“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
