we beginning to fall in love with Newfoundland and its ruggedness. But the very best was yet to come.
As we arrived in Corner Brook, we just stayed in the West Port Inn, a hotel not far from the Downtown or West Street, & quite near to the Bowater Paper Mill; where almost everyone worked. Corner Brook was only 25 years old at the time.
West Port Inn was a square grayish-blue building, two storeys, with lots of bedrooms & communal bathrooms. All rooms had "guillotine windows," as I called them - not to be opened in winter for the snow, nor in summertime for the "no-seeum" flies. No French windows anywhere, period!
There were a lot of permanent guests: engineers, draftsmen & salesmen - mostly young and unattached, not many families.
We stayed two or three weeks before relocating to Elswick Road to an apartment with Mr. & Mrs. Janes.
The first evening in Corner Brook, my parents & I were invited to the home of the Chief Engineer, Mr. & Mrs. Lang, on Marcell Ave., next door to my future husband & parents-in-law. A miracle?! Absolutely!
That evening, I met my future sister-in-law, who took me to school the next morning to Grade Eleven on west streets by the Girls' Entrance, up the stairs to the principal, Mr. Mercer (he was a remarkable teacher of English & Shakespeare). I wore braids around my head & a miniskirt & I had not much English to speak of.
In the classroom, we all sat where we wanted to, all integrated - boys and girls. The students were so kind, so hospitable, so welcoming, so full of empathy - a miracle! They were so kind & generous, welcome & helpful & sharing.
I had arrived in God's Country! At recess time, they offered me "Kit-Kat" chocolate bars, & many times invited me home for cake & sauce. Newfoundland spirit & hospitality - it is the miracle of the people of Newfoundland!!!
That summer, I met my future husband of 57 years, Alexander Reader, It was a marriage of happiness! It also was our song, "My Happiness." He was an exceptional human being. He hated herring, and I loved it so!
He was my miracle.
'I Remember Newfoundland' - Astrida in Gander, February 1948
Memories like rare jewels are our true happiness; also like a wonderful family, who are our "miracles" of living!
I was so fortunate in my life to have so many of those God-given miracles & opportunities. A truly amazing saga my life ... click to read moreMemories like rare jewels are our true happiness; also like a wonderful family, who are our "miracles" of living!
I was so fortunate in my life to have so many of those God-given miracles & opportunities. A truly amazing saga my life has been!
I was born in Riga, Latvia - the "Amber Land." A long time ago, as a little girl, I discovered Newfoundland in Riga. The name "Newfoundland" was in large print on a wooden barrel with herring inside. There was always a wooden "three-prong fork" hanging securely from it.
These barrels were always outside in plain view for customers to see, in front of fancy delicatessen stores.
As a child shopping with my grandmother, I was surprised how she picked the fattest herring ever. Bringing it home, she would clean all the bones out, and then she would soak it or steep it overnight in buttermilk. Later, we would partake in a feast of new boiled potatoes with dill, the herring morsels in sour cream & beet, radish & cucumber salads.
Much later, at 13 years of age, Aug. 20, 1944, escaping with my mother on a Red Cross wounded "German Troop" ship from Riga Harbour to Danzig in Germany. Surviving World War II (by many miracles) with my father and mother, we arrived in London, England in Jan. 1948, just after Queen Elizabeth & Prince Philip were married in 1947.
My father was a paper producer in Latvia, and an expert in it. So in London, he went to see Sir Eric Bowater & asked for a job in one of his many paper mills.
Sir Eric asked my father: Where in the world would he like to work? My father said: "The biggest and the best." Which happened to be in Corner Brook, Newfoundland.
So our journey to Newfoundland began, by boatplane to Gander.
Gander Airport as it is today is 50 years old. But in 1948, it was just a US Army depot from which 20,000 aircraft refueled on the way to Europe during World War II.
As we had to wait for the famous Newfoundland train, the "Newfie Bullet," we stayed for three days in the US Army Base Barracks.
It was warm, spacious & cozy, and the food was abundant, delicious & it smelled mouthwatering to the three of us war survivors, after living for five years on imagination, improvisation & war rations.
They called us Displaced Persons, D.P. for short.
The only complaint I had was my mother's drilling of 70 English words per day. I spoke three other languages: Latvian, German and French.
The US Air Force Barracks had a bowling alley and a ballroom with a "Jukebox" - it cost 10¢ to play a tune, & someone was always feeding it. It played Bing Crosby, Vera Lynn, Perry Como & the Goodwin Orchestra.
Eventually, the Bullet arrived, puffing, with two locomotives pushing & one pulling it. It was a stormy day over the "Topsails." We had been waiting in a cabin with a pot-bellied stove inside & a lot of people to go "West my son!"
