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Winter Blues And Rustic Muse
To me, Winter is the melancholy season; some say it is a season unto itself when we seem to be on another planet. In Winter everything seems dreary, dark and muted. I read recently, "My favorite thing about Winter is when it's over." The world remains so unfriendly and cold; in my confined world I am moody and morose. If I can't be a Snowbird, I would like to have a biological clock like the bears and sleep through the Winter. It even becomes difficult to think, you can't seem to see beyond yourself. The wood fire manages to keep the body warm, but it does little to keep the heart warm. When even warm feelings are in absentia, our memory can be a small substitute.
My memory takes me back to earlier years when I was more robust and energetic, I used to go to the cabin, located at Butt's Pond East, to cut birch firewood and pull it by snowmobile back to the cabin. Undoubtedly, there is much truth to what Winter lovers say, "to truly enjoy winter you have to get out in winter's wonderland, the great outdoors." But sometimes that's easier said than done. But those days gathering firewood at the cabin were good for body, mind and soul; a week in the woods cleanses or purifies the spirit.
My favorite time was late February and March when the days got longer and the sun more powerful. As we got into late March we would get started early in the morning because by approximately 10 A M the trail would become soft making it more difficult to maneuver. At times some, or all of the load, would have to be unloaded.
The first thing one must do is to go in and break the trail. If there's not much snow this could be done with the snowmobile. If the snow is deep, it might be necessary to walk around and stamp the snow down compactly, in some cases with the use of snowshoes. Once the trail is ready, the sleds are attached to the hitch on the snowmobile. A rectangular wooden box is attached to the sleds to hold and transport the birch junks.
Good weather and favorable hauling conditions were conducive to enjoyment and a sense of accomplishment. But life has its peaks and valleys, good days and bad, and sometimes, we even encounter those Murphy's Law days. There will be days with high winds and deep snow making sledding conditions unfavorable. I readily confess that I would not make it to the logger's Hall of Fame. I'm the one who always muddles through. A few encounters will no doubt verify and confirm this self-evaluation.
On one occasion, after having the bar and chain off for cleaning I did not tighten the nuts on securely. When I noticed the chainsaw was wobbling and tottering I realized it was too late. The two nuts had come off the mount and disappeared in the deep soft snow. I had to summon my "Girl Friday," Dora, to go to Gambo to get two new replacements. Later when the snow had melted I may have found at least one of the lost nuts. Another problem encountered was more serious and certainly more time consuming. While sawing a big birch I managed to get the chainsaw bar and chain jammed and disabled. After quite an ordeal I finally freed the saw from its tight grip. I discovered the saw was now truly disabled and immobilized. The tip of the bar was bound tightly preventing the chain from moving. Once again, I called on "Girl Friday" to go to Gambo, and then on to Glovertown, to get the right size replacement bar.
A few times we encountered some bad snow storms. It's difficult enough to shovel a path away from the cabin. Then one must find the snowmobile and the sleds and shovel them out. Next the trail must be redone: no doubt the snowmobile will get bogged down and you will need to use snowshoes to press the snow down. After a few runs with a lighter load you are back in operation again.
But cabin life is not all about work and frustrations. "The woods are lovely dark and deep" but unlike Frost I had no promises to keep. The heat from the wood stove forced the removal of another layer of woolen clothing. We were ensconced amidst the white, powdery, sparkling snow as it swirled, darkening the windows. There is something special about a cabin blanketed in snow- that eerie silence, solitude, and serenity, the very essence of peace. It's a time to unwind the tenseness and rigidness of our bones. Dora tries to read under a dull lamplight, while I sipped a cola blended with a black accompaniment. The crackling of the fire was the only sound to permeate the silence, worries and thoughts subdued by the calming influence.
Presently the cabin is accumulating not only snow but memories and the cost of maintaining it is incommensurate with the amount of time spent there. At least a brief look into our memories past can give us a different perspective, for as the saying goes, "The path out of the valley appears when you choose to see things differently."
