the two they had every sporting facility found in any large city. The Americans had nightclubs with slot machines, buildings with racquetball, volleyball, basketball, and tennis courts, and a golf course. The Canadians had a hockey arena and curling club. It had a recreation centre which housed a swimming pool, a mezzanine floor for basketball, badminton, and ping-pong tables. They had their own store on base. There was also a club for each rank of military personnel, as well as a civilian club for all civilians working for them.
It was all beyond my capacity to understand. I didn’t know what a club was. There’d never been one in my world.
“A swimming pool? My oh my! They must be some rich, hey Linda?” I marvelled.
Murray had been telling me for several years about the thousands of people, the many businesses, and the hundreds of vehicles that were in Goose Bay.
“I even own a motorcycle!” he said.
“You do?” I asked with wonder.
Murray Pardy had lived in Happy Valley since early childhood after being fostered by wonderful people such as Mr. and Mrs. Saunders. He’d been telling me for the past year that he wanted to take me back to Cartwright with him and that he would find me a job there. He’d promised to take me for a ride on his motorcycle and take me to the movie theatre. He told me he would take me out to dinner at Saunders’ Restaurant. A restaurant? My mind was racing. Only rich people went to those places.
“Will the movie place have a stovepipe going up the centre of the room like at the one here?” I asked.
“No stovepipe. It’s called a theatre, and the seats are arranged in a way so that you can see the whole screen.” I was mystified as he tried to make me understand the seating arrangements of theatres.
While the old steamer chugged her way through the narrow channel and into Terrington Basin, I thought she would surely go aground and end up on the sandbar. But she made it through. I was told that years earlier the basin had been dredged out to allow the huge military ships to off-load the supplies used to build the Canadian and American bases during the Second World War.
It had been an exhilarating trip with Murray at my side all the way. I was overcome with emotions; excitement of course, nervousness for sure, apprehension, and some sadness at leaving my family so far behind. But with my young seventeen-year-old heart filled with love, we disembarked the Kyle and stood on a huge dock waiting for transport to Happy Valley.
“Whass dat black stuff on de road, Murray?” I asked.
“Pavement.”
“Whass it dere for?”
“To make the road nice and smooth,” he answered.
Beyond the paved road all I could see was sand everywhere; along the sides of the road, in the ditches, and in parking lots. Not a single rock was anywhere to be seen. The surrounding forest was a mixture primarily of spruce, but juniper, balsam, birch, and fir trees also make up the rich forests of Labrador. As we pulled off the dock, taking my first car ride ever, I noticed alder bushes lined the clear-cut roads. This was nothing like riding in the trucks on the rough roads in Cartwright. We were now driving up a winding incline and large buildings came into view. There in front of us stood the Canadian military base. Once we left the military base area and entered civilian territory, the pavement ended and we were riding on a sand and gravel road. We rumbled along for what seemed like forever to travel the seven or eight miles to Happy Valley.
We first ended up at Murray’s adopted parents’ house on Hamilton River Road. They were one of the first settlers of this town. After receiving a warm welcome and a refreshing cup of tea, Murray drove me to my new place of employment, Mr. and Mrs. Crawford’s house on Grand Street. Barbara, as I was instructed to call her, was a pretty but fairly large woman with warm eyes and a welcoming smile. She introduced me to three blond children. Freckle-faced Bernie, the oldest, would have been an excellent character in a Huck Finn movie. Gordon was a handsome young boy, and Joan was the youngest, with dancing blue eyes.
Mrs. Crawford showed me to my room. I laid my suitcase down and checked out my new home. Although it was small, at least I had my own space, which pleased me greatly. What now? I thought. What will I have to do here? I wasn’t overly concerned about having to do housework. I knew all about housework. I decided to be patient and wait it out. Besides, I was rather shy, and although I’d always been inquisitive when at home, I clammed up around strangers.
My primary job was to care for the children. I was only on the job a couple of weeks when I started to cook supper for the family. Barbara seemed to be tired when she came home from work. Shortly after that I was running the whole household. Mr. Crawford was working for the town as a heavy equipment operator, and when he came home from work he was all greasy and tired looking. I was shy around him as well, and didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
One night after supper when I was released from duty, I got ready to go out with my boyfriend. I was so excited! I wore pink and black because I was told they were sexy. I applied my makeup with the greatest of care and brushed my long, wavy hair until it glistened under the overhead light. I was ready! Murray picked me up on his motorcycle and we took off. It was exhilarating, but I was a little scared as we sped along the sandy road. I clung to him with all my might. We ended up at Saunders’ Restaurant, just down the road from where I lived. He ordered chips.
“Whass chips?” I asked Murray.
“They’re just deep fried potatoes. You’ll like ’em,” he assured me. “Some people call them french fries.”
“Why do you call ’em chips den?”
“You sure do ask a lotta questions,” he answered.
They were delicious. When he said chips, I thought of wood chips. Mom used to collect them in her apron to start the fire. I cooked chips at Lockwood School, but we’d called them french fries. We’d never had enough oil to cook them at home. Mom cut up potatoes and fried them in our huge iron frying pan along with fatback pork and onions. She would do stewed potatoes, which I didn’t like at all. I enjoyed it when she allowed us to bake them and smother them in butter. And now we were enjoying chips. We could also have them smothered with gravy. They were the best!
A few days later, as we approached Saunders’ Restaurant, there was several teenagers hanging around outside the restaurant and talking about going to a movie. The theatre was just down the road on Grenfell Street. I couldn’t believe my ears as they continued to talk about movies, Elvis Presley, or things I had only read about in magazines. Growing up in my tiny town of Cartwright I’d read many stories in true story magazines about movie theatres, dinner theatres, restaurants, and the outside world in general, but I never thought I could be a part of it. After all, weren’t they just for rich people? I watched with interest and curiosity the carryings-on of all the teenagers who’d gathered around the grounds outside the restaurant. Marty, who seemed to be the leader, had a girlfriend, Joyce, who I thought was very beautiful and seemed to be the focal point of the group. There were several others to whom I had not yet been introduced. I felt isolated and apart from the group. Murray put his arm around my waist and I felt protected and loved for the moment.
He ordered me on his motorcycle and I obeyed. We sped to the theatre, walked up the wide wooden stairs and into the foyer, and purchased our tickets.
“Whass dat?” I asked as we stood in line watching a lady fill huge bags with a scoop.
“Popcorn,” he simply answered.
We entered a very