When we climbed aboard, I noticed the plum-coloured upholstery and elegance of bygone years. The draperies were also maroon, & with coloured tassels. And the dining car was absolutely glamorous, with sparkling crisp white linen & gleaming silver everywhere. The waiters were ever so friendly, smiling & kind in white smocks & gloves.
I said to my parents, full of apprehension: "This is just like in the film Anna Karenina by Tolstoy, which we saw in London, & I am afraid we are going to Siberia!"
My parents calmed me down, & we ordered a fabulous meal: fresh Newfoundland salmon, a melody of "good-looking" vegetables, & the"puffy like white clouds" Newfoundland bread & buns. Oh my! Some good! They floated in air! For dessert, my father ordered "bakeapples' with cream. When it arrived in sherbet goblets with yellow-looking raspberries, he called the waiter and complained, "Where were his baked apples?" The waiter showed him the menu, explained the confusion and introduced us to something new & remarkable, "the best in the world," also known as cloudberries in Sweden. This is one of the good stories of newcomers to Newfoundland. Very amusing!!!
As the scenery flew by, we marvelled at the rivers, gullies & moors, the rocky hills, the beauty of it all. We we beginning to fall in love with Newfoundland and its ruggedness. But the very best was yet to come.
As we arrived in Corner Brook, we just stayed in the West Port Inn, a hotel not far from the Downtown or West Street, & quite near to the Bowater Paper Mill; where almost everyone worked. Corner Brook was only 25 years old at the time.
West Port Inn was a square grayish-blue building, two storeys, with lots of bedrooms & communal bathrooms. All rooms had "guillotine windows," as I called them - not to be opened in winter for the snow, nor in summertime for the "no-seeum" flies. No French windows anywhere, period!
There were a lot of permanent guests: engineers, draftsmen & salesmen - mostly young and unattached, not many families.
We stayed two or three weeks before relocating to Elswick Road to an apartment with Mr. & Mrs. Janes.
The first evening in Corner Brook, my parents & I were invited to the home of the Chief Engineer, Mr. & Mrs. Lang, on Marcell Ave., next door to my future husband & parents-in-law. A miracle?! Absolutely!
That evening, I met my future sister-in-law, who took me to school the next morning to Grade Eleven on west streets by the Girls' Entrance, up the stairs to the principal, Mr. Mercer (he was a remarkable teacher of English & Shakespeare). I wore braids around my head & a miniskirt & I had not much English to speak of.
In the classroom, we all sat where we wanted to, all integrated - boys and girls. The students were so kind, so hospitable, so welcoming, so full of empathy - a miracle! They were so kind & generous, welcome & helpful & sharing.
I had arrived in God's Country! At recess time, they offered me "Kit-Kat" chocolate bars, & many times invited me home for cake & sauce. Newfoundland spirit & hospitality - it is the miracle of the people of Newfoundland!!!
That summer, I met my future husband of 57 years, Alexander Reader, It was a marriage of happiness! It also was our song, "My Happiness." He was an exceptional human being. He hated herring, and I loved it so!
He was my miracle.
Good Memories It's unfortunate that we have to grow older in order to really appreciate what we had when we were young. When I find myself needing quiet time, my mind will always float back to a time of putt-putt motors, of people laughing quite loudly while working at the town's fishing stage, of chain saws going and that wonderful sea smell. I often think of all those times when I'd come running into the house and ... click to read moreIt's unfortunate that we have to grow older in order to really appreciate what we had when we were young. When I find myself needing quiet time, my mind will always float back to a time of putt-putt motors, of people laughing quite loudly while working at the town's fishing stage, of chain saws going and that wonderful sea smell. I often think of all those times when I'd come running into the house and catch the smell of baked bread, beans, jam or fish and say "Oh Mom, yuck! Not that again!" Now I find myself wanting all of those things. I may no longer live in NL, and though I am quite content where I live now, my heart will always be in a little house surrounded by several lilac trees, a rose bush, damsen trees and black currant bushes, beside the sea. ... Hide full submission
I enjoy very much reading the articles in your magazine. For the past four years, I have given a gift subscription to my father, and he also enjoys the magazine thoroughly. Here is an article I have written ... click to read moreSir or Madam,
I enjoy very much reading the articles in your magazine. For the past four years, I have given a gift subscription to my father, and he also enjoys the magazine thoroughly. Here is an article I have written and if you feel others would like to read it as well, feel free to publish the story. Enclosed is a picture of myself on the left, along with my brother and sister in 1961.
War Games On Pennywell Road
My blood raced as I charged down the hill, firing wildly at the soldier partially hidden in the tall grass. Suddenly, two shots rang out, and I felt the impact as the bullets tore deep inside my chest. Dropping my rifle, I screamed in agony as my hands instinctively covered the wounds and I pitched headfirst down the steep embankment. Over and over I rolled, the wild flowers and blades of grass slashing my face, until I came to rest just a few feet in front of the soldier. "Not bad, Bennett, you might win." The game was called "fall the best," and it was one of our favourites. Whoever dramatically fell the best, got the rifle and the chance to shoot all his friends as they attacked down the hill.
