Read these personal accounts of what life was like way back when in Newfoundland and Labrador, sent by our readers.
Memories of Camp Morris, 1952 I realize many of you who read this were not even born yet 59 years ago, but the story of Camp Morris may be of some interest to you anyway.
This all began in 1952 when the U.S. Air Force at Harmon Field needed some help in getting a year's supply of everything they needed put on shore because they didn't have a port facility.
The world's largest floating dredge was engaged in ... click to read moreI realize many of you who read this were not even born yet 59 years ago, but the story of Camp Morris may be of some interest to you anyway.
This all began in 1952 when the U.S. Air Force at Harmon Field needed some help in getting a year's supply of everything they needed put on shore because they didn't have a port facility.
The world's largest floating dredge was engaged in making them a channel clear into shore, but it was a long way from being finished, so they called on the U.S. Army Transportation Corps out of Fort Eustis, Virginia, to give them a hand.
We loaded up about a battalion of men and equipment and headed for the Rock. In the process of loading all that, a young private named Morris was killed in an accident, so the camp was named after him.
We had a huge array of equipment, trucks, cranes, bulldozers, landing craft and anything else we might need to take the various cargos out of the ships holds and onto the beach.
We worked 12-hour shifts, seven days a week. I was a crane operator on the beach from 8:00 p.m. till 8:00 a.m.
We put ashore an amazing array of stuff; perhaps the most unusual was a ship full of liquor. The M.P.s watched that closely.
Regarding the camp, it was a tent city about a half-mile square with ten-man tents lined up on dirt and rock roads. We had rough board floors, a single light in the middle and a tiny oil stove that didn't do much to ward off the cold.
I went ashore on Mother's Day, 1952, and it was quite cold. We got one blanket only, and it didn't start to keep you warm, so we went to bed with all our clothes on, even shoes. By the time the weather got hot, we each got five blankets. Our laundry was the creek at the end of the camp - and then we got modern; we had two oil drums full of water with a gas burner under them. Wow!
It would be hard to describe the chow at the mess tent; scorched eggs and milk with big lumps in it. Got the idea?
When I finally got some time off, I went into Stephenville, and I met a very sweet young girl and we started dating. While visiting at her home in Kippens, I became very impressed by the kindness of her mother; she reminded me so much of my grandma back in Oregon. We formed a bond that was to last forever. When she heard about the lousy food back at camp, she decided I was to be a guest at her house for any Sunday that I wasn't working.
That dear sweet lady, a true Newfoundlander, was Lucy Hodder.
Incidentally, on the first day that I met her daughter Verna, that charming little lady went and told her mom, "That's the man I am going to marry," and you know what, after I finished my hitch in the army, I went back to Oregon and then in October of 1953, I returned to Newfoundland and claimed my bride. Nan Hodder said I couldn't marry her daughter 'til she was 18, so three days after her birthday, we were wed, and we are still hitched.
There is no trace of Camp Morris left, so far as I know, but I have managed to locate my old spot on the beach where my crane sat; it's across the road from the golf course. Due to poor health I won't be able to return to the Rock anymore, but I have a lifetime full of wonderful memories of its people and places.
I can still remember the sound of motorboat engines as they slowly steamed up and down the shore off Cape Bonavista. This was very busy and very rich fishing ground during that period from the early 1900s to the time of the ... click to read moreI can still remember the sound of motorboat engines as they slowly steamed up and down the shore off Cape Bonavista. This was very busy and very rich fishing ground during that period from the early 1900s to the time of the fishery closure for both codfish and salmon.
The picture depicts the way it was in that era. The fishing stage shown still stands today. It was built in 1952 or 1953, and tourists can visit it at Cape Shore Restaurant, Bonavista. The property at that time belonged to John and Charles Mifflin, my uncles. The picture was taken around 1957 or 1958. I am in the boat in the water; I was 17 years old at the time. We are in the process of loading salmon nets in the boat, and thereby securing a fishing spot for the traps nearby.
Mifflin's Cove was a very busy place, but then, so were the other places on the Cape Shore Road in the summertime between May and September of each year. The way of life then was not as we know it today - no electricity, only kerosene lamps. They say hard work never hurt anyone, but I myself think my mom and dad worked as hard as anyone did. They never got rich from the fishery, that's for sure, but they loved doing what they did.
