Читать книгу More TALES FROM THE PAST - Wilbur Dean - Страница 5

In this literary undertaking, I will try to illustrate the relationship I enjoyed with the seniors that were such an important part of my preteen years. Uncle or Aunt were to be used when referencing many of the older people back in my early childhood days. I couldn’t think, for the life of me, what criteria were used to elevate people to the Uncle or Aunt status, but this I do know: I’d better get it right if I were to escape the lectures that were sure to come because of neglect or ignorance. Neither of which was a good excuse for breaking the rules as laid down by mother and father.

Some of the memories are a bit dulled by the passage of time, so please forgive me if you read something here that you don’t agree with, or if I have omitted someone that you think should be included. But just remember that this is my story, and I did not associate with all the elders that resided in the harbour, although I think they all knew who I was, that’s fer sure.

~

Living on the West Side, Hickman’s Harbour in my early years, we always referred to the oldest people in our neighourhood as uncle and aunt. And if you dared address them in any other way you would be chastised by your parents: “UNCLE and AUNT to you,” admonishment. There was Uncle Heber and Aunt Bess, Uncle Fred and Aunt May, Uncle Joe and Aunt Evelyn, Uncle Ab and Aunt Pearl, Uncle Jim and Aunt Ethel, and Uncle Phil and Aunt May. Not that they were actually our uncle or aunt, although some of them were, but it was our way of showing respect to the oldest amongst us, be they related or not. For the most part, they had earned it, even though sometimes I thought differently. But that moment soon passed, and I looked at my elders in awe and wonderment. But how could anybody be so old? Sure they were so wrinkled and grey I thought they should have perished long ago. Some of them had to be a couple hundred years old, at least in the eyes of this young hangashore. And in my ‘age of innocence,’ I’m sure they forgave me for having such an elaborate imagination.

I guess it was the lifestyle back then. Blood, sweat, and tears as they worked their fingers to the bone to provide the necessities of life for their families. No, they did not age gracefully, as most people do nowadays. I guess a bit of the Botox or Mary Kay would have helped, like it do today, but it was not an option for them at that time. It’s not like they lived in London, New York, or Paris, where a trip to the beauty salon could have rejuvenated them to an earlier time. They lived on the edge of the wild atlantic, and had to expose their skin to the elements in the worst of times in order to fill the cellars and the pantry with the bare necessities to sustain themselves and their families from season to season. So they showed their age, like a work of art that’s been hanging in a museum for the past five hundred years or more. Oh yes, they were beautiful people alright, in an ancient kind of way, and they just kept getting better with age. Like a bottle of good wine. Maybe not a good analogy though, considering the people I am referring to here. I don’t think Aunt Evelyn or Aunt Ethel would appreciate being compared to a Chardonnay or Pinot Noir.

I don’t know what made me different from other youngsters back then, but I often found myself wanting to be in the company of these older and peculiar people. Especially the aunts. The uncles were usually out and about, doing the daily chores when I would walk into their homes unannounced at any moment, and usually was received by a kind word, a cookie and a glass of Purity Syrup or Rose’s Lime Juice Cordial. “But don’t walk on the wet floor that I just mopped.” If I were really lucky, I’d get a glass of fresh scalded milk, teased from the cow or goat earlier in the morning.

Sometimes I got a special treat at Aunt Bess’ house. Her son John had a general store, and she would sometimes sneak a jawbreaker or tootsie roll for me. But I had to be quiet about it and not tell the other youngsters. Too many missing condiments and John might get in a tizzy. Other than that, my memory of Uncle Heber and Aunt Bess is a bit cloudy. I wasn’t all that old when Uncle Heber bit the dust, and Aunt Bess moved out of the ‘West Side’ enclave to reside with Willie George and Lillie, in ‘The Bottom’ precinct.

At the risk of being revoked by the others, I must say that Aunt Evelyn was my favourite. I would sit on the end of the daybed or in the old rocker and thumb through ‘The War Cry’ as she busied herself with a batch of bread before bringing me my treats. She often passed me along a sprig of red currants when she was harvesting them. Passed them out through the wire fence as I strolled in the drong to get me dinner. I graciously accepted, as I watched Uncle Joe grab the old goat and wrestle her to the barn to fill the bucket with fresh milk.