I grew up in an era not long removed from the Second World War. We read comics that had American heroes battling the Nazis, and watched Mickey Mouse outwitting the Japanese on Saturday morning cartoons. The early sixties was at the height of the Cold War, and it was always with trepidation that I listened to the practice runs of the air-raid siren, perched high on a pole on Adam's Ave. in St. John's. It was against this backdrop of military atmosphere that we practiced the art of childhood wargames.
As unbelievable as it sounds now, rock fights were a common occurrence. One day, a good friend and myself paired off; he behind a building and I behind a fence. He was able to escape my long-distance volleys by simply jumping behind the building. To outwit him, I let fly with a nice-size rock when he was still in hiding, and as he poked his head out, the rock struck him square between the eyes. With blood dripping, and in howls of pain, he took off home.
Most of our weapons were homemade. Thick, curved branches were cut from trees, bent slightly and strung for bows. Arrows were made from long straight twigs with bottle caps fastened around the top for added weight. Once I had a store-bought set, and to test its accuracy, my friend picked it up, and delivered an arrow to the side of his brother's head. Serious damage was avoided, but I still remember Kenny laughing heartily as his brother ran down the road, hands up to his head and shrieking in pain.
Slingshots were formed from strong y-shaped branches. Rubber tubing was cut from our bicycle tires and attached to the wood. Part of a shoe tongue formed the pouch, into which a marble-sized rock would fit. These were particularly effective weapons, and a window could be broken from a considerable distance.
When we played knights of old, the metal lids of garbage cans, with the handle in the middle, became the perfect shields. Swords were made from pointed lengths of wood, and we would smash them down on our opponent's shield, and then try to spear them in the guts.
Peaguns or "blowguns" were fashioned from the wild bamboo plant that grows in abundance in St. John's. The small white beans from our mothers' kitchens were used as ammunition. They could be fired quite a distance, but you had to be careful when taking a big breath of air lest the bean was inadvertently sucked down your throat. Some of the guys could put several beans in their mouth, manoeuvre them with their tongue and fire in machine-gun fashion.
We loved to play "horse and rider." One person would ride on his partner's back and they would charge and smash into everybody else, trying to knock them down. With four or five sets of horse and rider attacking each other, you could often nail someone from behind, sending horse and rider face first into the grass.
Firecrackers were our high-tech weapons of mass destruction. It was with delightful anticipation that we would walk from our homes on Pennywell Rd. to the store on Mayor Ave., which sold these little bombs. Then it was up to the Ayre Athletic grounds, away from our parents' prying eyes, to indulge in modern warfare.
The wick had a three-second burn, so you had to act quickly and toss them at your friends. At times they would explode in your fingers, and the effect was a sharp ringing in your ears and slightly singed fingers. Once I crept up behind my friend sitting in the bleachers, put a large firecracker behind his back and blew a hole the size of a small plate in his new windbreaker.
During the summer when we visited our grandmother in Blackhead, CBN, we would scoop out the codlivers from the barrels on the wharf, throw them on the splitting table and stick in the firecrackers. You had to duck low as the codlivers exploded into a thousand pieces. We would also throw a firecracker into the stomach of a sculpin, and watch the smoke come out of its gills.
During the winter, snowball fights were especially enjoyable. We would divide into two opposing forces and each build a snow fort about 40 feet apart. We would hunker down behind the wall and pop up to fire a volley at the enemy.
We used three types of armaments for this. The first was a bowling-ball-size snowball, which we would toss high in the air and hopefully land on the heads of the other fort's occupants as they huddled down behind their fort. Secondly, we used ice balls to penetrate the walls of the fort. These were snowballs made the previous day and frozen overnight, buried in the snow. They were rock hard and lethal. Our third projector was the plain old snowball. A full facial hit was especially satisfying because of the immediate pain and immobility it rendered the victim. After we tired of throwing snowballs, the battle usually ended with a direct frontal charge and the destruction of the enemy fort.
At Christmas we would usually receive some type of gun, rifle or toy soldiers, which we would glorify in our imaginary games of gunfights and battles. Today, "political correctness" frowns on giving a young boy a toy gun. Oh, but how we reveled in the enjoyment of being Davy Crockett, or leading a charge of Apaches against the white man. We were doing what so many generations of young boys had done before us, delighting in our play and imagination.
We eventually grew up, parted ways, started our own families and became law-abiding citizens. I ended up working as an LPN for the past 23 years, and am proud to say I never had the urge to hit any of my patients with a rock. ... Hide full submission
