Downhome magazine only has space for a mere fraction of the great stories sent to us by readers. Luckily, they're all available here. You'll find fond reminiscences about the past and personal experiences to which we can all relate.
Scary Rescue from the Dugout
I'm inside. The door swings open. Hubby yells "The dog's in the dugout. Come fast. She'll soon be dead!"
It's minus 10C outside. The dugout is frozen over with ice, except for the open hole in the middle that is kept ... click to read moreI'm inside. The door swings open. Hubby yells "The dog's in the dugout. Come fast. She'll soon be dead!"
It's minus 10C outside. The dugout is frozen over with ice, except for the open hole in the middle that is kept open by the aeration fan. I know where she (the dog) is before I even get started to grab my winter coat and jump into my boots. I'm more agile than my hubby, but he is already half-way to the edge of the pond by the time I come running out of the house.
I'm running and letting Hubby do the thinking. He tells me to go for the shed where I can find two lariat ropes. I get to the shed and hastily survey the walls for hanging ropes but I don't see any (panic). My line of sight fell to the floor to make sure they weren't there before I decided on the next plan of attack. There they were, all rolled up together. I could tell by the ends that there were several and I didn't want to try to sort it out there. I grabbed all (six?) and dashed out of the shed and drug myself back to the pond. I was already winded badly and my chest was aching badly. Could I have a heart attack doing this? How careful should I be while my dog is dying? I think it's just my lungs. (I haven't run flat-out for a long time and not when it was this cold. When it's cold you can freeze your lungs, so I'm usually careful about that). "I must keep going," I thought.
I was wondering how Hubby thought I could throw a lasso over something so far away. I don't remember if I ever threw a lariat rope and caught anything. Besides that, the dog's head was low in the water. If it goes over her head and then I pull on it, it will just pull off. I had thought a ladder would be involved in this expedition. He was thinking the same thing at the same time. The ladder was retrieved next. We didn't have a very long one close by. The idea with the ladder is to spread your weight out on thin ice. I put the widest end out at the farthest, thinnest area that was close to the hole. (It still wasn't very close.) I was tempted to shove it farther, but Hubby was too worried about that. He tossed one lariat loop over me and I pulled it up under my armpits. He gave me another lariat with a loop started. I took it, made the loop bigger, and tossed. It fell a few feet in front of me. I pulled it back and tried again. Then again. Hubby kept telling me to hold the excess rope in my hand like the cowboys do. It was snarled all the wrong ways. I didn't want to spend the time to get it right, but I tried. That wasn't working so I threw the excess rope out beside me and concentrated on the toss that was severely impeded now by the line that went from me to Hubby in a tight rope fashion. I had to get the one I was tossing over my head; it seemed to clear the one under my arms. Finally I told Hubby to slacken his so I could manage better.
The dog had been still on the edge of the ledge of ice with just her head looking sadly at us. I wanted this to be a story that ended well. I threw and threw. I got closer and closer. Still there was no guarantee that it was going to go far over her head and the rope would likely float. "Oh...come on Sherry...get it right! God, please help me!" I prayed. The dog was still in the same position. How long would that last? What would it be like to see her slowly sink out of sight? Don't think that! I wanted to shimmy out farther laying down on my stomach but that idea terrified Hubby. I was worth more than the dog.
People don't last more than a few minutes in water this cold - at least not in a co-operative active way. After that they slip farther into the water and kind of go into hibernation or a deep sleep, but then it's really hard to get them out. They can't stay near the edge of the ice. You'd have to have something to hook them with and something to hook to. A dog doesn't have much to grab except their collar.
Wow, I finally got the loop over her head. That seemed like forever. Hubby suggested I call her and try to get her excited one last time so she would try to get herself up higher in the water. It worked! "Pull, pull!" Hubby yelled. The rope tightened around Puppy's neck and I yanked. She fell back into and under the water. "Pull!!" insisted Hubby. I could see I was pulling the dog too hard against the icy edge and not giving her a chance to come up. I gave it some slack, the dog came back for another go 'round and I pulled hard. This is the point where the ladder wants to slide off across the ice towards the gaping hole of my impending doom, because I'm standing on it and it becomes my toboggan. Hubby had me secure...I''m sure. Thankfully the dog seemed like an easy pull. I think she did a lot of it herself.
Oh happy day! She was out. I wanted a picture. I managed one quick one as she made it to the shore and slipped out of the rope. Hubby was still concerned and rightly so. He said that we had to get her to the house fast. It is colder outside the water than in the water. I was worried when she started to stagger that it was going to be too far, she would go down on us, she would be too heavy to carry. We could drag her. We would. Eventually she staggered all the way with all the towing and verbal insistence.
I never have let a dog into my house. I did this time. I got out my best, big towels and covered her, rubbing the water off as best as I could. She shivered, licked, ground her teeth and shook and quaked. Her breathing was heavy and laborious. We let her dry off and hoped that when we turned her back out that she wouldn't get pneumonia. Pneumonia comes from the change in air temperatures as well as the depleted condition. Another dog lover told us that we shouldn't leave her in too long either. We debated on a blow dryer, but decided it was best for her to warm up slowly although I don't think I'd feel that way if I just got drug from a frozen pond and then forced across a snowy, frozen, windy expanse to the house. I would want the hot tub...NOW.
Hubby had been outside working when he heard the dog's whimper. He stopped and looked around the obvious places, but saw nothing. He started back to the house where he originally intended to go. Another little whimper. What? He looked harder and in the least obvious directions. There was nothing but her black head against the white ice shelf to give up her whereabouts. He hit his highest gear and now his body is paying for it. My chest isn't aching anymore now but I keep trying to cough up stuff that wasn't there before this. I think I froze my lungs a bit. The dog is silently and obediently spending her time on the doormat in the entry. Phewww!
She's recovering under my towels. Hubby, in his compassion, thinks that I should give the dog some water and food.
