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