Resettlement And The Spiralling Deficit
There is general agreement that the Resettlement Program carried out by the Smallwood government was a failure. Yet, in our present dire economic times it has again raised its ugly head. At the Smallwood Interpretation Center in Gambo recently, the CBC increased the hysteria and rhetoric by orchestrating and airing a Town Hall session on the subject. The main focus was the cost to the taxpayer of providing a ferry service to communities such as St. Brendan's. The Deputy Mayor of that community was constantly placed on the defensive, trying to respond repeatedly to the same question. Many took the 'throw out the baby with the bathwater' approach. Tie up the ferry and let them arrange their own transportation, or the typical Mainland solution - move them all to greater Toronto. That's just what we all wish to be - 'homogenized Canadians.' Resettlement has always been with us. The early settlers to our shores resettled from Europe, mainly England and Ireland. The trend to urbanization has been proceeding for at least a century. In 1911 about 45 percent of Canadians were living in Urban centers (over 1000 people), today the number is over 80 percent. The first family of eight arrived in Gambo from Braggs Island in 1929, to be followed seven years later by three additional families preceding the twenty families that arrived under the Resettlement Program in 1954. So resettlement is a natural process, eighty percent of the people in one of the communities of concern have already relocated. Ironically, those same small, deadbeat surrounding communities are major contributors to the economic thrust of the larger towns, with the latter winning both ways, outside consumer spending and collecting business tax. The constant factor in the equation is always dollars per capita - the cost per person of operating the ferry service. Why, all of a sudden, has this become the main focus; is it some kind of charade to masquerade the main problems? Why does a massive project have not just a slight cost overrun, but double? Why is the labour productivity of Canadian workers so low? One public enquiry cost the taxpayers three million dollars, How much will public sector unions contracts cost? My point being: getting rid of the few families in St. Brendans won't result in a balanced budget. Our main resettlement problem is our youth emigration to the Mainland and United States. Losing these highly skilled workers and consumer spenders has a devastating effect on our economy. To make the situation even worse, many adults are also leaving in order to be closer to their grand-children. In the Atlantic Provinces generally, there are more seniors than working people thus putting more pressure on the health and pension system with a smaller cohort of working age people to support it. The situation is exacerbated here because of extenuating circumstances. Goods and services are much more expensive to deliver because of our unique geography. Newfoundland and Labrador's approximately 700 communities, spread out over 405,000 square kilometres, requires a vast network of roads and ferries. By comparison, Nova Scotia has about half that number over 55,000 square kilometers. The per capita transfer of Equalization to Provincial Governments must be a flawed system for that reason and maybe others. If the Federal Government is redistributing the wealth of Canada to address fiscal disparities, why does Quebec and Nova Scotia, both having a surplus budget, receive eleven and two billion respectively, yet Newfoundland and Labrador running a deficit gets nothing and won't qualify till 2019? It reminds me of university days in 1959 when students protested with placards 'Dief the Thief' against Diefenbaker's attempt to scrap Term 29 of the Terms of Union. Under the Smallwood Resettlement Program from 1954 to 1975 it is estimated 250 villages disappeared and 30,000 were relocated or dislocated. It was an emotionally charged system with pressure put on the minority to acquiesce. Many found the promised utopia was not reality; some even went back to their communities for gainful employment. Many gave up, not only their life savings, but other intangibles that have no price tag. The execution was criminal, a part of them was left behind, the emotional and psychological scars carried to their graves. They were cut adrift by the very institutions they trusted to live a painful, bitter existence without any follow-up process, support mechanism or accountability. Bureaucrats have to realize it's not per capita, or a number, but people they are pushing around; there must be some empathy extended to those whose lives are up-rooted, especially those who were forced to leave, as Bud Davidge said "'If they're unwillingly forced to decide, they'll move without leaving and never arrive.' One point raised in the Town Hall meeting was those small towns we want to abandon are also our culture. The Dept. of Tourism advertises our rural way of life; tourists don't come here to see another Mall or Walmart. Those out there who wish to see the St. Brendan's set adrift must see there is a double standard. How can our Prime Minister welcome Syrian refugees and boot out our own Canadians. If we promote our country as one of the best in the world, then we don'r treat our own like Sri Lankan's Boat People or Cubans risking their lives on a raft, hoping to make it to Miami.