OK...but she drank no water. She must have had enough is my conclusion. We give her water in a pail regularly, and there's always the option of a little snow that she normally and so fondly rolls in and bites at for fun. She shouldn't have been thirsty enough to go to the dugout for that purpose. She didn't even drink from it this summer. She did however like the water I drug for 300 feet to the chicken pens. She thought that was better than the dugout water or the pail I gave her at the house although they have the same source. Weird dog. After the porcupine incident and now this, I'm beginning to wonder if she has a death wish. She's certainly taxing our hearts!
Unexpected Sabbatical I've decided not to super-spiritualize this but I know that God had a hand in this day.
How do I know that?
Because God has a hand in all my days!
But on this day He chose to be more obvious; at least to me.
He gave me a gift and it was so absolutely me that I just knew it could only be from God...
It's Newfoundland!
It's November 16!
It's Sunday and ... click to read moreI've decided not to super-spiritualize this but I know that God had a hand in this day.
How do I know that?
Because God has a hand in all my days!
But on this day He chose to be more obvious; at least to me.
He gave me a gift and it was so absolutely me that I just knew it could only be from God...
It's Newfoundland!
It's November 16!
It's Sunday and I'm a Pastor!
It should never have happened but it did!
For one thing, I should be in church - shame on me! But hey, like I said, God had a hand in today. It's His fault I'm not in church. I suppose technically it's the hydro company's fault. There's a planned power outage. The hydro guys don't know it but I do - God planned it! He knew I would never stop unnecessarily on any other day of the week but I honour Sunday as my Sabbath. The only thing I do is church and there's none! What in the world am I going to do with an entire day in the middle of November in northern Newfoundland? Why pull on jeans and a tee and head to the beach for a day of beach combing, of course! Mid-November in northern Newfoundland? Yep! It's a balmy 18 degrees, the sun is shining and there's not a breeze.
Hubby, the dog, and I took the unexpected sabbatical given to us with a heart and a half. We hiked the beach and walked back over the grassy knoll just up from it and talked about what an unexpected and awesome moment this was. Some weeks ago on a walk prior to this we had deemed it the last of the season; expecting it would be 6-7 months before we could go again since snow and beaches together don't really work for me! Nor does slob encrusted salt sea spray! We took 100 pictures (give or take), we texted both kids from the beach to let them know what we were doing while they were scraping and/or shovelling the white stuff in their mainland communities. But, of course, we didn't gloat! Then we perched on a grassy slope and took some time to offer thanks because "Lord, we really needed this right now." Then we determined that the planned power outage was nearing its end and as pastors we must pull ourselves together and prepare to minister to our congregation in the evening service. And we were refreshed and ready to do just that!
Unexpected sabbaticals are absolutely wonderful and now I anxiously await a snow day!
Cabin Dreamin' I stood there that day in the woods, the dog rompsin' at my feet and I got lost. In the moment, I mean. Hubby was chattering (yes, he chatters - about things that excite him) about cabin stats. You know: what window will go where and why, where we could put bird feeders, what trees would go and what trees would stay. His steady stream of wonderful ideas served as a backdrop to my reverie.... click to read moreI stood there that day in the woods, the dog rompsin' at my feet and I got lost. In the moment, I mean. Hubby was chattering (yes, he chatters - about things that excite him) about cabin stats. You know: what window will go where and why, where we could put bird feeders, what trees would go and what trees would stay. His steady stream of wonderful ideas served as a backdrop to my reverie.
I was stood in the big picture window. The one that overlooked "our" pond. The sun was reflecting off the slight ripple caused by the morning breeze - a warm breeze. I'm in my ratty old PJ's (the comfy ones) and I can smell the coffee brewing on the cast iron stove. The birds are chirping and the squirrels, well, they're squirreling. I see a lazy curl of smoke from the chimney across the pond and then a moose. Is that a moose? I step to the door for a better look. It is! Wow! Now this is the life! I move to sit in my rickety hassock chair - the one I don't have the heart to discard. After all, there are still a lot of good miles in it yet. I watch as Mr Moose (it was a bull) drinks his fill then meanders to a low birch to nibble some before wandering off. I'm still caught in the awe of that moment when I feel a warm and inviting cuppa joe being put in my hands as hubby joins me to bask in another glorious morning.
"What do you think?" I can tell by his tone that he realizes I've shut him out. There is some detail of my dream cabin that needs my input now so I'm snapped back to this moment in time. And it's fall and the trees are all around me. I can't see the pond through the foliage still remaining and through the majestic evergreen. I'm in my rubber boots and there are leaves cascading around me. The landscape is rough but delightful. We consider the issue in question and then pick our way over stumps and hallows back to our waiting vehicle. On the way we spot a woodpecker's home way up in a dead spruce. The dog gets an interesting scent and tries to lead me to its source.
But this mini vacation is over and I must say - the dream is good; almost as good as the real thing. We'll be back! Will I ever sip coffee on that deck overlooking our pond? Only God knows. But dreaming dreams in this brisk autumn air surrounded by even this stark beauty does something to wash away the cobwebs. So, I'll revel in this moment and every one along the way - wherever it leads.
Wine With Wings
Newfoundland Wine shipped country wide (except in NL)
Shipping special $10/case Visit website
Advertisement
The Dark Warden
Hi Ron;
I have met you many times over the years when you were travelling around your wonderful province. My friend and I, "the two grannies" drove a motor home from Delta, BC to Newfoundland and back four times!
I have returned to Newfoundland ... click to read moreHi Ron;
I have met you many times over the years when you were travelling around your wonderful province. My friend and I, "the two grannies" drove a motor home from Delta, BC to Newfoundland and back four times!
I have returned to Newfoundland many times and last year I took my granddaughter Emily Garlough with me. We went whale watching and spent many hours/days/weeks along your beautiful coastline. I had access to a cottage in Durrell where we stayed most of the time.
