Читать книгу So Few on Earth - Josie Penny - Страница 19
ОглавлениеOne year I remember being picked up by a boat. As the vessel pulled out from our inlet, my mother eyed the icebergs in the distance.
“Don’t go too close to dem ol tings, Tom! Dey might founder down on top a us!” Mommy was yelling over the putt, putt, putt of the Acadia engine that powered the motorboat. We were chugging through the choppy ocean, and she was terrified of the gigantic icebergs floating majestically southward on the open sea.
“Awright, Mammy,” Daddy assured her.
As we made our way to Spotted Island, I gazed in awe at the craggy cliffs looming straight up from the deep blue of the North Atlantic.
All along the Labrador coast tiny fishing outports were tucked away in sheltered coves, bays, and tickles (tiny inlets). As the boat rounded another point of land, our summer home came into full view. The hillsides of this rugged and treeless place looked as though millions of boulders had been dropped from the sky. Standing out in sharp contrast were the berry bushes and low-lying foliage sprouting from cracks and crevices in the rocks. With its rugged peaks and valleys, Spotted Island appeared moonlike.
As we drew closer, I spied the tiny beach at the mouth of the brook that ran through the centre of the village. The beach was walled with jagged rocks. Perched precariously on the shore around the cove were the fishing stages. Just beyond the stages, past the high-water level, were the pebbly bawns (rocks) used for drying fish. Beyond the bawns were the mission buildings.
From far off, bunches of white long-haired pussy willows sprouting from the rocks looked like patches of snow. Houses were scattered around the cove and up onto the stony hillside. There were no roads or groomed properties, no fences or flower gardens, just footpaths connected by huge rocks, boggy pathways, and small streams with a large flat rock or wooden planks to cross them. Most of the houses were covered with clapboard and painted in various colours, while a few were grey, the original hue long since weathered away. Scattered storehouses and outhouses completed the community.
After living for six months in Roaches Brook with just a few log cabins, this settlement of 25 families seemed huge. Spotted Island bustled with people during the height of the cod fishery in the 1940s. The entire village turned into a beehive of activity. After arriving from secluded winter homes, the fishermen lost no time preparing for the new season. There were boats to launch, nets to repair, firewood to cut, water to haul from the brook, and stages to get ready. There was no wood on the island, so timber had been cut on the mainland during the winter and transported by dog team over the ice. Other residents made numerous trips across the run in their small boats to bring wood, which was piled near the harbour, ready to be cut into lengths for fires.
Already exhausted from the move, the women heated up gallons of water to do the washing, and clotheslines hung heavy with homemade garments. Dusty mats were banged out on rocks in the landwash. Some women collected wood chips to start fires, chopped wood, or swept out porches and bridges (verandahs). Some screamed at their youngsters or chatted with neighbours about the winter’s trapping. There was sure to be talk of the weather, and there were always complaints about the flies. Conversations about the arrival of new babies during the winter and a whole lot of laughter were constant. Everyone was happy to be back doing what needed to be done to prepare for the busy summer ahead.
Daddy inherited the Curl residence when my grandfather, John Curl, passed away. Facing the shoreline from the boat, our house was situated on a small plateau to the right of the cove. Compared to the tiny log cabin in Roaches Brook, it was a mansion — a two-storey house, roomy, and comfortable. We entered through a small porch that led into a large kitchen with a wooden floor. At the back there was a bedroom. Instead of a ladder through a hole in the ceiling, this house had stairs. Upstairs there was one large room, divided by a curtain.
Directly behind our house, tall pink flowers swaying in the breeze stood out against a white picket fence that enclosed the graveyard. To the left of the cemetery was the focal point of the community — the nursing station. It was a large white building once used by itinerant doctors and nurses who travelled the coast and cared for the sick. By the time I was six years old, though, it had ceased to operate. A community building called the club was beside the nursing station.
Some of the boats that had been hauled out in the fall sat stately and tall in their winter cradles, revealing their full bulk, undisturbed by fierce winter winds. Others were upside down. Looming mounds of wood dotted the shoreline. Soon the boats would be right side up and filled to the gunwales with fish.
When we reached Spotted Island that summer, Daddy eased the boat into the stage and tied it to a post. People who had arrived before us ran to help. As I clambered onto the stagehead, I was so delighted to be home. All I wanted to do was run and play. But I knew better.
“Now, maids,” warned my mother, “don’t go empty-handed.”
“I’m too small,” I protested. “What’ll I carry?”
“Ya better carry sometin!” Sammy hollered.