After my brother Eugene and I got older, we abandoned the fishery. So did my sisters Edith and Lillian, to settle for a better way of life, or so we thought at the time. Anyway, it's all over now; only the memories remain, but it was good "the way it was."
I can still remember the sound of motorboat engines as they slowly steamed up and down the shore off Cape Bonavista. This was very busy and very rich fishing ground during that period from the early 1900s to the time of the ... click to read moreI can still remember the sound of motorboat engines as they slowly steamed up and down the shore off Cape Bonavista. This was very busy and very rich fishing ground during that period from the early 1900s to the time of the fishery closure for both codfish and salmon.
The picture depicts the way it was in that era. The fishing stage shown still stands today. It was built in 1952 or 1953, and tourists can visit it at Cape Shore Restaurant, Bonavista. The property at that time belonged to John and Charles Mifflin, my uncles.
Mifflin's Cove was a very busy place, but then, so were the other places on the Cape Shore Road in the summertime between May and September of each year. The way of life then was not as we know it today - no electricity, only kerosene lamps. They say hard work never hurt anyone, but I myself think my mom and dad worked as hard as anyone did. They never got rich from the fishery, that's for sure, but they loved doing what they did.
The picture is of my dad, Mark Mifflin, hoisted up to the stage. This was done every day after the fish was cleared away, and lowered into the water the following morning.
After my brother Eugene and I got older, we abandoned the fishery. So did my sisters Edith and Lillian, to settle for a better way of life, or so we thought at the time. Anyway, it's all over now; only the memories remain, but it was good "the way it was."
Wine With Wings
Newfoundland Wine shipped country wide (except in NL)
Shipping special $10/case Visit website
Advertisement
Rare Gifts From a Lonely Heart Tic-toc, tic-toc, 30 minutes to the hour. The little yellow bird in the coo-coo clock her son sent from Germany would soon be popping out to serenade her. To some, the bird's rather shrill chirping might be annoying, but for her it was a welcome intrusion into the deafening silence.
Mary Catherine Veronica sat in her well-worn chair, its deeply indented cushion fitting the shape of her body like a glove, knitting needles ... click to read moreTic-toc, tic-toc, 30 minutes to the hour. The little yellow bird in the coo-coo clock her son sent from Germany would soon be popping out to serenade her. To some, the bird's rather shrill chirping might be annoying, but for her it was a welcome intrusion into the deafening silence.
Mary Catherine Veronica sat in her well-worn chair, its deeply indented cushion fitting the shape of her body like a glove, knitting needles busily clickity-clacking with every stitch of the pretty pink afghan she was knitting for her niece falling perfectly into place. In every colour of the rainbow she'd knit the much-appreciated afghans for just about everyone she knew! To her it was a good way for a lonely old woman to pass the time, without any idea how much her gift meant to the recipient.
Her lumpy old chair had been in the same spot in the living room for 50 odd years; it was like a family member. Looking around the room, her gaze took in the old hi-fi with record player and radio that had filled the house with good old Newfoundland music in days gone by. Still in working order, she hadn't used it in years, but the old Seventy-Eights well preserved in their thick cardboard jackets, were in mint condition.
The chesterfield with three cushions that never really fit properly, although she guessed it was from 50-plus years of use, was never used these days except when the odd visitor dropped by. The antenna atop the first television she ever owned had been held up by a piece of wire attached to the narrow metal venetian blinds for as long as she could remember. On the floor beneath the hi-fi, its paint well worn, spots of rust on the sides, sat the toy car her son had played with when he was a little boy. Having grown up in the Great Depression years, Mary Catherine Veronica never threw anything away!
A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, not quite making it to her eyes. Where had the years gone? The old house, every single ornament in the same place it was when they moved in half a century ago, was once a beehive of activity. She'd been so busy back then, with a son to raise, a husband to look after, and the house to maintain. And of course they always kept a boarder or two for extra income, teachers or RCMP officers that she ended up spoiling and coddling as if they were her own. In those days, the house had been virtually bulging at the seams!
But the happy sounds of voices engaged in amicable conversation and laughter had long since been replaced with echoes of silence. Sighing deeply she shrugged away tears of loneliness. "Don't you dare cry Mary Catherine Veronica," her voice breaking the stillness, "This is your life and it's a good one. You've got a roof over your head, a bite to eat, and your health is all it can be." Chastising herself out loud usually worked, but today she couldn't seem to shrug the shawl of loneliness squeezing her shoulders.