Emily is studying environmental studies at the university of Prince George in BC now and hopes to attend Memorial as well. Emily loved Newfoundland and the nature. When we returned home she wrote a story titled "The Dark Warden," which I am submitting to you on her behalf. She enjoys writing and her focus is on protecting our planet, particularly our oceans. Emily also enjoys scuba diving and she is 18 years old.
I am sending Emily's story via Canada Post along with a photo of her taken in Newfoundland while we were whale watching. I hope you will enjoy her story and will consider printing it in your magazine.
I am leaving for Denmark and Switzerland next week and will be taking a copy of the Downhome with me.
Thank you Ron and perhaps our paths will cross again next year when I return.
Take care and kind regards,
Gail Nicholas
The Dark Warden
"Under the water,
Pulling me under
My heart grabs another,
Nothing to hold."
His voice cut off swiftly, the only proof that he had spoken rose into the dark air, taking on the form of grey smoke, and then vanishing as if it had never been. Beneath his shifting feet the floorboards creaked, creating an eerie echoing sound in the emptiness around him.
"Under the waves,
A dark maiden waits,
A silvery image,
An iron barred cage."
Blue hands gripped the wheel, the knuckles showing through papery skin. Knuckles that whispered their age. The crescent moon shed its light upon the ocean; its uneven waves shattered the light into small shards no bigger than a pin point.
"Under the light,
No further fright,
My heart clouding over,
Releasing my order."
It was quiet now. Thick silence where a symphony of voices used to be. He had told them to go, but now he wished just one had offered to stay, being a presence beside him, comforting and whole. But then he would not be singing. He would have no use for this song of mourning. The song would not be for him.
"Nothing sets in,
Forgotten and grim,
As my heart sinks below,
The frozen flow."
He was glad they left. They were young and he was old. He had no one left who wanted to repeat his name. He hadn't seen his children for 15 years. He had never seen his grandchildren; he didn't know if he had any.
What kind of life was his? When compared with the lives of his crew, his life was transparent and hung heavily on the pegs that held it up. It was grey and pocked with holes. The lives of his crew members, strung out beside his were whole and thick by contrast. They held colour and didn't need pegs to hold themselves up.
He was always solitary, but when did he become alone?
"Under the water,
Pulling me under,
My heart grabs another,
Nothing to hold."
He had nothing but the wheel beneath his hands. Cold, hard wood. That was the only thing he needed. The only thing he held on to.
He could see the surface of the water rising and falling in a rhythm that did not match the tune of his song. It was an odd setting but it was all too familiar to this man.
Wiping clammy hands over his grubby sailor's pants, he felt the glacial sea breeze scratch his grizzled face. He tilted his chin higher, seeing his father do the same in his mind's eye. Stupid pride. But he was a noble man; he had it in his blood.
He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Annoying salty things that burned and blurred his vision. He wanted to see. He wanted to see the briny waters that he loved rise over the deck, the dark liquid spread quickly across the worn wood and wash away the mess of his men. Wash away the stench of fish, blood and salty sweat.
This was his home. This was all he ever wanted. One saw a molding boat, paint peeling and lines fraying, one would think that it could not last much longer. One saw his brown face, puckered and lined, his dull eyes, one would think that he could not last much longer. United by age. In the peeling paint he saw the patterns of labour, the long hours his men put in each day, scratched into every surface and twisted into every knot, he saw life.
He started dying when the water invaded his home. He felt the freezing cold as his own. There was a hole in him, and the water he once loved was murdering him.
Even if he had gone with his men, paddled away in the one little orange lifeboat, it would make no difference. He would be dying all the same.
Cold hands gripped the wheel tighter, he would not let go. He was married to the sea and the sea would decide how he left the world. He would take what his love threw at him.
Water lapped at his feet, a humourless mocking of the calm serenity the movement usually brought. His bulky sihouette, reflected in the dark liquid, was shaking, and moving with the waves. He cracked open salty, weathered lips and murmured, as the water rose and as he felt his body prepare to embrace the ocean floor, the last lines of the song.
"Going under,
Spreading over,
You held my heart,
Now you hold it under." ... Hide full submission
Gail Nicholas Delta, BC
(0 rating, 0 votes)
A Newfoundlander's Guide to Surviving in Montreal To a recent high school graduate, the switch from an anglophone rural outport community in Newfoundland and Labrador to the thriving francophone metropolis of Montreal can seem unfathomable. Having done it myself, however, I can promise you that a smooth transition is possible. The three biggest challenges to overcome are the traffic, the language, and the dating scene. In Newfoundland and Labrador, we hardly have any traffic, we essentially speak our own language, and our ... click to read moreTo a recent high school graduate, the switch from an anglophone rural outport community in Newfoundland and Labrador to the thriving francophone metropolis of Montreal can seem unfathomable. Having done it myself, however, I can promise you that a smooth transition is possible. The three biggest challenges to overcome are the traffic, the language, and the dating scene. In Newfoundland and Labrador, we hardly have any traffic, we essentially speak our own language, and our dating scene, if it exists at all, is one of a kind. Obviously, the situation in Montreal will be an adjustment.
I can picture you now, hovering around the woodstove in the comfort of your parents' 100-year-old outport home, trying to warm up after a day of battling the high seas to catch a few fish. Your father was kind enough to let you run home and draw the first bath while he finished filleting the fish in the wind and rain. You've come home to the smell of your mother's freshly baked bread and a pot of moose stew on the stove nearly ready to be served. Just yesterday, you graduated high school at the top of your class (an easy accomplishment since you were the only graduate this year in your K-12 school). You're terrified, nervous, excited, and overjoyed all at the same time - in just eight weeks you'll be in the big city studying at a francophone university.