Reluctantly, I grabbed what I could lift and headed for the house. Staggering up the road and grunting under the weight of a pile of blankets, I wished I was bigger. Everybody was lugging, hauling, and carrying. It went on for what seemed like hours.
The dogs were let loose from the boat and allowed to roam freely among the houses. They ran here and there, and when they were tired, they crawled under the houses to keep cool. I loved the puppies that were born each spring.
“Weers me puppy to?” I cried, running around in circles. “Weers Blackie?”
“Dunno, Jos,” Mommy answered. “Havn’t got time ta be bothered wit yer puppy.”
“I’m not goin anywhere till I finds him den,” I said.
Daddy was busy taking the boards off the windows. Then he had to set up the stove, while Sammy lit the fire for Mommy.
“Sam, ya gotta go get some water from de brook,” Mom ordered just as he started running off to see his buddies. “Yer not gonna get away wit dat.”
“Awright, Ma.” He flung the carrying hoop over his shoulder, dug out the water buckets from the pile on the floor, and headed for the brook.
“I wanna go, too, Sammy,” I said.
My brother was happy to have company. “Awright den.”
Daddy had made us little water carriers out of tin cans with a string threaded through holes at the top. Searching through our stuff, I found two, and Sammy and I bounded for the brook, just up the hill past the graveyard. I placed my little can under a galvanized pipe protruding from the rocks. It was anchored in the brook with stones. My little bucket filled quickly with cold, clear water.
“Who put de pipe der, Sammy?” I asked.
“Dunno, maid. Tis been here a long time is all I know.”
Sammy filled his buckets and placed them in the carrying hoop. The hoop made the arduous job of water carrying much easier and kept the buckets away from his legs. I grunted and groaned as I struggled back to the house and emptied what was left in my containers into the water barrel on the porch. Then we returned to the brook for another turn — not that my tiny cans made much of a difference in the huge 45-gallon drum. But I was helping. Getting water was a daily task we couldn’t escape. Once the water barrel was filled, we had to bring in wood for the fire. We all had to do our share.
After a few days, we were settled in, and I was happy to be released from the seemingly endless chores Mommy had laid out for us.
“Okay, Mommy,” I said, grinning, “gonna make me playhouse now.”
“Awright, Josie, go on outdoors outta me way.” She sounded exasperated.
I liked Aunt Lucy next door and sauntered in and out of her house at will. In those days we didn’t knock before entering a home. Aunt Lucy was a jolly, little old lady who always wore a dress with her pinny tied neatly around her well-padded body. I was sure to get a slice of lassie bread from her.
Many of our neighbours were related. As was the custom then, several relatives lived in the same house. At Aunt Lucy’s place lived her sister and her sister’s little girl, Mary Jane. A pretty girl with fair hair and blue eyes, Mary Jane was a few years younger than I was. I thought she was rich because she had a swing on her porch. It was just a long piece of rope tied to a high beam, but it seemed wonderful to me because I had never seen a swing before. One day I gathered the courage to ask her for a turn. I was enthralled at the sensation of moving freely through the air.
On the other side of our house lived Sis (Violet) and Esau Dyson and their four children. Sis was my father’s niece. Esau had a large bell that hung on their house, which could be heard throughout the community. It rang at mug-up time, dinnertime, and suppertime to call the fishermen up from the stages. Many years later Sis told me that Esau had acquired the bell from a fishing schooner he’d worked on. She let me ring the big bell sometimes. When the bell tolled, all the dogs in the community howled in unison. It was the strangest thing.
Our neighbours were a mixture of friends, adopted family, and blood relatives. Uncle Ken and Aunt Winnie Webber were our true aunt and uncle. Aunt Winnie was Daddy’s sister. They lived close by with their five children. One neighbour I hated was Hayward Holwell. He would pop in almost every day just to tease Mommy. And he teased us constantly, as well, which made me angry and fearful. But I was much too little to do anything about it.
One day Hayward barged into our house and yelled at Mommy, “Flossie, how can such an ugly blood-of-a-bitch like ya have such good-lookin youngsters?”
Mommy wasn’t fazed. “Dunno, boy,” she snapped. “I know one thing’s fer sure. You never had nuttin ta do wit em.”
Aunt Tamer Rose, a kindly lady, short in stature, with grey wispy hair and soft brown eyes, lived just across the brook in the big house. One of the rooms contained a small store. She had a little white dog. Almost every day my sister and I meandered over to the shop, drooling at the sight and smell of candy and chocolate. Of course, there was never money to buy any, but I loved their fragrance. I enjoyed petting the dog and hoped I’d get a penny candy or two.