Ghostly events written by Jean Way
My mother-in-law , who is deceased now always told a story that stuck in my memory as being unexplainable and freaky. The
When she was a teenager her dad worked at the A&D company in Grand Falls. He would walk home from the mill every evening. One night when he entered the house he said he had just followed a funeral all the way from the mill and past their home. He wondered who they knew from the area who had passed away and been buried that day. Enquiries were made but it appeared no one had been buried that day, and the church bells certainly hadn't rung.
The following day her father George dropped dead suddenly. His funeral procession took the exact same route.
The Big one that didnt get away
The Big One That Didn't Get Away
If you have ever experienced the open blue ocean, in a boat, with a cod Jigger in your hand, then you know the excitement of hauling in a cod fish up over the rails. There is nothing like it. Just the thought of it brings me back to a time when I was a preteen and had a little more than that feeling one summer afternoon while cod jigging with the family. This was going to be a day that I would never forget.
Boating on the waters off eastern Newfoundland was routine for the Brooking Family of seven. My Dad, Robert Samuel Brooking, known as Bob, from Glovertown, Bonavista Bay, grew up on the waters and knew that he would one day share it with his children. He married Dorothy Bella Smith from Trinity Bay, known as Belle, and if anyone knew Belle it was her love for seafood. We would watch her in amazement as she would prepare, cook and eventually eat most anything for the sea.
We lived in Gander, which is about a 30 minute drive to Glovertown, and during our weekend visits with Nanny and Poppy we sometimes found time for a boat ride on the open 16 foot boat called "The Karen Lee". Sometime in 1967 Dad ordered a 24 Foot boat from Heath Kit.. Yep! He was going to build his own Cabin Cruise. He didn't have a garage at the time, but his Brother In Law, Job Taite, also from Glovertown, married to his sister Madge, lived just down the road and they agreed that the Boat could be built there and in 1969 she was finally launched.
There were 5 children in the family and I wonder how long it took for the name Sea LARKK to be agreed on as the name for the new boat. I always took a fancy to the name as L was for Louise, and that was me. The rest followed, A for Anthony, R for Robert Jr. and K was for Karen and Kathy. To this day I am not sure how Mom and Dad managed with all of us, to spend the 1-2 weeks at a time on the boat Out the Bay.
Each day Dad would ask "What do you kids wanna do today?" The list of things to do would be anything from heading to a cove, where you can explore the woods, beachcomb the shore lines, or grab a swim or go fishing. Other adventures were to head to the beaches, Sandy Cove, Happy Adventure or the Park. Sometimes, if the weather and the conditions were just right, he would add cod jigging to the list.
When I was around 11 years old we were headed for the cod Jigging grounds when we spotted a group of whales in a far off distance. This was not a rare site on Bonavista Bay and we always enjoyed the awe of watching them and if you got close enough you may get sprayed. To this day I'm not sure if that had anything to do with my experience but I always thought that these whales scared the cod closer to shore. Once we arrived to the fishing spot Dad did some careful maneuvering to get us into the right spot. He had to block the wind and the sea swells and tried to situate the boat so it wouldn't rock too much or move to quickly from our spot. Once he felt we were settled in he gave the word, and all jiggers went overboard.
