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