The Traffic
You can't turn right on a red? I was having enough trouble paying attention to the abundance of red lights as it was. I come from a community that consists of one dirt road. Evidently, there is no traffic, no waiting, and no fuss. Driving is an enjoyable pastime in Newfoundland and Labrador, since it takes only about three minutes to drive to the grocery store in most towns. We actually look forward to listening to a tune as we drive to the store. In downtown Montreal, however, driving is a pain. It takes longer to drive to where you are going and find a parking spot than it does to walk. What about this idea of paying for parking? You would be lucky enough if you could even find a spot within one kilometre of where you wanted to go, and then you have to pay for every minute you spend there. My advice: the subway is definitely the way to go.
Breaking the Language Barrier
To break the language barrier, you will have to master your French. Completing the French immersion program in school doesn't necessarily prepare you for living in a French milieu. It'll take a lot of practice before you become comfortable describing every one of your thoughts in French.
When socializing with francophone students in Montreal I was often asked what I was studying at university. They always found my answer to be ridiculous. "You're going to be a French teacher? You?" they would ask, gobsmacked. I would fumble with my words, trying desperately to explain to them that only 0.4 per cent of the population in Newfoundland and Labrador is francophone. Anglophones are, therefore, the ones teaching French to our youth. After a lot of practice with the few people patient enough, however, I managed to improve drastically. Fear not - it really is true what they say; practice makes perfect. Having learned the basics in school, you must now make the effort to put them into practice. By immersing yourself in the language, making friends who speak only French, and forcing yourself to practice daily, you will indeed master the language in no time. After a few months, people were already asking me if I grew up in Montreal.
The Dating Scene
If you plan on testing out the dating scene in Montreal, know this: both males and females tend to be much more forward than at home. If you like what you see then you had better make it known. At home, even if you're out in the city, you'll go so far as finding out the guy's name and then get a background check on him from a friend of a friend who is sure to know him. You need to make sure the two of you aren't somehow distantly related before things go any further, and your friend is likely to have some dirt on him or at least know someone who does. In the time it takes for you to excuse yourself to the bathroom and return, you've found out whether this guy is worth pursuing or not. In Montreal, however, everyone is a stranger. If you don't make some sort of a move the day you meet the person, you may never see them again. It takes some getting used to, but it's normal to exchange phone numbers with someone you just met.
Here are a few pointers for both men and women. Ladies: talk less about the weather and your ability to knit sweaters, hunt moose, and jig cod. Quebec men are more interested in whether or not you like to travel, are a Montreal Canadians' fan, and enjoy downhill skiing. Men: talk less about your Ski-doos and ATVs and more about whether you like to cook, enjoy wine, and go to the gym.
By now you've probably realized that adjusting to city life is not going to be easy. But it's by challenging ourselves and overcoming obstacles that we become better people, right? So, kick off your rubber boots, leave your fishing traps behind, drive the hundreds of kilometres to the nearest airport, and hop on a plane. A new experience awaits you! ... Hide full submission
One Christmas At A Time (from Ma Bayly's House to Your House) Ma Bayly and Christmas haven't always seen eye to eye. Don't get me wrong. She takes a great deal of joy out of seeing her grandchildren's faces, beaming with excitement, at a time of year when everything twinkles and shines; the music in the stores is happy and upbeat; there are tons of huge, bright red bows everywhere; lots of special treats that only come out at Christmas and, of course, let's not forget that ... click to read moreMa Bayly and Christmas haven't always seen eye to eye. Don't get me wrong. She takes a great deal of joy out of seeing her grandchildren's faces, beaming with excitement, at a time of year when everything twinkles and shines; the music in the stores is happy and upbeat; there are tons of huge, bright red bows everywhere; lots of special treats that only come out at Christmas and, of course, let's not forget that jolly fat fellow in the red suit with the laughing face and big white beard that all kids simply adore!
The Christmas Carol Service at Church always moves Ma as she looks around at all her neighbours and friends, her family with her in their usual pew, feeling a sense of comfort and belonging in the House of God.
However, as for so many other folks, Christmas hasn't always been a time of happiness for Ma Bayly and sometimes has been more like something she's had to "get through."
Ma Bayly and her beloved husband Cyril were blessed with four great kids. Bonnie was her first and gave Ma two beautiful grandchildren, Jimmy and Rosie.
Brenda, her second, was born three years later and brought three more grandchildren into Ma's fold; Isabel, Sylvia and Christine (the youngest and by far the most outspoken).
Stan, her third, was born two years later. Stan was killed in a car accident when a drunk driver ran a red light and crashed straight into him. The police officer said the scoundrel must have had the gas pedal to the floor, he was going that fast. Stan was only 24 years old. It happened two days before Christmas. So you wouldn't be wrong if you said that it was a Christmas Ma and Cyril had to "get through."
Unable to recover from their terrible grief, the doctor, friends and family told Ma and Cyril that the best thing they could do was to have another child; not to replace Stan, for no child can ever be replaced, but to fill the unbearable hole in their lives, the terrible emptiness that hung over them like a black cloud. It took a long time to come around to the idea, but still in unbearable pain two years after Stan's death they did want another child and a year later Billy was born, on Christmas Eve. So that was definitely a happy Christmas.
The following year, on Christmas Day, Ma's beloved husband Cyril passed away suddenly from a heart attack. Another "get through it" Christmas for Ma Bayly.
Years later, Billy went on to marry a nice girl called Jean, the week before Christmas, and a year later welcomed their first son into the world. They named him after his late Uncle Stan and his late Grandpa Cyril; so Stan Cyril Bayly was born on Christmas Day. A wonderful, blessed Christmas for sure.
Ma doted on all her children and grandchildren, but Stan Cyril Bayly held a special, if secret, place in her heart.
Stan knew from when he was knee high to a grasshopper that when he grew up he was going to join the Army and serve his country. There was nothing on God's green earth that was going to stop him and everyone had to put their own fears and dreads aside and just be proud of him. What else could they do?
Stan joined the Army at the age of 22 and fulfilled his family's worst nightmare of being deployed to Afghanistan.
When most of the troops started coming home in 2011 the whole family was ecstatic, including Eileen, the girl who lived across the street from Ma and who had been Stan's sweetheart from the day they laid eyes on each other as children.