Now for those who are not sure on how cod Jigging works let me give you a little lesson. You toss over the side of the boat the large 4- Shiny hook that is tied to a very heavy line. The line is attached and wrapped around a spool. You allow the line to run out from the spool through your hands where you have to stand back as the spool tosses, rolls , spins and bounces on the bottom of the boat as the jigger continues to move down to the bottom of the ocean. Once the spool stops, you have reached the bottom, and you have to reel back some of the line in order to get your jigger off the bottom to reach the area of the Cod. Normally 3 arm lengths of line are pulled back in. The next thing to do is to hold your line in your hand and count, 1, 2, and 3. At the same time you count 3, you give the line a quick jerk up and then release back down again. That's it! It is the rhythm of cod jigging that becomes very relaxing and calming for some. This action of jigging is continued until you feel the weight on your line change, which would indicate a fish, that you pull up with a steady flow. Sometime, if the water is deep, you will have to stop and get a feel for the line before you start to pull up. There is nothing worse than pulling up an empty jigger.
On this day there were too many people jigging at the back of the boat so I ventured to the front and tossed my jigger into the waters. I was getting ready to start jigging when I had to yell out to Dad that I think I had my jigger hooked on the bottom. You always had to tell someone that you may have hooked the bottom so Mom or Dad could help get it released. On this day, Mom came up to help me out and yelled back to Dad that I wasn't hooked on the bottom and announced that I had a fish. Normally Mom would have gone back to the back of the boat to help with the younger ones but this day she stayed with me as I pulled up my fish. It was this moment when I knew this was going to be a different day. As I pulled up my line I did noticed that it was heavy but I pulled steady and continued to reel it in.
After some time I looked over the side of the boat to see if my fish was close to the surface and that was when I saw the large white belly. "Is it a Shark?" I asked my Mom.? And with a look of excitement along with a look that I wasn't sure of, she responded. "No! it's not a shark Louise, but it's a big fish, so pull it up nice and steady!"
Once I pulled the fish was out of the water the weight was too much for me so I passed Mom my line to pull it in. I don't think I ever saw a cod fish as big as that one in my life. I was so excited that I sat on the hatch of the boat and took that fish in my arms and I began to cry. I don't remember the weight of it or the length of it but I remember holding it in my arms like I did with my baby brother Tony.
The cod jigging continued for years on that boat, and many cod, the same size, were brought in over the rails. As I watched this occur over and over I wondered in amazement, why no one ever got as excited about their catch as I did when I got mine on that day.
Written by Louise Shirley Brooking
The L in Sea LARKK
I must not complain
Just this morning, I complained that I had forgotten to empty my dishwasher the previous night. As I stared into a machine full of sparkling clean dishes, ready to be stacked into the cupboard, I was brought up suddenly by memories of growing up in Branch in the 1950s. My mother, caring for a family of nine, had no dishwasher. Heck, she didn't even have indoor plumbing. Without the convenience of electricity, every drop of hot water had to be heated in a boiler on the big wood stove. I can picture it now, the large aluminum pan of steaming water. For the life of me, I cannot remember any dishwashing liquid. It simply did not exist in our household when I was a child. Good old Sunlight Soap and a box of Rinso or Surf were the cleaning agents of choice. After a complete Sunday dinner with salt beef and cabbage, clearing it all up was no walk in the park. My sisters and I argued so much about washing dishes that sometimes we came to blows. I must try to remember this the next time I groan about an unloaded dishwasher. With an automatic washer and dryer sitting side by side in my basement, I still find myself uttering mild expletives regarding dirty towels and dishcloths and the like. If I miss a few wash days, I mutter to myself about where all the dirty clothes come from. Then I wonder to God how my poor mother kept us all clean with no running water. Every ounce of water had to be lugged from outdoors. Getting clothes clean was difficult enough, but getting them dry could be next to impossible. With the propensity for fog in St. Mary's Bay, no wonder clothes were always strung from one end of the kitchen to the other. Because there was always a baby in the house, flannel diapers and little nighties took priority over everything else. And winter