A single tear got away from her; dropping into the folds of the afghan she was knitting for her niece. As the tear slipped into the fabric, one by one memories began creeping into her mind. Picking up the stitch she dropped, she remembered the old days as clearly as if they were only yesterday.
She was thirteen, back home in Outer Cove on the east coast of Newfoundland, bent over a washing board and aluminum tub, a thick bar of homemade lye soap in her red-roughened hands. Her mother stood beside her, shoulders hunched over the washtub as she rubbed the collar of a white shirt up and down over its rough surface. When did those lines first begin to appear on her mother's face? It was the first time Mary Catherine really noticed them. Her poor mother worked tirelessly, and Mary Catherine Veronica didn't mind one bit helping her out with the laundry she took in to help put food on the table. "Mudder, why don't you go get a cup of tea," she said, "I've only one more shirt to wash then I'll take over for you and finish up."
Slowly standing up, her mother stretched her aching back, "Ah! Mary Catherine, tis a good daughter you are. Sure you have no time for yourself as it is, and here you are tryin' to take on my work." But Honora Croke was tired, and since there really wasn't much left to do, she made her way to the stove, shoving another chunk of wood in before putting the black cast iron kettle on to boil for tea.
Two heavy steel irons sat on racks at the back of the stovetop, heated and ready for the ironing that would begin as soon as the first line of laundry was dry.
They were a poor Newfoundland Irish family and times were tough during the depression in their small outport town of Outer Cove. Mary Catherine Veronica's father Dennis Croke was a hard working fisherman. But with a family of six children to support and times as bad as they were, he couldn't provide much. So her mother took in laundry to help make ends meet.
Mary Catherine Veronica dreamed of one day meeting a handsome young man, maybe a military man, and getting married. She swore to herself she'd never marry a fisherman and she'd never be poor again! A fisherman's life was a hard one; up every morning before dawn, returning just as the sun was setting to a hot meal and much-needed sleep, all for a meagre living at best.
"Mary Catherine! Sure you're going to rub the collar right off that shirt if you don't mind what you're doing." Her mother's gentle voice shook her out of her reverie. Laughing, she rang the soapy water out of the shirt, putting it on top of the pile waiting to be rinsed, "Sure I don't know where I was, Mudder," she said, not daring to tell her mother she'd been daydreaming about getting married one day!
Lifting the heavy metal tub, she carried it outside across the backyard, dumping it beside the old rundown barn a short distance from the back porch. It was a bright sunny day and the line of clothes she and her mother had hung out earlier that morning were nearly dry, white shirts and sheets billowing in the brisk salty breeze off the ocean beyond the cliffs down the road.
Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Mary Catherine let the fresh air cleanse her lungs and her thoughts. She tended to daydream quite a lot about better times to come, however life was what it was for now so she'd best get on with her work. Shrugging her tired shoulders, she picked up the empty tub and carried it over to the well, filling it up with fresh cold water for rinsing the laundry before bringing it back into the house.
That summer day blended into the next and the next and before she knew it, winter had descended upon them once again. It was a cold day in February, two weeks before her 14th birthday and Mary Catherine awoke with a terrible headache. The pain in her head was so severe, she didn't think she could get out of bed on her own. Shivering in the chilly morning air, her skin was on fire!
"Sure Mary Catherine is going to be late for school if she doesn't hurry up. Tis not like her to sleep late." Honora Croke dished up another bowl of porridge for her husband, "I'll go and make sure she's awake then."
Approaching the bed, Honora heard the pitiful moans coming from her daughter buried beneath a pile of quilts. Pulling back the blankets she was shocked by the child's flushed, fevered face. Touching her forehead, she spoke softly, "There, there now darlin', what' the matter? Have you gone and caught yourself a cold then?"
But there was no response from Mary Catherine, just muddled ramblings, and the whites of her eyes were bloodshot. Her mother suddenly noticed the angry red rash erupting all over her daughter's skin. She'd seen this fever recently, severe pain in the head and neck while in fevered delirium.
Hurrying into the kitchen, "Dennis, you'd better hitch up the horse and wagon, we've got to get Mary Catherine to the doctor in town right away. I'm afraid tis gravely ill she is." Dennis raced into the bedroom, Honora on his heels, placing his big calloused hand on his daughter's forehead, "Sure she's burnin' up! I'll get the wagon ready. You bundle her up as best you can, Honora; tis a long ride into St. John's and there's a storm brewin'."