“Can I have some candy?” I asked as I stepped inside.
“Have ya got money?”
“Gotta copper. What can I buy fer a copper?”
“I can give ya a few candies fer a copper,” she said, scooping a few jellybeans into a tiny brown bag. Elated, I skipped along the rocky path, popping the delicious sweets into my mouth. But most of the time I just gawked and drooled at peppermint knobs, candy kisses, and gumdrops lined up behind the counter.
Sunday was a sacred day. No matter how plentiful the fish, how busy the men, or how pressing any situation might be, everything came to a dead stop on Sundays. Every Sunday of the year Daddy got up, put on a white Sunday shirt, and pulled on armbands to keep his sleeves up. Then he snapped braces over his shoulders to keep his pants up and put on his sealskin slippers. Finally, with a sigh of relief, he leaned back on his settle to wait for dinner.
Mommy moved quietly around the house, her pinny snugly tied, hair combed and tucked neatly in a bun at the back. She was now ready to cook Sunday dinner — boiled seal meat topped with a duff, a couple of ducks, or some type of fish or seafood, depending on the time of year. Sunday dinner was always at noon, while supper was at 5:00 p.m.
Aside from all the work, there was still time for play. One day Sammy and a friend from down the hill rigged up two tin cans with a long string that went from our upstairs bedroom window to Sammy’s bedroom window. Then they started talking to each other! Of course, I had no idea what they were doing. I’d never heard of a telephone. They had gotten the idea from somewhere, and I was all eyes and ears as I followed my brother’s every move.
“Can I try, Sammy?” I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.
“Oh, awright, Jos. Here, put dis on an listen real good.” He knew I’d kick up a fuss if he didn’t comply.
I placed the tin can to my ear, but all I heard was a roar. “Don’t work. Can’t hear nuttin.”
“Dat’s cuz yer stun,” he said sarcastically.
The summer was passing quickly, and I was happy roaming the hills and enjoying myself. I loved to skip, and one day while skipping down the road, I fell and skinned my knee. I ran home crying to Mommy.
“Ya bloody little fool, what now?” she grumbled, wrapping a piece of rag around my leg.
“I was skippin an fell down, Mommy. Ouch … tis some sore, too!”
My mother knew only one way to prepare us for the hardships of life.
She felt she had to toughen us up. She didn’t like us to show emotion. If we were caught crying, she’d swear at us, call us terrible names, or smack us around a bit.
“Whass de matter wit ya now?” she’d demand. “I’ll give ya sometin ta cry fer in a minute!”
Suppertime was an example of how my mother viewed life. How well I recall her attitude when the big bell rang to call the fishermen up to eat.
“Whass fer supper, Mommy?” I asked as I barrelled through the door and sat in my place at the table.
“Never mine whass fer supper. Whatever it is, ya’ll eat it or do witout.”
She said that because there were many days in the winter when there was nothing to eat. We were lucky to get a pork bun or a piece of molasses bread in the winter months. During summer, it was fried fish, stewed fish, baked fish, fish cakes, fish heads, or fish and brewis. Maybe Daddy or Sammy would catch a salmon, arctic char, or saltwater trout that day. When the berries ripened in late summer, we were in for a real treat. Along with tarts, Mommy made jam that we spread on her freshly baked buns and bread.
I’ll always remember the unique scents on a hot summer day. The sea air was rich with aromas as I walked, skipped, or bounded about: seaweed as it warmed up at low tide, salt cod drying on the bawns, cod livers rendering out under the hot sun. But none of those smells were as strong as the stench of fish parts rotting on the beach. And nothing could beat the sweet fragrances of Mommy’s cooking.
I was an inquisitive and observant child. In the summer of 1948, Mommy’s belly was getting big again.
“Whass happened ta ya belly dis time, Mommy?” I asked.
“Oh, Josie, ya’re too small ta understan, but ya will when ya gets bigger,” she said in a soft voice I didn’t hear often.
Wee Edward was found (born) soon afterward, and I enjoyed my baby brother. Mommy would let me hold him if I was careful.
“Don’t drop him,” she warned. “Feel dat soft spot on his head? Don’t touch it.”
“Why, Mommy?”
“Cuz ya might kill him.”
That terrified me. I couldn’t figure out what she meant because she didn’t explain why touching that spot might kill him. The year before wee Wilfred had died at seven months old and had gone to heaven. I’d cried and cried and wondered and worried that I might have killed him.
“Oh, Mommy, Mommy, I dint touch Wilfred’s soft spot,” I wailed.