time was deadly! I often wonder what I would do now if I had to face a clothesline full of laundry, frozen as stiff as a poker. The amazing thing was that no matter how frozen our article of clothing was one day, the next day it would be ready for wearing. Looking back on it now, I am filled with appreciation and awe for my mother, and I remind myself to thank God for those people who invented automatic appliances. I picture my mother on her knees, scrubbing the canvas floor, and then allowing me and a crowd of my friends to trample all over it in our boots. Here I am with sweepers and swiffers and vacuums and machines that almost clean on their own. I spend a small fortune on Mr. Clean and Pine Sol and similar products. Yet, I question why my floors are not shiny and spotless, and the answer evades me. And then there was bread, delicious, golden-crusted bread, which was a staple in every house. No matter how tired or how pregnant my mother was, there were times when twelve o'clock midnight would find her up to her elbows in dough. In the dead of winter, the precious dough would have to be wrapped tightly to prevent freezing. Baking it, the next day, meant keeping lots of dry wood to the big Findlay Oval range. With a sharp stab of conscience, I now realize how I took for granted, the enticing smell of those lovely loaves of manna. Yet, I have the audacity to grumble when the bread truck is late or the store is out of my favourite brand. Worst of all, I haven't baked my own bread in years. I have come to a reasonable conclusion, however. I will never be as good a housekeeper as the generation of women before me, and as the title indicates, I must not complain.
The Big House-Chapter 1
"You believe me don't you?" I said to Sadie, the nanny cum nurse from next door. The houses on this street, in this little town of Brooklyn, were from the 18th century and they were eerily beautiful in their own way. Sadie had been with the next door family at least 10 years now and sort of kept in touch with my predecessor Mary who had moved back to Newfoundland after working in this house for only 3 short years.
"Yes, 'I' do believe you Celine, but they won't; or they won't want to admit to it,"Sadie implored. I had just revealed to Sadie all the weird sightings and feelings I had while caring for my two charges in the big house that I work at. It was sort of OK before the second baby Allister was born, I did have the eerie feelings, but I didn't see anything that was unusual or out of sorts. Monica, his oldest sister would play quietly during the day and we were anxiously awaiting and preparing for the arrival of the new baby.
I also had heard the rumours of how the original lady of the house, Melanie Cooper, had committed suicide because she couldn't conceive. Rumour has it that she was so distraught and depressed, she couldn't handle it anymore after trying everything, finally gave up. Especially after each new house on their 'well to do' street was built, the young wives would fall pregnant soon after they moved in; it was like a slap in the face to her.
So when Allister was born, things really started to change, get weird. It was almost like you could feel the anger and the resentment in the house and on your shoulders. The couple that I worked for, Brian and Marie Darvel, never really felt it or understood because they were out of the house most of the day. I tried to bring it up a couple of times but they weren't having any of it, they would brush it off and say "oh that old story again, it's just a rumour that someone started to make these old houses seem more mysterious." Apparently my predecessor Mary had tried to talk to them about it after their oldest daughter Monica was born, but she too was brushed off.
Sadie had let slip that Mary was coming back to visit her brother in Toronto and I was curious to know if she would be visiting Sadie, as I wanted to meet and talk with her too. I asked Sadie to mention it to Mary and sure enough she agreed to have a coffee at least with us on her next visit. I couldn't wait to meet Mary to compare our stories and see if there was anything the three of us-myself, Mary and Sadie could do to stop the haunting of this troubled soul that still to this day, lingered in the corners of the big house. To be cont...
A watery grave for a Christmas gift
The year is 1958 and I am a young 9 year old boy growing up in the small fishing community of Baine Hr. on the south coast of NL. Christmas is less than a month away and I am literally overflowing with excitement and anticipation, I am certain that this will be the best Christmas ever.
A few weeks ago I had received a letter from my older brother who worked on the mainland. The letter said that he was sending me a toy car for Christmas. This was to be no ordinary toy car, no siree, this car had a real engine which ran on gasoline just like the Acadia engine in my Father's skiff.