Leaving their oldest son, Willie, in charge of the other children, Honora and Dennis Croke bundled Mary Catherine into the back of the wagon, covering her with layers of warm blankets. The wind was picking up and the snow coming down harder by the minute. Honora was terrified they wouldn't make it in time. Dennis was worried they wouldn't make it at all.
It took hours in a blinding snowstorm, and Honora couldn't count how many rosaries for her daughter's life to be spared, before they finally reached St. John's. By the time they pulled up to the doctor's office, Mary Catherine was making a weak whimpering sound, her body soaked in a fevered sweat. A long while later, the doctor came to see them in the waiting room. By some great miracle, and the doctor assured them it was exactly that, Mary Catherine Veronica had survived the dreaded meningitis! Her fever had broken, and although recovery would be slow, the doctor said she'd be fine in no time. "God works in mysterious ways Mrs. Croke. Rest assured he has other plans for Mary Catherine."
They stayed in town with relatives for two nights, while the doctor kept an eye on Mary Catherine. By the time they started the long trip back home, she was still very weak but on the road to recovery.
That was a lifetime ago Mary Catherine thought, and yet a little pang of panic still niggled at her, reminding her how close she'd come to death that cold winter's day so long ago.
She remembered the headaches she'd had for a few days before she got really sick, but couldn't recall anything about the trip to St. John's in the snowstorm or the two days she'd spent at the doctor's office. What she did know was that she'd been extremely lucky. That year a number of people in the Outer Cove area had died from Meningitis, the terrible disease that had stricken her.
Clickity-clack the knitting needles worked their magic, the pale pink afghan growing steadily. Oddly enough, she thought, she didn't have a lot of happy memories from her childhood. But then, she supposed, there probably weren't many people her age that'd survived the depression that could remember much more than the hardships.
"Coo-coo, coo-coo," the shrill sound of the little yellow bird's voice shook her from her reverie, startling her. Laughing out loud, she reprimanded herself, "You old fool! Sure tis just the clock." She'd put on the teapot in a few minutes, but for now she was reluctant to leave the comfort of her old chair.
Inhaling deeply, the aroma of the turkey neck soup simmering on the stove brought back warm memories of her husband. She used to make that soup for him as often as she could; it was Steve's favourite.
She was 19 years old when she met Steve. A tall, somewhat portly woman, Mary Catherine had been instantly attracted to the tall, handsome, blond haired, blue-eyed serviceman from Stephenville, on the west coast of the island. He asked for her hand in marriage, and although her heart belonged to her beloved Outer Cove, she followed him to the west coast.
And their life together had been a good one. Over the years, like everyone else, the Good Lord sent them trials, but overall they'd done all right. Steve was a fireman at the Ernest Harmon Air Force Base, so he had a steady income. He was also an avid fisherman and hunter and their freezer was always well stocked. They grew their own potatoes, turnips and carrots, planted apple trees, and picked every kind of berry there was. Mary Catherine made preserves that kept them going all winter long. Memories of the poverty she'd endured growing up during the Great Depression gave her a deep appreciation for everything they had.
They raised their only son to be a fine man, and she couldn't have been prouder of him. For so many years life was all she could ask for, until her beloved Steve died suddenly of a heart attack at only 52 years of age. Though she'd always been a very strong woman, she didn't know if she had the courage to go on without him.
Choking back tears, she remembered that awful day when Steve's brother came to her door late one afternoon with the news her husband had died while at his camp back up in the woods near Whales Back Mountain. In a strange way she felt oddly comforted that he'd died in the place where his heart and soul were most at peace - in the forest, cradled in the arms of Mother Nature.
Loneliness had become a way of life for her after that, and although initially her son wanted her to move to the mainland and live with him and his new wife, Mary Catherine couldn't bear to be away from the little house she and Steve had built together. It held a wealth of memories within its walls, and she'd rather be there alone, than anywhere else!
Wiping another errant tear from her cheek, putting her knitting aside, Mary Catherine pushed herself out of her old chair. "Now girl, what you need is a nice hot bowl of turkey neck soup and a grand drop of tea. Tis a grand life you have."