Aunt Evelyn was also known for her midwifery and remedies for consumption and other life threatening illnesses. She saved sister Mary from certain death when I was about five years old. “Run out and get Aunt Evelyn,” mom instructed me. “I think Mary is dying.” Several hours later, after ingesting a concoction prepared by this life-saving Aunt, the fever left Mary’s body and she made a full recovery.

Aunt Evelyn gave me a christmas present one year, a pull-along bobblehead of sorts, and I treasured it more than any other toy that I possessed, the numbers of which were few and far between. I was watching Pawn Stars a couple of years ago and this guy walked into the pawn shop carrying an exact replica of that toy. After consulting with an expert on such nostalgic memorabilia I was shocked to hear the value. $16,000. Oh my God.

Aunt Evelyn sometimes presented me with a box of ‘promises’ from which I would pick one out and she would read it to me after wiping the sweat from her brow with the tail of her apron.

“Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord. Colossians 3: 20”

Aunt May and Uncle Fred lived in the same house as did Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Joe. But they had their own section, separated by the stairway to the second floor. The very first duplex, I dare say.

Before Alma and Clouston and their children moved in with Aunt May and Uncle Fred, I would occasionally visit that section of the house, access granted by a latched gate and a walkway covered in beachrock, as was common in those days. My visits here were not lengthy, just long enough to gobble down a gingerbread cookie and quench my thirst with the ‘Purity,’ as I had an uneasy feeling about Uncle Fred, and I was kinda scared he might pop in fer a cup of tea at any moment. He was a bit strange to my eye. He wouldn’t even let brother George use his barrow to transport some capelin from Billy’s wharf to our potato garden so dad could trench the spuds. “Go build yer own barrow,” he said. So I usually tried to time my visits there to when I knew he would be absent for an extended period. I could usually tell by the sound of his old Hubbard chugging out the harbour to the fishing grounds that he’d be gone for an hour or two. Then I could stay a little longer and listen to Aunt May raise her voice in song. And could she ever sing. “Oh Boundless Salvation. Sweet Ocean Of Love.”

Now on the other hand, I scheduled my visits to Aunt Pearl and Uncle Ab’s abode to coincide with both of them being there. I watched Aunt Pearl sitting in the old rocker and knitting up a few balls of yarn as she filled the dresser drawers with mittens, socks, and guernseys. I was sometimes enlisted to hold the skein on my wrists while Aunt Pearl transformed it into a ball that would roll around the floor every time she pulled off a fathom or so as she counted the stitches. Purl three, knit seven. I was fascinated by how fast she could knit.

I was even more fascinated by Uncle Ab’s uncanny accuracy as he spat the baccy juice into the spitoon that was situated about ten feet away from where he lay on the daybed. He always had a cud of Beaver or Prince Albert in the gob. The one thing that struck me funny is that the tail of the comet would never make it to the intended destination, and it would leave a stain on the canvas that would send Jean or Elsie to the porch to get the mop and sop it up while he cleaned the drool from his chin with his hankie. And Aunt Pearl just kept on knitting.

Mary told me once that Dad also liked to visit Uncle Ab to get his take on what the weather was gonna be like the next day.

“Sou’Wes’ at about 25 knots, Alec b’y. Might as well leave ‘er tied on. Better days ahead to haul the trawl.” Yes, Uncle Ab had an uncanny nose fer sniffin’ out da wedder. I know. I recall one day I was up to me knees in Watering Cove, catching a few brannystickles and Uncle Ab telling me to “get on home now before you gets caught in a tunderstarm.” This warning came in spite of it being a hot sunny afternoon with not a cloud in the sky.

I shoulda listened to this wise old man. About twenty minutes later I was running for cover.

For the most part, Aunt Ethel and Uncle Jim’s house was off limits unless accompanied by my mother. Aunt Ethel was my real aunt, but her husband, Uncle Jim, was very sick and so they were not to be bothered by me. Aunt Ethel had her hands full, and had no time to tend to my childish whims. At least that’s what I was led to believe. But the cookies and fluids were not long in coming when I went there with mother. There was one more reason why I stayed away from there unless I was under chaperone. John. Their son John was my nemesis. To me John was a mean, ornery individual who would have pulverized me if he could catch me. Looking back now, I can see why he avowed to bludgeoning me with the ball-peen. I pushed my luck more often than not whenever I came within shouting distance of John. “John is mad and I’m glad, and I knows what will please him. A bottle of rum and a sugar plum, and big Annie Butt to squeeze him.” Yes, that got his dander up every time. But I knew he couldn’t catch me. I was a fast runner, and John was a victim of polio, and had one short leg that impeded his forward motion, and so I felt secure in tantalizing him about Annie. But John eventually got his chance at revenge. When I was least expecting it, he grabbed me by the shoulder — a story for another time.