Christmas morning finally arrived and I eagerly unwrapped my long awaited gift to reveal a gleaming red car with a tiny silver engine and black propeller mounted high at the back of the car. The car was meant to be tethered with a string to a stake in the ground, the car would then race in a circle around the stake.
By this time my car had attracted the attention of my brother who was a few years older than me. My parents suggested that we take the car outside on the hard packed snow where he would help me start it.
A few minutes later we were outside and the tiny fuel tank on the car had been filled. We then remembered that the car had to be tied to a stick driven into the ground. We looked around and couldn't find anything suitable, finally I remembered a bamboo fishing pole which I had broken in half last summer while trying to land what must have been the fattest and ugliest sculpin in all of Placentia Bay. I brought the longer of the two pieces to my brother along with a mallet to drive the pole into the ground. With me holding the pole upright and my brother on the mallet we soon realized there was a problem. The ground was frozen solid! With every blow of the hammer a piece of the pole would break on the flint hard ground. It was then that my brother went to what would nowadays be called plan 'B'. "Here'', he said, passing me the string, "Hold it tightly while I start the engine." With the string in my mittened little hand, he knelt on the snow and gave the propeller a quick twirl. What happened next is still a fresh in my mind as if it happened today.
Instantly my car came alive with such an ear splitting snarl that I could have sworn I was being chased by the most ferocious beast in all of Africa. I nearly jumped out of my size 4 rubber boots as I fell backwards onto the snow. I lost my grip on the string which I had been holding and the car, sensing its freedom, shot across the back yard and then towards the nearby beach and the waiting Atlantic Ocean.
We watched as it crossed the beach and then, to our amazement, it began to skip across the surface of the water as it headed straight out to sea. By now the frightful snarl of the engine sounded more like a swarm of angry bees. The car was several hundred feet from the shore when we heard the engine falter and then stop. All was quiet. With the keen eyes of a 9 year old I watched the car bob on the surface of the water for a few seconds. Then...it was gone. The cold north Atlantic had claimed my prized Christmas gift.
On old Christmas Day the shock of losing my Christmas gift in such an untimely manner was starting to wear off just a little. Just enough for me to write my brother and thank him for such a wonderful gift and then I had to tell him that it...sank!
Well, it is now 58 years since that unforgettable Christmas morning of 1958. A few months ago I noticed a young boy of 8 or 9 playing with a remote controlled car on our quiet street. All of a sudden I remembered that long ago Christmas morning. Was it, I wondered, possible to buy an identical car to the one I had owned for about 15 minutes on that Christmas morning? A quick search of the internet and there it was, a bright red car with a shiny silver engine and gleaming black tires. My car just as I remembered it!
I have been trying to resist the temptation but one of these days I may just buy that car. Then for a brief moment the years will wash away and I will once again be that young 9 year old as I lift my gleaming toy car from its box. But will I have the nerve to start it? I may...if I'm feeling especially courageous.
But this one thing I do know, this time I'm going to get my wife to hold the string!
Most of my life has been spent on the mainland but my heart has always been home: Grand Bank, Newfoundland. And now that I am in my 80s (88) and not as mobile as before, my journey home will have to be spent in my easy chair.
How my thoughts constantly travel home and I relive my childhood years and all the wonderful simple ways we lived so secure, loved and content. We Newfies never tire of reminiscing of our olden days, way we were, we wouldn't change it for anything and feel so blessed and grateful for our heritage.
As the saying goes, "Once a Newfie, always a Newfie." It rings true. It keeps our spirits alive. I carry a stone from home in my purse daily, a little piece of the rock.
God bless and keep all of you who help me travel monthly to where I receive my Downhome magazine
Born Burin Raised Grand Bank
How sweet it is!!
