with the dogs practically pulling him off his feet. Sam, at age 11, was big enough to help and was very good with the dogs.
“Ouch!” I cried. “Mommy, de dogs is walkin on me!”
“Josie, yer always complainin bout sometin,” she grumbled. And that was all the sympathy I got.
The dogs trampled all over us until they were tied in place. The boat was overflowing now. Everything we needed to sustain us for the winter was on that boat. All our food, the dogs, the dogs’ food, our stove, clothing, bedding, pots and pans, dishes, and all seven of us — Mommy, Daddy, Sammy, Marcie, me, Sally, Rhoda, and a new one on the way.
Finally, we were away, and my excitement increased. I glanced back at the rugged beauty of Spotted Island — the rough terrain, the little houses nestled around the cove. I thought of the fun I’d had over the summer. The fishing stages seemed deserted now when only a short time ago they’d been bustling with activity. As we turned past the point and headed into Rocky Bay, the raw north wind hit me square in the face. We were in the run where even on a civil day huge waves tossed boats around like wood chips.
“Mommy, I’m sick,” I said, rubbing my tummy.
“Oh, Jos, ya always gets sick, maid. Whass de matter wit ya atall?” She held me over the gunwale, and I proceeded to throw up my lassie bun.
Once we got into the shelter of the hills, I felt better and was able to enjoy the rest of the trip. The rugged, moon-like, treeless hills gave way to a gentler, sloping landscape with tall trees. It was wonderful to see that land again. As soon as I spied the trees, I knew we were getting close to Roaches Brook.
In the early nineteenth century, as oral history came down to us, two Curl brothers came from England and married Inuit women. My paternal grandfather, John Curl, was a descendant of one of these brothers. Born in 1867, John Curl married my grandmother, Susan (also part Inuit), raised a family of five, and built the largest cabin in Roaches Brook.
I remember that their cabin overflowed with family. In true Labrador tradition all five of John Curl’s family lived at home with their own growing families. My father, Thomas, who was the eldest, had built a little cabin for us so we wouldn’t have to crowd in with our grandparents. Even though Roaches Brook was completely shut off from the outside world for 10 months, the people had everything they needed to sustain them for the winter.
The cabins were crudely built. They were merely tree trunks limbed out and placed together vertically, leaving many seams to be filled with moss to keep out wind and snow. Aside from cabins, the settlement contained a sawpit for sawing logs and a scaffold built high off the ground to keep fresh game and dog food out of the reach of animals. Around each log cabin were an outhouse, a sawhorse, a chopping block, a vertical woodpile, a water barrel, a dog-feeding tub, a komatik (a wooden sleigh), and a coachbox for transporting families on dogsleds.
Our motorboat was chugging along at a good pace as we made our way through the choppy North Atlantic. It was hard to talk above the noise of the engine, and the fumes were so strong that my nose stung. I kept staring at the trees on the hillsides. They passed us by as jagged sentries against the blue of the sky.
“Is we dere yet, Mommy?” I asked, tugging at her coattail.
“Awmost, Josie. Jus round dat point dere. See?” She pointed at a group of hills.
My heart pounded as we rounded the next point. There in front of me in all its beauty was Roaches Brook. It looked peaceful but lonely, with only four log cabins nestled in the shelter of the trees and hills, unlike the rocky landscape of Spotted Island. As we got closer to our landing spot, I could see the tall grass, higher than I was, swaying in the breeze. Although it was only October, the cove had sished over (formed a thin skin of ice). The fragile ice crackled as our boat entered.
Daddy eased the craft into the landwash, trying to keep the dogs from stepping on us as they piled out and disappeared into the grass. Our cabin was the longest distance away, and all our supplies had to be transported by hand for almost a quarter-mile. I didn’t want to carry anything.
“Josie, don’t go empty-handed if ya knows wass good fer ya!” Mommy called out.
Pouting, I grabbed a pillow and waded through the tall grass, bumbling my way along. “Weers ever’body?” I asked, staring up at the tips of the grass. “I can’t see ya, Mommy. Where is ya?”
“Careful ya don’t fall in de brook!” she shouted.
Everyone old enough to walk had to help. It was an arduous job, but after many trips back and forth, we finally finished carrying all our belongings from the boat.
We stumbled, tired and exasperated, into the tiny cabin that was to be home for the next six months. Although there was barely room to move, we were glad Daddy had built us our own cabin.
Everything was done in order of importance. There was no panic or confusion as Sammy and Daddy went about taking the boards off the windows, putting the dogs’ food up on the scaffold, clearing away the land from a summer’s growth of weeds and tall grass.
“C’mon, Josie, let’s go pick de moss!” Marcie hollered.
“Awright den. C’mon, Sally!” I yelled to my younger sister. “We gotta pick de moss.”
Off we ran to collect moss that grew in abundance in the bogs and under the trees. We brought home armloads, dried it, and stuffed it into the seams of the cabin to keep out the wind. Being a free-spirited little girl, I wanted to explore. Unlike the barren hills of Spotted Island, Roaches Brook was surrounded by forest. I stood in awe among the tall spruces, absorbing the wonderful aroma and the sound of the wind whistling through treetops. As I investigated my surroundings, I was fascinated to see willows growing up through the water.
At last all the supplies were put away and we were settling in. Our tiny cabin had two small windows in the front, and a little one at the back. We entered through a tiny unheated porch that served as a freezer. Dog harnesses, bridles, and traces hung on nails on the walls. The main room contained an old “comfort” stove, a crudely constructed table, a bench, and a couple of rickety chairs. A settle (settee) that Daddy had built for himself was squeezed into one corner. Mommy had made a feather cushion for it.
The bedroom at the back where Mommy and Daddy slept held a double-size bunk similar to a bin mounted on the wall about three feet off the floor. The space under the bed was used for storage. A feather mattress comprised of bleached flour sacks stuffed with feathers filled the bin. A long pillow also crammed with feathers spanned the width of the bed.
A ladder through a small hole in the ceiling led to the tiny half-loft where my sisters and I slept. It was only a crawl space. Colourful catalogue pages covered the rafters, and 12-inch-wide planks separated our feather mattresses. Like the mattress of our parents, ours were fashioned from bleached flour sacks packed with bird feathers. They had to be dragged up onto the loft and made up with flour-sack sheets and homemade quilts.
Above the stove, skimmed tree limbs were suspended with line to hang clothes on. Nails in the wall behind the stove were used to hang caps, cuffs, and socks for drying. Mukluks were placed beside the stove to dry out overnight. Mom’s iron pots were also hung on nails around the stove. They were so heavy I could barely lift them. The woodbox located behind the stove completed the room.
And