And finally, it was time for a visit to Uncle Phil and Aunt May’s. Tucked away from the rest of the West Side residences, they lived down behind the hill, out of sight of all except those who traversed the harbour via boat. I was always a bit scared as I made my way to their place of residence. I usually took the path through the woods behind Ralph’s place. It was much shorter than walking up to Jack’s and then down Uncle Phil’s path. I made the trip as quickly as possible, expecting at any time that ‘the blackman’ was gonna jump out from behind the bushes and grab me. I had a fear of this, instilled in me by Ches and Raymond. Every time they saw me walking in the drong to our house, they assured me that ‘he’ was hiding behind the old government well. And so the fear progressed to whenever I found myself alone in the great outdoors. But it was a chance I was willing to take, because Aunt May made a mean touton, and I knew there was one with my name on it. Also, I had an ally in their grandson Dick. He was a bit older, but I felt safe and secure while in his company. He was my protector from the ‘blackman’, and the bullies, of which there were a couple who liked to rough me up whenever the opportunity arose. I, being a skinny little boy, was the perfect target for some children to take their rage out on, after being trounced and cat-a-nine tailed by their father. Especially, I liked to be in their company when Uncle Phil was ‘smokin’ da pipe.” I delighted in the aroma as the smoke wafted up to the ceiling from the Old Port or Sir Walter Ralleigh pipe tobacco. And Aunt May’s golden touch with the flour and yeast almost equalled that of Aunt Evelyn. In either case, a fresh cut slice smothered with lassie or red currant jam was hastily devoured. Then, “Go on home now. I’ve got work to do.”

When I was eight years old we vacated the Pittman-Dean premises on the West Side and took up residence on ‘The Other Side,’ in Dean’s Cove. That was really a challenge for me. I was in an intimate relationship with the elders in the West Side neighbourhood, and now here I was plunked down in this strange territory with nary a soul to look up to. But not to worry, there’s a few oldies over here. Uncle Neddy and Aunt Sarah, Uncle Jimmy, Uncle John and Aunt Lydia. But it’s not the same, no sirree, and even though I spent some time with each of them, I felt that I was somehow out-of-place, especially at Uncle Neddy’s and Aunt Sarah’s. Just a couple of visits there and I was done. They lived right next to ‘The Tunnel’, the home of the headless horseman, and Uncle Neddy had me convinced that I would be the next victim of this deranged demon. I don’t think he knew how to handle this young scallywag traipsing in over his wet floors and making a mess of the magazine rack.

Eventually, however, I was accepted by Uncle Jimmy, and Uncle John and Aunt Lydia with some conditions attached. “Fill the woodbox”, or “cleave me some splits.” And the rewards just kept on coming. Uncle Jimmy didn’t usually have any treats to offer me for my companionship, but that didn’t deter me from barging into his house to watch him make the shavings to light the fire with the next morning. He could sharpen a knife with the best of men. With whetstone and bastard he honed it to a razor’s edge. He would test the blade on his arm, shaving off a few hairs to confirm what he already knew, and then the shavings would fly.

Uncle John and Aunt Lydia coaxed me to their house more than a few times to bring in the wood. I did so with great anticipation of what Aunt Lydia would offer me as compensation. She often paid in cash. Ten cents. Just enough for admission to Art and Oliver’s theatre to see Hopalong Cassidy shoot it out with the bad guys.

I was often given the opportunity to pump up some water from the well, working the handle on the old piston water pump that was located in the pantry. A convenience that father never had, the old pump saved Uncle John from the arduous task that we were delegated to perform several times every day, and numerous times on Monday. Besides, I was always captivated by their old grandfather clock, and I sat and watched it tick the time away, hypnotized by the swinging pendulum as it swung to and fro, giving assurance that ‘time stands still for no man’. Waste it at your peril.

