of my galavanting ways. “Don’t you go down the Lower Side.” A command from mother that I dared not disobey. Them was the rules the first summer we resided in our new home on The Other Side. But I knew some of the oldies up in ‘The Bottom.’ Uncle Cecil and Aunt Lilly, Uncle Uriah (Hughie) and Aunt Nellie, Uncle Dick and Aunt Marion, Aunt Druce, and of course Mr. Barnes and Aunt Annie. That was the ‘up in the bottom’ old folk. I’d see them almost every day as I wended my way to the Salvation Army School. Except for Aunt Druce. The only time I saw her was when I played with Herbie Bryant. I spent a lot of time with Herbie, shooting cans off the fence post with his BB gun and my slingshot. Herbie was a champion checkers player too, and we played it often, in the company of Aunt Druce. She would watch intently our every move. “No cheating, now.” She was too old and feeble to do any baking, but she would nudge her daughter-in-law Bertha to open the cookie jar fer Herbie and me. She also kept her eye on us from her old rocking chair that was situated by the window overlooking the pond as we cast our lines in hopes of hooking a few saltwater trout. I think that might have been her favourite meal. Sea trout rolled in flour and fried in da pan wid a few scrunchions. Come to think of it, that was probably my favourite meal also.
Uncle Dick and Aunt Marion lived near the schoolhouse, and though I never walked in on them like I did the elders of The West Side, I often knocked on their door to quench my thirst, (please ma’am, can I have a glass of water) or to tell Aunt Marion that I needed to buy something. Aunt Marion had a little grocery store, and whenever mom or dad had a nickel to spare I’d go there at recess time to get a pack of chips or a chocolate bar. Sometimes I would have to spend my nickel to secretly buy a scribbler so mother wouldn’t question me about the one she gave me yesterday. ‘I must be good in school,’ five hundred times takes up most of the pages, and I usually did this in a secret place so mother wouldn’t chastise me for being a bad boy.
Uncle Dick always kept his hands busy at some odd job, like replacing a broken palin or salting in a few rounders. I often wondered what he was doing with his wheelbarrow, though.
Whether he was pushing it out the road towards his waterside, or whether he was pushing it back home, it was always empty. Something I never understood. Maybe he took it with him all the time, ‘just in case he needed it.’
We’d often sneak in on Uncle Hughie’s garden to peek into his shed. Before the causeway was built, Uncle Hughie bought himself an automobile, and that’s where he kept it. A Model T, I do believe. A black Model T. I don’t ever remember seeing him drive that jalopy. In fact somebody once told me that he didn’t know how to put it in reverse, so he just drove it around his garden in circles occasionally and had to push it back into the shed when he was finished. However, that is something I cannot corroborate. And Aunt Nellie was not often seen in public. The only times I recall seeing Aunt Nellie was on washday Monday when she could be observed pinning clothes on the line.
Uncle Hughie and Aunt Nellie owned a piece of land on the shores of Beaver Pond, in by the ‘Tween Bridges’, a place where we scallywags would often congregate to ‘rob’ the chestnuts and wild gooseberries.
I know. It just hit you, didn’t it? Mr. Barnes and Aunt Annie! “What happened to UNCLE?”. To tell you the truth, I don’t know.
His name was Pearce, but we never called him Uncle Pearce. It was always Mr. Barnes. He was a peculiar old feller that all us children loved to come into contact with on our way to school. He was probably the tallest man in the harbour, or so it seemed to me. Like the friendly giant, you had to ‘look up. Look way up’ to make eye contact with Mr. Barnes. I think he liked us younguns, for sure. He liked to call us names. Unrecognizable names. And of course, we revelled in the moniker that we were given by him. Whenever we saw him coming we would ask the question: “What’s my name, Mr. Barnes?” Yesterday my name was Schoodeypoom, today it’s Gobbygump, and tomorrow, who knows? But I’ll be tugging on his sleeve and waiting for his response, that’s fer sure.