They hadn't heard from Stan in a good while, but lots of letters got lost and they all waited in great anticipation for word that he would be in the next group to be brought home.
Well, a year ago, on Christmas Eve, they did get word. But not the word they were hoping for. They got word that Stan was missing in action, presumed dead. So last Christmas was yet another one to "get through," as many of you folks out there will understand only too well.
This year, as Christmas approached, Ma felt the familiar tug of dread in her heart, while doing an heroic job of hiding it for the sake of her other grandchildren, who felt nothing but the anticipation and excitement that all young ones feel at Christmas.
Billy and Jean, Stan's parents, had moved to Alberta when Stan left to serve his country. Billy found good paying work and Ma believed they made the move because it was just too painful for them to stay at home, without Stan, and live their lives making a shrine of his room and worrying.
But Stan, being Newfoundland through and through, was adamant that when he came home, he would come home to Newfoundland. There was to be no Alberta for him! And so it was that a room was prepared for him in his grandma's house and it was understood by all that Billy and Jean would be by his side as soon as the first flight left Calgary.
Well, here we were. Christmas night at Ma Bayly's house and the table was laid, brimming with all manner of vegetables, breads, a massive turkey and, of course, Ma's world famous savoury dressing made with breadcrumbs from her own homemade fluffy white bread. There was also the very special carrot and turnip mash, which was always Stan's favourite. He was always very partial to carrots and turnips mashed together with a good dollop of butter and a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Everything Ma Bayly and her helpers had noisily conjured up all day in the kitchen was laid out in all its splendour.
Ma Bayly, red faced, brushed off a bead of sweat with her special "I'm a Christmas Grandma" apron. She smiled brightly at all the goings on around her as everyone gathered around the table, but Bonnie, her eldest, could see it was forced. It was a happy mask put on for the sake of everyone else. Only Bonnie noticed when Ma would pull the curtain and look out of the window to the street. Searching.
Finally, Bonnie said, "Ma, come on now and take your seat. The food will get cold!"
"You go on," said Ma. "I'll be there in a minute. Got some things to see to first."
Ma made motions to bring more napkins to the table and fuss around. Anything but sit down.
Bonnie felt her eyes well up when Ma, once again, parted the curtains and looked up and down the street, reluctantly releasing them and giving in to hopelessness and helplessness.
Ma slowly made her way to her chair at the table when the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside made her turn on her heels and run back to the curtains. Her eyes widened like saucers. "Stay in your seats, all of you, there's someone at the door and I'll see to it!"
For a split second Ma shut her eyes and they could see her mouthing a quick prayer, then she made for the door with a stoic stride.
Before anyone could knock, Ma had the door open. There stood two soldiers, their army vehicle parked outside her house like a terrible omen.
"Mrs. Bayly?" The most officious of the two soldiers asked.
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Bayly." Ma's voice was almost a whisper. "You'd best come in."
"There's no time Mrs. Bayly. We just thought we'd better warn you. We've just dropped Stan off at the bottom of the hill and he's making his way here as fast as he can."
Ma's eyes widened while filling with tears. Her voice was no more than a croak. "Stan? My grandson Stan Cyril Bayly? He's on his way home?"
"Yes ma'am. He insisted we drop him off down there. He wanted to get here under his own steam ma'am. We just stopped by to make sure you were home...to make sure the lad had someone waiting for him when he got here."
"Well of course I'm home!" Ma said with great indignation. "Where else would I be?"
"Of course ma'am," said the soldier. "Sorry ma'am. Oh...and Mrs. Bayly....there's something you should know..."
"Thank you sergeant...um corporal...um...sorry son, sorry, no time for details." Ma abruptly cut him off. "I've a lot to do. Thank you." No time for niceties, she was about to shut the door in their faces, but she stopped as they wished her a Merry Christmas.
"Oh my, oh yes, Christmas...I'd forgotten...oh thank you serg.... um...thank you son, thank you, same to you, thank you!"
She almost slammed the door in her hurry to get in and get things organized and the two soldiers drove off into the night, wide smiles on their faces. This was the kind of house call they enjoyed making.
Ma made a noise akin to a yelp, but stifled it by putting her hand over her mouth. She made her way back into the dining room where the brood were sitting stock still, terror in their eyes, searching her face.
Ma's lips quivered and Bonnie started to cry. "Don't be foolish Bonnie, Stan's on his way home! They dropped him off at the bottom of the hill. He insisted. They just came to warn us he was on his way!"
There were screams and cries all around the table as Ma parted the curtains and strained to look down the hill leading to her house through the darkness and fog. At first, nothing. Then she could just make out the sight of a lonely figure, bent over, struggling with all his might to wheel himself up the hill to home.
"Oh me poor Stan," Ma whispered to herself. "Me poor dear Stan." She forced back emotion and tears.
Pandemonium broke loose as Ma sprung into action, barking orders in a voice nobody had ever heard before and nobody dared question.
"Bonnie, scrunch the kids up and make room for at least two chairs in Stan's usual spot!"
"Brenda, run upstairs and bring Stan's bedspread and pillow and slipp....no, never mind the slippers. Oh and bring some clean pajamas from his top drawer. Make up a bed in the parlour and be quick about it!"
"Rosie, bring down Stan's side table. Isabel and Sylvia, you go with her and bring down Stan's lamp, clock, and the picture of him and Eileen, and put them next to the bed. They stood gawking at her. "NOW!"
"Jimmy, go into the shed and bring me that old table top the men use to split the fish. Hurry now me lad!" He was back before he'd gone, table top under his arm.
"Now, nobody speak. Hush now," Ma said in a loud whisper as she turned off the hallway light and the outside light.