There were other aunts and uncles in the harbour besides the ones that I trespassed on, but they were out of range of my galavanting ways. “Don’t you go down the Lower Side.” A command from mother that I dared not disobey. Them was the rules the first summer we resided in our new home on The Other Side. But I knew some of the oldies up in ‘The Bottom.’ Uncle Cecil and Aunt Lilly, Uncle Uriah (Hughie) and Aunt Nellie, Uncle Dick and Aunt Marion, Aunt Druce, and of course Mr. Barnes and Aunt Annie. That was the ‘up in the bottom’ old folk. I’d see them almost every day as I wended my way to the Salvation Army School. Except for Aunt Druce. The only time I saw her was when I played with Herbie Bryant. I spent a lot of time with Herbie, shooting cans off the fence post with his BB gun and my slingshot. Herbie was a champion checkers player too, and we played it often, in the company of Aunt Druce. She would watch intently our every move. “No cheating, now.” She was too old and feeble to do any baking, but she would nudge her daughter-in-law Bertha to open the cookie jar fer Herbie and me. She also kept her eye on us from her old rocking chair that was situated by the window overlooking the pond as we cast our lines in hopes of hooking a few saltwater trout. I think that might have been her favourite meal. Sea trout rolled in flour and fried in da pan wid a few scrunchions. Come to think of it, that was probably my favourite meal also.

Uncle Dick and Aunt Marion lived near the schoolhouse, and though I never walked in on them like I did the elders of The West Side, I often knocked on their door to quench my thirst, (please ma’am, can I have a glass of water) or to tell Aunt Marion that I needed to buy something. Aunt Marion had a little grocery store, and whenever mom or dad had a nickel to spare I’d go there at recess time to get a pack of chips or a chocolate bar. Sometimes I would have to spend my nickel to secretly buy a scribbler so mother wouldn’t question me about the one she gave me yesterday. ‘I must be good in school,’ five hundred times takes up most of the pages, and I usually did this in a secret place so mother wouldn’t chastise me for being a bad boy.

Uncle Dick always kept his hands busy at some odd job, like replacing a broken palin or salting in a few rounders. I often wondered what he was doing with his wheelbarrow, though.

Whether he was pushing it out the road towards his waterside, or whether he was pushing it back home, it was always empty. Something I never understood. Maybe he took it with him all the time, ‘just in case he needed it.’

We’d often sneak in on Uncle Hughie’s garden to peek into his shed. Before the causeway was built, Uncle Hughie bought himself an automobile, and that’s where he kept it. A Model T, I do believe. A black Model T. I don’t ever remember seeing him drive that jalopy. In fact somebody once told me that he didn’t know how to put it in reverse, so he just drove it around his garden in circles occasionally and had to push it back into the shed when he was finished. However, that is something I cannot corroborate. And Aunt Nellie was not often seen in public. The only times I recall seeing Aunt Nellie was on washday Monday when she could be observed pinning clothes on the line.

Uncle Hughie and Aunt Nellie owned a piece of land on the shores of Beaver Pond, in by the ‘Tween Bridges’, a place where we scallywags would often congregate to ‘rob’ the chestnuts and wild gooseberries.

I know. It just hit you, didn’t it? Mr. Barnes and Aunt Annie! “What happened to UNCLE?”. To tell you the truth, I don’t know.

His name was Pearce, but we never called him Uncle Pearce. It was always Mr. Barnes. He was a peculiar old feller that all us children loved to come into contact with on our way to school. He was probably the tallest man in the harbour, or so it seemed to me. Like the friendly giant, you had to ‘look up. Look way up’ to make eye contact with Mr. Barnes. I think he liked us younguns, for sure. He liked to call us names. Unrecognizable names. And of course, we revelled in the moniker that we were given by him. Whenever we saw him coming we would ask the question: “What’s my name, Mr. Barnes?” Yesterday my name was Schoodeypoom, today it’s Gobbygump, and tomorrow, who knows? But I’ll be tugging on his sleeve and waiting for his response, that’s fer sure.

Aunt Annie was known for her apple trees, and I often rapped on her door to get a nickels’ worth of the sweet crabapples to munch on. My, oh my, if she had only known that it was I who robbed her tree last Friday night. Well, at last I got that off my chest. Please forgive me, Aunt Annie.

I never understood why Uncle Cecil and Aunt Lilly were among the respected group of elders. I realized later on in life that they really did qualify age wise, but they didn’t look their years, that’s fer sure. So distinguished looking, and always every hair in place. Might they have been good friends with Mildred, I wonder? Could the ‘Avon’ have had something to do with their youthful appearance? Or maybe it was Uncle Cecil’s occupation that saved him and Aunt Lilly from having to subject themselves to the harsh environment that others had to endure to put a bit of food on the table and clothes on the back. A carpenter was not subjected to environmental turmoil to the same extent as that of a fisherman, mailman, or logger.