This story was to have been submitted to you back in 2009 but procrastination got the better of me and had forgotten all about it until recently. Newfoundland Hospitality We have often heard of good old down east hospitality and in particular Newfoundland hospitality. I have often heard great stories of people visiting the province of Newfoundland and falling in love with the laid back lifestyle and the people. I now have a story to recount myself. I am married to a Newfoundland lady who comes from central Newfoundland, specifically Gander Bay. Gander Bay is located about 35 km from Gander at the entrance to Gander River, well known for its salmon fishing. I am from the town of Topsail, Conception Bay that is just outside the city of St. John's. We left Newfoundland in 1988, living for several years in Red Deer, Alberta and then moving and settling in Ottawa, Ontario. We have lived in Ottawa since 1991. Every year we love to go home to visit family and friends. In September 2012, we planned a visit to coincide with the opening of the public cod fishery as it is one of the things that I love to do when back home. My wife's brother, Gary Coates, has a business in Summerford, NL and is an avid outdoorsman delving in fishing and hunting when the seasons are open. It was during the public cod fishing season that September that I experienced an outstanding example of Newfoundland hospitality. We were cod fishing off of Herring Neck and very quickly caught our limit of 10 cod. We returned to shore to clean and fillet our catch. The day before we had been out as well and were cleaning our catch near where we had launched the boat. It wasn't ideal, as we did not have a platform to clean and filet the fish. A local fellow came by and spoke with Gary and told him that if he had intentions of going out again that he had a fishing stage not far from where we were now located. He gave Gary some directions and left. So here we were the next day motoring into the inlet looking for this stage. We were having trouble locating it when Gary spotted a couple of fellows on shore. There was a house overlooking where they were situated. This fellow had a stage all set up. As things sometime happen, it turned out that this fellow was related to the girl that Gary's youngest son was dating. He turned out to be her grandfather. His name was Roland Smart. He was not that well known to Gary. Gary asked him if he was aware of a fellow that works on the Hibernia oil rigs that owned a stage close by. He couldn't remember his name. He responded, no, not off hand, but my friend here with me who is a Newfoundlander home visiting from Sudbury, Ontario and I are just about to leave and go fishing ourselves. You are quite welcome to use my stage. Gary thanked him and after they left we proceeded to clean and fillet our fish. A short time after they had left, a lady appeared on the deck of the house above us and asked if we would like to come in for a cup of tea before leaving. She turned out to be Roland's wife Julia. We thanked her and continued to clean our fish. As we were finishing up I said to Gary, are we going to take her up on the offer before leaving? We both decided maybe we would just leave. No sooner said then she was back out on the deck reminding us of the invitation. We said "why not?" and took off our outer clothes and climbed up the walk to the house. We were no sooner in the door when she was asking how we liked our eggs. Before I knew it we were sitting down to eggs, Newfoundland steak (bologna), homemade bread and Newfoundland music playing in the background. She sat down with us and we had a wonderful chat. We were not five minutes ago strangers and now she was feeding us and chatting with us as if we were old friends. I was absolutely taken aback by her hospitality and it just reconfirmed what I always knew about Newfoundlanders. My wife and I were just recently home in August of this year to attend the wedding of Gary's youngest son, who amazingly was to be married to that same girl that he was dating that summer. At the reception it so happened that the husband of this wonderful lady, Roland Smart, was a guest. It was so nice to meet him again. I had been informed some time ago that his wife had passed away. I reminded him about that previous meeting Gary and I had with him and about what his wife did for us that morning. I told him that after returning home to Ottawa I had written an account of it and had intentions of sending it to the Downhome magazine to see if maybe they would be interested in including it in an edition. However, procrastination got the best of me and it stayed stored on my computer. I thought that it would be fitting to acknowledge her now even though it has been several years since Gary and I met her that morning in the summer of 2012. I still have a wonderful memory of that morning and sitting down to her invitation to have a cup of tea. And what a wonderful cup of tea it was. Rest in peac, Julia Smart. You are a true example of good old Newfoundland hospitality. David Allen Ottawa, ON