Everyone watched in disbelief as Ma quickly opened the front door, plunged herself down on hands and knees and quickly placed the fish-splitting door over the two steps leading up to the front door. She took a brief glance down the street before backing up, still on hands and knees, and quietly closing the front door. A flicker of a smile came over her face and Bonnie knew Ma hadn't been seen, apart from Eileen, who was peeking out through her curtains, clutching her handkerchief over her mouth like her life depended on it.
The whole house was in chaos, but apart from Ma, nobody had looked outside.
In a matter of minutes all was accomplished. Finally, the whole team squeezed around the window and pulled back the curtains.
Still quite far down the street was a lone figure in a wheelchair, fighting to wheel himself up the hill to the house.
A chorus of cries filled the room. "Ma! He's in a wheelchair Ma! He needs help Ma! We have to go out and help him Ma!"
Ma barked her final order. "NO!" Everyone's jaws dropped. Never had they seen Ma so....so wound up! Ma continued, "He told those soldiers to drop him off at the bottom of the hill. They told me he insisted! They told me he wanted to get home under his own steam and by Gracious God in Heaven we will NOT deprive him of that."
Ma's voice started to crack. Everyone looked at her in awe. They had never seen Ma like this. Bonnie and Brenda started to weep.
Ma looked at them all in turn, making intense eye contact with each. "I will say this only once and you will listen." She took one more fervent peek through the curtains, watching Stan's progress toward the house, making sure he didn't see her. "There'll be plenty of time to hear Stan's tales of the horrors he has gone through. He'll tell, but he'll tell when he's good and ready."
Once again she looked at each in turn. Nobody dared breathe, such was her intensity and determination.
"What our Stan needs when he comes through that door is NORMAL. He needs everything to be normal, just the way it has always been, and we will all make sure that's exactly what he gets. NORMAL. Now, do you all understand?!"
A chorus of whispers replied, "Yes Ma," and "yes Grandma," in complete unison.
"Now, all of you, get back to the table and start eating. When Stan comes in, he will take his place among you as he always has and there'll be NO STARING. Do you hear me? NO STARING!"
Silently, they took their places at the table, the large empty space where Stan usually sat being the most focused upon place in the room.
One more glance out of the window and Stan was almost at the door. This time Ma noticed that across the street, Eileen was peeking through her curtain, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Ma silently prayed that Eileen would not rush over and try to help Stan, just as he was about to make it on his own. She stared over at Eileen, who saw her and nodded, instinctively knowing what Ma meant.
Finally, there was a knock at the door. The whole room went into a kind of shock. Ma stifled a sob, took a very deep breath, cleared her throat and, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, marched into the hallway and opened it.
Everyone sitting at the table strained to hear. Nothing at first, then Stan's voice, "Grandma, it's as though you were expecting me."
"Course I was Stan me love. Course I was," Ma said with a quiver in her voice. "Welcome home my precious grandson. Welcome home. Now you'd best get inside and take your place at the table. The food's getting cold!"
With that, she opened the door wide and Stan wheeled himself in and through to the dining room where the whole family sat, eyes gaping (but NOT STARING) at Stan in his wheelchair, Stan with one leg missing.
Bonnie was the first to speak, trying to mask the emotion welling up inside her.
"Welcome home Stan. It's great to see you." Then a chorus of, "Welcome home Stan!"
Ma stood stock still and watched as Stan manoeuvered his wheelchair into his usual spot. She gave him a quick, discreet 'head-to-toe going over' and saw that he had lost his left leg above the knee and thanked God in Heaven because that seemed to be the only thing. That, of course, and the hidden trauma from the untold horrific memories he would no doubt suffer for the rest of his life. "Oh me poor Stan," Ma thought.
Again Bonnie came to the rescue. She tried with all her strength to sound "normal," but as she spoke her words came out in a high-pitched babble at the speed of light. "Pass Stan the potatoes Jimmy, Stan do you want white or dark meat, Ma I think it's time to bring out the blueberry wine, Rosie pass Stan the dressing, it's his favourite!"
Ma looked over at her and winked. Bonnie smiled weakly and breathed out through pursed lips.
Ma took a quick glance out of the front curtain and there was poor Eileen, still standing there clutching her handkerchief.
"Everyone get stuck in, I've got to bring some washing in."
"But Ma, it's Christmas, you never do wash....."
"That's enough Christine......," Brenda gently nudged her under the table.
As she closed the back door, Ma pulled her old shawl around her shoulders and hurried across the street to Eileen's house.
Things around the Christmas table were going very well. Stan was obviously starving and put everyone at their ease by wolfing down his food in his usual fashion. Bonnie had poured everyone a glass of Ma's blueberry wine and raised her own glass to wish everyone a "Merry Christmas!" "Merry Christmas" echoed around the table and Stan downed his glass in one with shaking hands. Bonnie promptly poured him a fill-up, her hands also less than steady.
Suddenly, in the kitchen there was a sound like a stifled shriek, quickly followed by Ma's loud voice, "Get from under me feet you foolish cat!"
Christine, missing nothing, piped up, "But we haven't got a ca.... Ouch!" Again, she stared up at her mother, Brenda, who stared back with 'that look' again.
"Pass our Stan the carrot and turnip mash Sylvia, Ma made it especially for him."
For the umpteenth time that night the table fell silent again as Ma walked in with Eileen.
Bonnie and Brenda seamlessly shoved up around the already squeezed-to-capacity table as Ma pushed a chair in the space and set down a plate, knife and fork for Eileen.
Stan didn't look up, but focused on his carrot and turnip mash as though his life depended on it.
Eileen, who had been properly briefed by Ma, sat down as though this was just an everyday occurrence.
She stared at Stan, who point blank refused to look up and meet her eyes.
"Well," she said in a very bossy tone, "this is a fine state of affairs! Stan Cyril Bayly, I let you out of me sight for a couple of years and this is what happens! Well, you can rest assured I will never let you out of me sight ever again!"
Christine giggled, but this time there was no, "Ouch!" In fact, everyone seemed to be stifling a giggle.