And slowly making her way to the kitchen, tired old joints stiff and sore, eyes blurred from cataracts, she silently thanked God for his bounty.
A few short years later, angels came to lead Mary Catherine Veronica home, freed from the loneliness at last. But she left behind a trail of beautiful afghans knit from special yarn interwoven with golden memories, rare gifts from a lonely heart!
I still have the beautiful pink afghan Aunt Mary Catherine Veronica knit for me. On many occasions I sat with her while she knit, recanting stories about her past that could both send me into gales of laughter and reduce me to tears. Precious memories of her are woven into the stitches of that special pink afghan, and when it's draped across my shoulders, it's like her arms around me once again.
An article I wrote about my father and his hardship delivering mail on the Cape Shore.
Charles Samuel Collins, son of Samuel and Julia Collins of Bond's Path, Placentia, was born on March 25, 1884. He married Agnes Tobin, daughter of Peter and Catherine Tobin of Ship Cove. They met and fell in love while my mother was teaching school and he delivered the mail. Daddy managed to go to ... click to read moreFebruary 3, 2004
An article I wrote about my father and his hardship delivering mail on the Cape Shore.
Charles Samuel Collins, son of Samuel and Julia Collins of Bond's Path, Placentia, was born on March 25, 1884. He married Agnes Tobin, daughter of Peter and Catherine Tobin of Ship Cove. They met and fell in love while my mother was teaching school and he delivered the mail. Daddy managed to go to Cuslett every weekend because my mother had taken a teaching position there. They had 12 children, one of whom died at three months from digestive problems.
My father had many trades throughout his life - cobbler, farmer and barber among them. My sisters Kathleen and Mae fondly remember how they would sit and watch him for hours as he would make them a pair of shoes from scratch. Kathleen also remembers that every Sunday afternoon he would cut the neighbourhood men's hair for 25 cents. Daddy wasn't a man of all toil and no play. My mother played the organ and was a beautiful singer, and so every evening, after the chores and homework were done and daily rosary said, he would gather the family around her at the organ, and she would sing and play. He was also a member of the Star of the Sea Association, and every Christmas he would cut the trees for the church, and they would all be the exact size.
Despite the many trades and activities my father was involved in, most people would have known him as the mailman, delivering the post from Placentia to Patrick's Cove on the Cape Shore, a job he did for 29 years without fail. The delivery would take three days of unloading packages and letters and then reloading the outgoing mail for Placentia. Mr. Michael McGrath, formerly of Patrick's Cove, recalls how people in the community would "flock" around him for a chat when he arrived. He also remembers that Daddy built a little house for the horse, and in the winter evenings would go out and cover the horse to keep it warm.
Daddy's job wasn't an easy one, considering the dreadful conditions of the time. In winter, he carried the mail by horse and sleigh, while in summer, he used a horse and buggy. Those winters, as the older generation will remember, were much more fierce and blustery than the scattered snow squalls we have become accustomed to today. Snow fell and accumulated more quickly, creating much difficulty for anyone who earned a living travelling the roads. My father was no exception to this. I often heard my mother say that Daddy could touch the tops of the trees as he drove along the road. Despite the poor weather conditions and lack of adequate roads, my father never missed a day delivering the mail. Coupled with this commitment was a compassion for the horse on which he rode daily. The job paid as little as $30 per month, a wage that fell short of the expenses to keep and feed the horse. My brother Charlie remembers my father's kindness toward his horse. He recall how Daddy would walk the very winding and steep terrain on his travels instead of riding it, to make it easier for the horse. Sometimes he would even take off his overcoat and put it under the horse's hooves to get over slippery or rough spots.
His compassion extended beyond the horse, to those around him. My husband, the late Patrick O'Keefe, often recalled how, when he was just a young boy walking to school from Glennan's Cove to Point Verde, my father never passed him. He would always stop and offer him a ride, despite the fact that it was against the rules to do so. I was scarcely three years old at the time - little did Daddy think, I'm sure, that Patrick would end up marrying his youngest daughter.