I recall him telling me a story about his very first tool box. It was constructed by my grandfather John, and given to Uncle Cecil as a wedding present. Just several years before his demise, Uncle Cecil told me about the tool box, and said that he still had it ‘out in da shed.’ Were it not for it being a very cold wintery night I may have gotten a glimpse of it. “Come back sometime and I’ll show it to you.” But I never got the chance. Circumstances beyond my control. Anyhow, I just loved to go to the Army to hear Uncle Cecil beat the daylights outta the kettle drum, while Aunt Lilly smashed the tambourine. ”We have an anchor that keeps the soul. Steadfast and sure while the billows roll.”

After spending the first summer in Dean’s Cove under strict surveillance of my parents, my shackles were loosed, and I was given free rein to explore ‘The Lower Side’ and ‘The Topsail,’ a strange land that I had not before investigated, although I accompanied mother to this faraway place several times when we lived on ‘The West Side’ and she went there to visit old friends like Uncle John and Aunt Effie. At times like this, I was always on my best behaviour, sitting on the corner chair or on the woodbox, as mother and Aunt Effie exchanged their recent history with each other. I knew the cookies would come before we departed for home. I just had to be more patient when I was with mom, but I knew the ‘cup o tea’ would be shared before they said their goodbyes.

Other than on occasions like this, I was not prone to barging in on the elders in this part of the universe like I was several years earlier on ‘The West Side’ or in ‘Dean’s Cove’ but I do have a few memories of them tucked away in da back o me head.

Take Uncle Jasper for example. I have no memories at all of his wife, Aunt Suz, but I can see him now, as he made his daily trek to Sandy’s or Ben’s to fill his gallon can with kerosene fer the old oil lamp. Although there was no stopper on the bib of his receptacle, he made sure not to spill any fuel by pushing a potato over it. The rumor was that he only bought enough for one night at a time, thus ensuring there would be no loss of volume due to evaporation. ‘Waste not, want not’ was Uncle Jaspers motto. When I see Eric again I must ask him if that’s the way it actually was or not.

Uncle Zeke was another elder that I had great respect for, even though I got no goodies from his better half, Aunt Minnie. Never had I dared to intrude on them. As I said before, this was a strange land to me, and the old fogies were to be looked upon with some measure of skepticism, me now being at the age when old people look at you with that evil look in their eyes, wondering what ‘that young imp’ is up to now!

I remember Uncle Zeke mostly because of his auctioneering prowess. Whenever there was a ‘time’ at the Orange Hall, be it a christmas concert or a soup supper, Uncle Zeke would auction off the various goods that were supplied by whichever group sponsored the event. Apple pies, partrigde berry jam, bottled beet, coldpacked rabbit and home knitted mitts and socks are examples of what might be on the auction block. Uncle Zeke would start the bidding in the unorthodox fashion: “What’llyagivemeferdis?” as fast as he could, trying to imitate the skills of Sotheby’s or Christies auctioneers. He had a knack of enticing a higher bid with his famous phrase “Jellygoeswiditb’ys. Jellygoeswidit.”

Eventually, ‘The Lower Side’ became a daily pilgrimage as I joined the throng of youngsters who went to Sandy’s to watch television, or when I dared to trespass on Ben’s wharf to watch the Deer Harbour and Sou’Wes’ Arm fishermen unload their catch of salmon. Now Sandy and Ben deserved the ‘uncle’ status, that’s fer sure, but for some reason they were never referred to as Uncle Sandy or Uncle Ben, even though their wives were most always called Aunt Ethel and Aunt Maggie. Come to think of it, there may be a logical explanation. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that when we referenced Sandy and Ben we weren’t actually referring to the men, but to their business. They both were businessmen of the highest order. Each of them had a general store that helped supply the harbour with the necessities of life; flour, sugar, yeast, salt, hardtack, fat pork , knitting needles, buttons, rubber boots, cape-anns, cod jiggers, pipe tobacco etc. And a drop of acto for the old make-and-break. A bit of kerosene fer da lamp, a battery fer da old Marconi radio, and a variety of canned fruit fer dessert on Sunday. Sine qua non of the community. You remember the ‘BIG 6’ out in Sin John’s, and the slogan they used in their ads on CJON. “Once a number, now an institution.” So it was with Sandy and Ben. “Once a name, now an institution.” At least that’s the way I’ve interpreted it.