Still no response from Stan, until he allowed himself a quick glance only as far as her plate, when he noticed a ring on her engagement finger. That did it! He forgot himself and for the first time acknowledged she was even there.
"I see you've been busy Eileen. Nice ring you have there on your finger. Who gave it to you?"
Eileen was momentarily taken aback by his voice, for it was not the chirpy, cheeky voice of the Stan who left to serve his country two years ago. It was the heavy, wooden voice of a man whose spirit had been broken.
Knowing full well the importance of this moment on their future together, Eileen quickly recovered and said, very tenderly, "Why YOU did Stan. YOU gave it to me."
Stan's temper flared. "Don't talk foolish Eileen. I never gave you a ring and you know it! We were going to wait until I came home. I suppose you just couldn't wait!"
At this point, everyone was looking from Eileen to Stan as each spoke like it was a tennis match and they were watching the ball pass from one side of the net to the other.
Stan's voice dropped to a dull monotone. "Anyway Eileen, it's just as well. I'm not the man you said goodbye to, all proud and fit in his shiny new uniform, and I never will be. I wish you luck."
Again, a silence fell over the table and everyone looked at Ma for guidance. But guidance was not forthcoming. Ma very daintily cut up a piece of turkey and placed it in her mouth as though there was nothing at all happening that didn't always happen around her dining table. Silently, though, she was pleading with Eileen to say the right thing, in the right way, and do it now. Otherwise, there might not be any picking up of the pieces of their relationship that had been so filled with love and devotion since they were childhood sweethearts.
Eileen didn't disappoint. She spoke very softly, her voice filled with love. "Stan, it's your Ma's engagement ring. She brought it over to our house last Christmas when she came to break the news you were missing in action and you were presumed.....presumed......" she couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.
For the first time, Stan looked into Eileen's eyes as his face flared bright red.
Eileen continued. "Your Ma told me that "missing in action" just meant that you had outsmarted them and had escaped. Missing in action just meant that you had to take the long way to get back home and we'd just have to wait a little longer for you to get here. That's all it meant Stan."
Eileen's eyes filled with tears as Stan stared at her and allowed himself to feel, really feel for the first time since he could remember. Eileen and Stan were oblivious to everyone else around the table, but you could have cut the emotion with a plastic butter knife.
Eileen continued, "Ma said if you were here you would want me to start wearing this ring right now. It wouldn't be an engagement ring until you had got down on one knee, but it would do as a hope ring until then."
Christine piped up immediately, "But he might not be able to get down on one kne.... Ouch!"
Stan smiled for the first time and Ma welled up as she saw signs of her grandson start to resurface; her grandson Stan who had inherited her husband Cyril's easy smile.
Stan's voice had even started to get less wooden as he said to Brenda, "Let her be, it's only natural for her to be curious."
Never one to miss an opportunity like that, Christine immediately asked, very self-importantly, "Does it hurt?"
Everyone laughed, including Stan. "No Christine me luv, it doesn't hurt at the moment, but they tell me it'll be painful at first when they fit me with me new leg as I learn to walk on it on me stump."
"Stump???....Ouch!"
As everyone laughed and shovelled food into their mouths, oblivious to the fact it was now almost stone cold, the phone rang.
"Stan," said Ma, "you'd better get that son. It'll be from Alberta."
As Stan wheeled himself into the hallway Ma shut the door behind him. They heard Stan's voice saying, "Oh Ma, don't cry. It's alright now, it's alright, I'm home now Ma!"
Ma Bayly looked at each in turn, at their beaming faces. At last, all her brood were together again. Her own son Stan and beloved husband Cyril were also there in spirit, she knew that for a certainty.
Bonnie caught Ma's look and knew this was one of those occasions when she had to become mother.
"Right then you lot, let's get this table cleared and then we can see about bringing out the figgy duff!"
As they hustled and bustled to and from the kitchen, Stan still on the phone with his ma and pa, Ma slipped away into the parlour and shut the door. She sat very quietly on her grandson's bedspread, stroking it as though it was a newborn baby. She looked at his things. His clock, his bedside lamp, the picture of him and Eileen, his pajamas laying very neatly on his pillow.
Inexplicably, her mind started to race a mile a minute, as mind's often do just as the heart is about to release a huge pressure valve. "Thank goodness my Cyril had the sense to get an extra bathroom put in downstairs, what with the growing family and two girls to boot! There'll be some adjustments to make. Jack Hiscock will put in ramps at every door and he'll be glad to do it. Billy and Jean will be on the next plane home, where will we put them? Won't be long before they come home for keeps. Oh, it'll all sort itself out...and on and on with the tiniest of details buzzing around her head like angry bees, until the valve finally popped and she sobbed (as quietly as she could) as she hadn't sobbed in a long time.
She wasn't aware of Stan as he quietly wheeled himself beside her and she jumped as his arm went around her. Grandma became child and grandson became parent for a few moments, as she lay her head on his shoulder and cried. "Oh Stan, oh Stan," she said in between sobs; and he sat quietly for the longest time before grinning at her and saying, "I just outsmarted them Grandma and I had to take the long way to get back home, that's all."
Later that night, everyone in bed, Stan next door sleeping in the parlour, Ma sat staring into the embers of the ebbing fire. Memories of Christmases past played through her mind. She smiled as she saw her beloved husband, Cyril, wink and smile at her in her mind's eye. The smile turned to sadness when she thought of her third born, Stan, and how cruelly he had been taken so young, his whole life ahead of him.
But this had been a good Christmas. Not a Christmas to "get through" after all.
And she thought the thoughts that had gotten her through so many unhappy Christmases, for Christmas arrives bang on time no matter what folks may be going through in the privacy of their own hearts.
She thought of those who were going through a "get through it" kind of Christmas this year. Folks with kids serving abroad, folks with loved ones who were sick or who had passed just around this time, folks who were going through who-knows-what, Christmas or no Christmas, who were going to have a "get through it" season this year.