In addition to the harsh Newfoundland weather, fog, snow, gale force winds or otherwise, there were other elements which would test anyone's ability to deliver the mail on that route consistently. The ride was a dark and lonely one, especially on return from the Cape Shore late at night. In those days, ghost stories were rampant concerning how haunted the Cape Shore was. Many have heard stories of missing car headlights, strange sounds and bizarre occurrences blamed on the haunting of the area. My father participated in the storytelling by adding his own experience with the "ghost." His story happened on one dark night upon return from his daily delivery on the shore. In those days, the roads were so small that only one car or buggy could occupy them at a time. In order to let one car pass, another had to pull off to the side of the road. On this night, Daddy said he saw the light of an approaching car, the only sign of life in the area. He proceeded to pull off the road and await the car's passing. However, upon the approach of the car, the lights mysteriously disappeared. There was complete blackness, and no car ever passed the horse and buggy my father was driving.
Over the years of delivering mail, society was changing. Cars were becoming more prevalent and efficient forms of transportation. Every so often, the mail went up on bids. One of those times, in the latter parts of those years, my father lost the bid by just a few dollars to Mr. Jimmy Verran of Placentia, who had recently purchased a new station wagon. So, despite the many years of dedication, my father was out of a job as mailman. Mr. Verran only did this job for a very short time, and upon his resignation, the government asked my father to return to his job. His pride, however, was hurt too badly, and he refused.
Meanwhile, in 1942, the US Navy base had opened in Argentia; there were still many jobs available, and higher wages accompanied them. My father was among the many men who sought employment there. However, his many years of exposure to the elements while delivering the mail had taken a toll on his health. He failed the standard medical due to a very high blood pressure, Instead, he went cooking "up the line" for men who were building a bridge in Lethbridge.
No more than a year later, Daddy became very ill, and was diagnosed with double pneumonia and pleurisy. He died at the young age of 55 on 20th February, 1949. All my siblings have their own sad memories of that sad day. I was just six years old, yet I can remember him being carried out of the house on a stretcher, and his last words to me, "Be good to your mother." As my mother always said, "Your father got his death on the Cape Shore road."
Thank you to my siblings for their eagerness to supply me with most of my information - Charlie in Massachusetts, Mae in Missouri, Kathleen in Virginia, and Agnes, Eleanor and Leone in Placentia, Newfoundland. I would also like to thank Mr. Michael McGrath for his memories and time. ... Hide full submission
Alice O'Keefe Placentia, NL
(5 rating, 1 votes)
Dad's Dream Born and raised a Newfoundlander, my father was fiercely proud of his heritage. His heart was firmly embedded in Newfoundland's granite cliffs and pristine shores! Throughout his life he'd fished her unspoiled rivers, combed her hills and marshes hunting moose and snaring rabbits, and picking berries that always grew aplenty, ever thankful for the glorious bounty God had bestowed upon Newfoundlanders. He knew every tree, plant and animal native to the island and was more ... click to read moreBorn and raised a Newfoundlander, my father was fiercely proud of his heritage. His heart was firmly embedded in Newfoundland's granite cliffs and pristine shores! Throughout his life he'd fished her unspoiled rivers, combed her hills and marshes hunting moose and snaring rabbits, and picking berries that always grew aplenty, ever thankful for the glorious bounty God had bestowed upon Newfoundlanders. He knew every tree, plant and animal native to the island and was more at home miles in the woods than anywhere else on the face of the earth.
Stephenville was the little town Max White called home and he'd been self-employed there as an upholsterer, a very good one at that, all of his life! Once a very lucrative profession, especially when the Ernest Harmon Air Force Base was still operational, times changed and one day the bottom fell out of the upholstery business and Father was unable to provide for his family anymore.
In 1967, he packed up everything he owned and moved to New Brunswick where his family very soon began to feel at home. But he was like a fish out of water and although he tried to make the best of the situation, his love for Newfoundland pulled at his heartstrings, leaving him despondent and lonely.
Dad's primary focus in life had always been the well being of his wife and family, but when the children were finally grown and moved onto lives of their own, he hoped with all his heart he and Mom would move back to Newfoundland where he'd happily end his days. But Mom had gotten used to city life and while she loved to visit the island periodically, she had no desire to live there again, away from her children and grandchildren.
Dad's dream, to live out his golden years in his beloved Newfoundland, was never to be! A few years before he passed away in 1997, dad made a heart-wrenching request to my brother, a request he didn't want to share with Mom for fear of hurting her feelings. When the time came for him to meet his maker, he wanted his remains to be buried in Newfoundland, because his heart had never left there and that was where he belonged.