Sandy was, as I explained in an earlier poem, the inventor of pay tv. He had one of a very few television sets in the harbour,

and the pay per view system was invoked.

On the other hand, besides being in the retail business, Ben made his mark in the community by being an agent for salmon buyers and by buying herring and cobbing them in barrels that he manufactured down in his ‘fish factory.’

I should explain , before some of you start to complain, that there were more merchants in the harbour than those two. It’s just that the others were either too young to be included in the ‘Aunt and Uncle’ category, or they were on a much smaller scale and so retained the salutation reserved for the elite members of our society. For example, Willie George and Lillie did a booming retail business but they were entrepreneurs of a younger generation. Another story in the making. On the other hand, Uncle Willis and Aunt Minnie also had a retail outlet up on Martin’s Hill. It was on a much smaller scale and so was not to be construed as being a really important institution. I think there were two militating reasons for Uncle Willis becoming a proprietor. One was that he was very savvy with his money, and ‘a penny saved is better than a penny earned’ was the way in which he operated, so he was paying wholesale prices for all he consumed. By the way, this tactic was used by quite a few people in Hickman’s Harbour during my preteen years. If you count them up, there was probably a retail grocery store in every third or fourth household.

The other reason that occurred to me was that Uncle Willis was using the store as a cover for the real reason he resided on Martin’s Hill. Apparently, through the oral history of Trinity Bay, it has been suggested that the pirates who plied their trade in this part of the world used Martin’s Hill as a depository for their ill gotten bounty, and Uncle Willis had the inside scoop on where it was buried. So he bought the land in question from an old widow who had not yet learned about the possibility that she was sitting on a treasure trove of pirates ill gotten gains. Whether he found it or not is a question that may never be answered. Uncle Willis was not one to blab about his monetary prowess. I can say, though, that he was very protective of his gardens. He denied access to any younguns and shooed them away every time they went there hoping to dig up a few worms before hustling in to the pond to cast fer a meal of trout. “Get on widdie. Go dig up yer fadder’s preddie bed.”

Way up on ‘Topsail,’ in about the last house in on the right hand side of the road, lived Uncle Dave and Aunt May. Uncle Dave was tall of stature and had an air of authority about him. In fact, he was known as the great recruiter in The Salvation Army. It was a very long walk from their home to the Citadel, but Uncle Dave made that trek thrice every Sunday, all decked out in his Salvation Army Uniform, during my younger days.

Morning prayer, Sunday School, and evening revival meetings just could not function properly unless Uncle Dave was the overseer. Aunt May would sometimes accompany Uncle Dave, but her health kept her at home most of the time.

I can hear Uncle Dave now as he started his testimony with the phrase “Another day has come and gone, and roooooolled into eternity.” Yes, Uncle Dave was a believer, that’s fer sure, and he didn’t mind letting others know that they were ‘doomed’ if they did not repent of their sins and become a soldier in ‘The Army of God’.

I viewed Uncle Dave with some trepidation as he sat up on the platform, while I sat in the back row and tried not to make eye contact with this crusader for ‘young soldiers.’ But it was inevitable that sooner or later I would look up and he would be waiting and watching for my reaction. I was not always a ‘good’ boy, and he could tell by the way I squirmed in my seat that I had not lived up to his high standards of how a ‘saved’ person should behave, and so, during the latter part of the service, he would make his way down the aisle to where I was sitting. Uncle Dave had a soubriquet for people who once obeyed The Ten Commandments but then strayed from the straight and narrow. Backslider. He called me a backslider. The devil had gotten his way with me, and “if you don’t accompany me back to the mercy seat you will burn in hell.” As he led me up the aisle I could hear the ‘hallelujahs and amens’ from the other soldiers of the cross. Again I have been redeemed.

My backsliding ways got me in trouble a few times, that’s fer sure. Blamed for many of the shenanigans that happened in the harbour; like the illegal bonfires, horses in the preddie gardens, raids on the apple trees and gooseberry bushes, and missing cigarettes from the pack of ‘Players’ that Heber or George left on the night table. I must confess that I am guilty of at least one of these infractions, without ever admitting which one the plaintiff should seek retribution for.

But it in no way diluted my respect for those of whom I speak, and I like to think that the role they all played in my early years lends some succor to me as I approach my second ‘age of innocence’. The question still on my mind is this: Were they so enthralled with me as I was with them, or were they just being a bit apprehensive about the consequences of sending me on my way empty handed? I guess I’ll get my answer in due course.