She silently sent out a prayer for each and every one of them, a prayer she had repeated to herself over and over through her own difficult Christmases in the past.
"Dear Lord, please help them get through this; one minute at a time, one day at a time, one Christmas at a time."
The Farmer and The Fisherman: A story about fairness in forging this country The Prime Minister announced today a 34 million dollar aid package for Western Canadian farmers in the new federal budget.
The prime minister while visiting St. John's. Newfoundland last week admitted that the province has a real big problem with the current unemployment rate, the standard of living and the out-migration, which has deteriorated a lifestyle that will be hard to replace.
Canada is made up of hard working people whose parents and ... click to read moreThe Prime Minister announced today a 34 million dollar aid package for Western Canadian farmers in the new federal budget.
The prime minister while visiting St. John's. Newfoundland last week admitted that the province has a real big problem with the current unemployment rate, the standard of living and the out-migration, which has deteriorated a lifestyle that will be hard to replace.
Canada is made up of hard working people whose parents and grandparents came here from "the old country" to forge a better life for themselves and their families. In the east as was the case in Newfoundland, most came from Ireland and England. They came to cut out a living from the fishery. Worked hard all their lives as anyone who has ever fished knows it is no picnic and requires backbreaking work combined with the highest risk against the sea and what it can dish out. Many lost their lives at sea and hard work was a constant companion. However speak to any fisherman and watch him light up as he speaks about the ocean and his time spent fishing. It is not just a job but also a passion that runs through his veins just as surely as blood does.
In the west they came as settlers to the prairies to be able to farm and provide for their families in peace. Most came from Southern Russia, Germany and the Soviet block. They came to pursue a better life, a life of farming. To do what they did best in the old country. The work was hard and the days were long but their passion for farming and its way of life had its rewards. The family worked hard together to shape the west into the beautiful farms that dot the landscape in uniformed patchwork. The quarters of 160 acres that flow into the sections of four quarters that continue into the endless sections that mark out the west of Canada. On a warm August evening when the breeze hits those fields of golden wheat, it sends a wave that could be compared to the ocean across the endless sections of land.
Life was good and these new Canadians were rewarded for their hard work and forging of this wonderful country. However things were to change for the settlers of the east. They were to awaken one morning to be told that due to the federal government miss-management of the fishery by allowing countless years of abuse and destruction by countries like Spain and Portugal who use a method of fishing that drags the ocean floor destroying the breeding grounds that provided the plankton and food for the codfish. They were told that the fish stocks were so low that it was now illegal to fish, even to the point of taking one or two fish to feed their families. They were forced to tie up their boats and watch them rot on the beach and their livelihood was taken away from them. How now would they provide for their families? But wait don't they have an asset that they worked so hard for and can't they sell it and retire in relative comfort? Should not their "quarter or section of ocean" be worth something? Maybe there is offshore oil on the bottom of their quarter of ocean floor. Surely there must be some hidden value in this quarter of ocean. Maybe they can collect royalties on ships that pass through their ocean land as oil leases work on the farmland in the west. But wait, they don't own the ocean!
Farmers own their farmland and are free to sell it and retire but what is the fisherman to do given he can never own the ocean?
So to review the events again!
Both farmer and fisherman came from the old country to carve out a living in this new country of Canada. They worked hard all their lives. The farmer was given ownership of the land he farmed by the government as a just reward for his labour and he can now sell it for the current average farm price of 1.5 million dollars and retire if he wishes. The fisherman is given a small one time monetary package equivalent to about one to two years salary and forced into unemployment to watch his savings and livelihood disappear before his eyes.
But can we really compare these rolling sections of farmland to the ocean? What individual could own the ocean or at least a section of it? It's just not the way it is. However 95% of the farmland in western Canada is owned privately. It is estimated that the small family farm in western Canada is worth 1 to 1.5 million dollars.
What if we backed things up and the government said to the immigrating farmer to Canada three generations ago you can never own the land you will just be allowed to work it and care for it and pass it on to your son or successor and always earn a living but you will never be allowed to sell the land privately and keep the proceeds and retire somewhere warm with 1.5 million dollars in your bank account. Would they have turned around on a dime and gone back to the old country and said "this is no deal" and is unfair?
What if the fisherman who also immigrated three generations ago had been told upon entering Canada that you can earn a living from your quarter or section of ocean and can pass the fishing license down to your son or successor but you can never own the ocean and can never sell your quarters or sections and keep the proceeds to retire on.
But wait isn't that what is understood about fishing? Isn't that just the way things are? Shouldn't we accept this as just the way things are?
Surely there is nothing wrong in this picture. Or is there? It's just the way things are.
Jim Przblyiski of Fairview, Alberta just left for Arizona today to retire after his sale of four quarters of farmland and equipment sold for 1.5 million and Jim Slaney from St. Lawrence, Newfoundland is wondering if he should re-mortgage his house to help his grandson attend university while he walks to the wharf and remembers a day when he earned a good living fishing. A wave splashes against the wharf and he thinks if only there was a dollar value on that wave.
We live in a country that strives to make things right. We go to great lengths to make things right in our world. We send our boys to Afghanistan to make things right in the world and we pride ourselves in that we live in a country where things are "right and fair." A country when good people are rewarded for hard work and clean living. A country where after a lifetime of work you don't have it taken all away from you. A country that prides itself on being fair and where all are treated equally.
So what words should the Western Canadian farmer use when he meets the Eastern Canadian fisherman to explain the vast difference in how they both ended up after all these generations of work?
Should he say "you didn't work as hard as I did for your family, so you deserve less?" Should he say "You should have known that you could never own the ocean and you should accept that I own my farmland and am free to sell it as I please." Or perhaps, "Be happy with the way things have turned out, it could be worse, you could be back in the potato famine of Ireland and I could be back in communist Russia."
The fisherman looks down at that wave hitting the wharf and wonders about Canada and the way things are and have been accepted as being "right and fair" or is it just that we are supposed to accept things the way things are.