“I know, Josie. God jus took him ta heaven, dat’s all,” she crooned in a soothing voice.
“Where’s heaven, Mommy?”
“Heaven’s a good place. He’s safe an warm der,” she assured me sadly.
“God must really love yer babies, hey, Mommy?”
Sister Rhoda was now three years old, sickly, with terrible nosebleeds. It seemed there was always a bucket to catch the stream of blood from her nose. I didn’t understand what was wrong with her, and that frightened me.
Mom had let my hair grow long since my return from the hospital with my shaved head. She would tell me over and over about my beautiful blond ringlets and how proud she’d been of them and how heartbroken she was when I returned with my head shaved and my gruesome scars exposed. The deep gouges left by the dog bites were constantly itchy, and I was always scratching. Soon the scars became sore and I had a head lice problem. It seemed impossible for Mommy to keep our heads clean, though she tried to desperately. Where we lived there was no salve or ointments or solutions to kill lice, so she guarded her fine-tooth comb as if it were made of gold. It was the only tool she had to combat the problem.
“Come here, Josie,” she said to me one night.
“Why?”
“Cuz yer mangy, dat’s why.”
I sat on the floor, and she went to work. With her thumb and forefinger she picked the lice out one at a time. Then I heard crack, crack, crack as she killed them with her thumbnail against the wooden bench.
“Nobody’s ever gonna cut yer hair again, Josie,” she kept saying as she worked. As horrific as the lice were, they still left fond memories. It was during those gruesome occasions that I became closer to my mother. It was the only time I had real intimate contact with her. I can’t recall ever being hugged or cuddled by my mother. And even though she was wonderful with her babies, it seemed once we got bigger we were just “them old good-fer-nothin maids,” and that hurt.
I loved my little sisters and brothers, but they were a continual blur of being found somewhere and then dying. Sammy and Mommy were very close. He could do no wrong. I became a tomboy and tried to imitate my brother, thinking maybe I’d receive some of that attention, too. Despite his closeness to Mommy, which I craved, I did love my brother very much.
After the fishing season slowed down, there was time to jig for cod. That was when we got our winter supply of fish for our dogs and for our own personal consumption.
“Wass ya doin, Sammy?” I asked my brother one day as he raced around.
“I’m helpin Dad so we can go jiggin tomarra,” he said proudly. Sammy was big enough to help Daddy, and eager to learn. He had never stepped inside a schoolhouse or a classroom, but he could handle a boat like a professional. Sammy was meticulous in his work and was overjoyed when Daddy took him hunting. I could tell he was excited to go fishing with Daddy tomorrow.
“Josie!” Mommy yelled. “Stay outta de way!” She gave me a bat on the shoulder.
“I wanna go, too,” I said. “I won’t get in de way. I’ll be real good. Can I go, Daddy?”
“No, Jimmy, pr’aps some udder time when yer bigger.”
“But, Daddy, I’m awmost six, an I’m strong, too.”
“No, Josie, ya can scream all ya like, but ya can’t go, and dat’s all der is to it,” Mommy said with finality.
I had to give in, so I stomped outside, screaming and crying. After settling down, I went looking for something else to do. There were lots of things to do, but what? I shuffled next door to Aunt Lucy’s house, seeking comfort, hoping for a turn on Mary Jane’s swing, but it was being used. That made me wail all the more. Aunt Lucy came out onto the porch, wanting to know what the ruckus was about.
“Mary Jane won let me take a swing!” I cried.
I had no choice but to return home to Mommy, but she didn’t care a bit about the swing. “Go on outdoors, Jos,” she ordered.
I meandered around, trying to find my sister. “Wanna play tag, Sally?” I asked mournfully when I located her.
“No, I’m gonna make a playhouse.”
“Oh, goodie. Can I come, too?”
“Awright. But ya got ta get yer own dishes!”
Happy once again, I set out to look for bits of broken dishes and glass to put on the rock shelf of the playhouse.
In the long evenings of summer it didn’t get really dark until almost eleven o’clock. The bigger kids played cricket on the only flat surface between our house and the graveyard. I didn’t know what cricket was other than batting a ball and running from end to end, but it seemed like fun.
“Can I play?”
“No, yer too small,” Sammy said. “Ya might get hurt.”
So I sat and watched them play, making sure I was out of harm’s way. Not understanding the game, I soon got bored and went looking for something else to do. I’ll be glad when I gets bigger, I thought to myself.
Another favourite game in the long evenings of summer was Alley Over.
“Wanna play Alley Over?” someone shouted.
Children came running from all directions, yelling, “I wanna! Me, too!”