Aunt Annie was known for her apple trees, and I often rapped on her door to get a nickels’ worth of the sweet crabapples to munch on. My, oh my, if she had only known that it was I who robbed her tree last Friday night. Well, at last I got that off my chest. Please forgive me, Aunt Annie.
I never understood why Uncle Cecil and Aunt Lilly were among the respected group of elders. I realized later on in life that they really did qualify age wise, but they didn’t look their years, that’s fer sure. So distinguished looking, and always every hair in place. Might they have been good friends with Mildred, I wonder? Could the ‘Avon’ have had something to do with their youthful appearance? Or maybe it was Uncle Cecil’s occupation that saved him and Aunt Lilly from having to subject themselves to the harsh environment that others had to endure to put a bit of food on the table and clothes on the back. A carpenter was not subjected to environmental turmoil to the same extent as that of a fisherman, mailman, or logger.
I recall him telling me a story about his very first tool box. It was constructed by my grandfather John, and given to Uncle Cecil as a wedding present. Just several years before his demise, Uncle Cecil told me about the tool box, and said that he still had it ‘out in da shed.’ Were it not for it being a very cold wintery night I may have gotten a glimpse of it. “Come back sometime and I’ll show it to you.” But I never got the chance. Circumstances beyond my control. Anyhow, I just loved to go to the Army to hear Uncle Cecil beat the daylights outta the kettle drum, while Aunt Lilly smashed the tambourine. ”We have an anchor that keeps the soul. Steadfast and sure while the billows roll.”
After spending the first summer in Dean’s Cove under strict surveillance of my parents, my shackles were loosed, and I was given free rein to explore ‘The Lower Side’ and ‘The Topsail,’ a strange land that I had not before investigated, although I accompanied mother to this faraway place several times when we lived on ‘The West Side’ and she went there to visit old friends like Uncle John and Aunt Effie. At times like this, I was always on my best behaviour, sitting on the corner chair or on the woodbox, as mother and Aunt Effie exchanged their recent history with each other. I knew the cookies would come before we departed for home. I just had to be more patient when I was with mom, but I knew the ‘cup o tea’ would be shared before they said their goodbyes.
Other than on occasions like this, I was not prone to barging in on the elders in this part of the universe like I was several years earlier on ‘The West Side’ or in ‘Dean’s Cove’ but I do have a few memories of them tucked away in da back o me head.
Take Uncle Jasper for example. I have no memories at all of his wife, Aunt Suz, but I can see him now, as he made his daily trek to Sandy’s or Ben’s to fill his gallon can with kerosene fer the old oil lamp. Although there was no stopper on the bib of his receptacle, he made sure not to spill any fuel by pushing a potato over it. The rumor was that he only bought enough for one night at a time, thus ensuring there would be no loss of volume due to evaporation. ‘Waste not, want not’ was Uncle Jaspers motto. When I see Eric again I must ask him if that’s the way it actually was or not.
Uncle Zeke was another elder that I had great respect for, even though I got no goodies from his better half, Aunt Minnie. Never had I dared to intrude on them. As I said before, this was a strange land to me, and the old fogies were to be looked upon with some measure of skepticism, me now being at the age when old people look at you with that evil look in their eyes, wondering what ‘that young imp’ is up to now!
I remember Uncle Zeke mostly because of his auctioneering prowess. Whenever there was a ‘time’ at the Orange Hall, be it a christmas concert or a soup supper, Uncle Zeke would auction off the various goods that were supplied by whichever group sponsored the event. Apple pies, partrigde berry jam, bottled beet, coldpacked rabbit and home knitted mitts and socks are examples of what might be on the auction block. Uncle Zeke would start the bidding in the unorthodox fashion: “What’llyagivemeferdis?” as fast as he could, trying to imitate the skills of Sotheby’s or Christies auctioneers. He had a knack