After Dad passed away, tormented by what he knew, my brother told Mom about Dad's wish to be buried in Newfoundland. But Mom, devastated by her loss, insisted he be buried close by so that she could visit him whenever she wanted. They were four months away from their 50th wedding anniversary when he died; they'd spent a lifetime together and she didn't want to be separated from him now! There was nothing to do but support her in every way. Dad would never have wanted to hurt her!
Years went by quickly; now Mom is buried beside Dad in a cemetery in New Brunswick and it breaks my heart to know he never wanted to be there. But when I go back to Newfoundland I still feel his presence and I know his heart is embedded in the beautiful granite cliffs and pristine shores of the island he loved more than anything!
I am an Islander - no doubt about that! I was born on Cape Breton Island to parents who were also Islanders, albeit from another island many sea miles from my place of birth.
In the early 1900s, many Newfoundlanders left ... click to read moreI am an Islander - no doubt about that! I was born on Cape Breton Island to parents who were also Islanders, albeit from another island many sea miles from my place of birth.
In the early 1900s, many Newfoundlanders left their homeland to seek employment at the steel plant located in Cape Breton. They settled in a community known as Whitney Pier, and to this day you will recognize their descendants by name - Rowe, Pike, Bartlett, Spracklin, Pittman and Keough just to name a few - and this is where my parents raised their family.
Born there in 1928, my earliest memories are of my mother reciting the old Victorian poems by heart, and regaling us with tales of her beloved community of Cupids. She was a gifted storyteller, and in retrospect I believe she enjoyed reliving her childhood as much as we loved being privy to her past.
And then there were the ghost stories ...we begged, "Please Mom, just one more." We never tired of hearing about Jack O'Lantern, Raw Head and Bloody Bones, and her adventure on Spectacle Head, always looking down on Cupids. As an inquisitive child with an overzealous imagination, I pictured these stories in my mind and thought her childhood to be more wondrous and magical than my Nancy Drew myateries.
Mother also told stories of our grandfather going off to the seal hunt, and the relief and joy when he would return home safely. As the story goes, my grandfather was an expert at making sealskin boots, while my grandmother hooked rugs, no doubt to earn a little extra money in those difficult times. In spite of hardships it seems there was no lack of social life with the church playing the biggest role in Mom's early days - singing in the choir, Christmas concerts and so many happy picnics. When my mother would relate these stories I would see both joy and sadness in her eyes - joy at the memory of her Christmas stocking, which contained treasures of an orange, ribbon candy and a barley animal candy that would last for hours and hours - and sadness knowing she might never return to her beloved home.
Time went on - I married, raised a family and made my home from the East Coast to the West Coast of Canada for a period of fifty years - but those childhood memories never left me. I longed for the day when I could afford to see this island that my parents always called home.
Finally, in my sixties, the day came when I boarded the ferry that would take me to Argentia. I was welcomed by my uncle who I had never met before and for two glorious weeks went round the Avalon Peninsula and discovered the wonders of Brigus, Killegrews, Holyrood, Harbour Main, all the Hearts, and a hundred places in between. I marveled at the starkness and strange beauty of my mother's Cupids. I thought of her recalling the fierce winter storms that rattled the windowpanes until she, who firmly believed in ghosts, would jump from her bed and run to her mother for comfort.
I walked where my mother walked as a young girl - up to Spectacle Head and around the pond to the old schoolhouse where she had read all of the "Royal Readers." I went to Sunday church and sat in the wooden pew, reflecting on a young girl who sang songs in this very choir more than a hundred years before. I visited the graveyards where my ancestors, Rowes and Mundens and Smiths, were laid to rest.
Try as I did, I could not shake the feeling that somehow I too belonged to this place. I had hoped that my visit would sustain me, given that I was "up in years" but this was not to be. I went back again to visit but still felt the rock wanted to hold me.
At the young age of 80 years, with my children's blessings, I am now living on the Avalon, and my new biscuit box house is twenty years older than I am! It faces the harbour and my neighbours tell me it has "ghosts." Little do they know I have brought my own!
Mona Smith Bloomer
Aged 81 years
Note from a son: I found this story in Mom's stuff when she came back to her family in the West after three triumphant years stirring up the sleepyheads in Harbour Main. She gave us all the great gift of Newfoundland, that is to say the gift of our source. We're glad to have her closer now and hope you'll print her story for the pleasure it will give all our new friends on The Rock.
