Paddy's Lamentation Oct 14, 2022

Paddy's Lamentation
by Linda Thompson

Well it's by the hush, me boys, and sure that's to hold your noise
And listen to poor Paddy's sad narration
I was by hunger pressed, and in poverty distressed
So I took a thought I'd leave the Irish nation

Here's you boys, now take my advice
To America I'll have ye's not be coming
There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar
And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin

Well I sold me horse and cow, my little pigs and sow
My little plot of land I soon did part with
And me sweetheart Bid McGee, I'm afraid I'll never see
For I left her there that morning broken-hearted

Well meself and a hundred more, to America sailed o'er
Our fortunes to be made we were thinkin'
When we got to Yankee land, they shoved a gun into our hands
Saying "Paddy, you must go and fight for Lincoln"

General Meagher to us he said, if you get shot or lose your leg
Every mother's son of youse will get a pension
Well meself I lost me leg, they gave me a wooden peg,
And be God this is the truth to you I mention

'North America's Oldest Boomtown' June 1952

 

St. John’s, Newfoundland, was a thriving port when New York City was a swamp. Today, after being burned three times, sacked by pirates, sabotaged by England and split by Confederation, it’s more prosperous than ever.

❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

ST. JOHN'S. Newfoundland. a salts community with a weather-beaten but attractive face, a warm heart and a population of sixty-eight thousand, clings to the rocky rim of a snug harbour and looks out over the ocean. It’s a seaport, a defense base, the capital of Canada’s tenth province and North America’s oldest and most easterly city.

So far out in the Atlantic that ships pass it when they are two fifths of the way from New York to Liverpool, it’s a blend of the new world and the old but has a personality as distinctive as the flavour of its famous delicacy, seal-flipper pie. It speaks with a pleasant and inimitable accent, has the bluff good nature of a sailor, and relishes jokes like that of the resident who once advertised for a carpenter to shingle cows, to keep rain from diluting the milk.

It’s where the cornerstone of Britain’s overseas empire was laid, where the first trans-Atlantic wireless signal was received and where the first nonstop trans-Atlantic flight started, but its favourite stories are of such leaser events as a boat race and a fencing bee.


The race was won by eight mighty fishermen. They lived at Placentia and packed their heavy dory ninety miles to St. John’s on their shoulders so they could compete. After their victory they lugged it back to Placentia.

The Roman Catholic Cathedral at St. .John’s, which seats six thousand, is a reminder of the fencing bee. When Bishop Anthony Fleming decided to build it, more than a century ago, all the unoccupied land was owned by the crown and colonial authorities refused his request for a grant of nine acres. Fleming crossed to England by sailing vessel a dozen times to plead with them. He was finally told, with a laugh, that he could have the area he wanted if he could fence it to a height of six feet in a single hour. Whitehall officials believed they had assigned him an impossible task. But, on the date fixed for the fencing, everybody in St. John’s—Protestants and Catholics alike turned out to help the bishop. The nine acres were enclosed according to specifications in twenty minutes. The governor was there with his watch, witnessing the proceedings.

“These Newfoundlanders,” he muttered with grudging admiration. “In a full hour, they could have fenced the whole damn city!”

Modest about most things, St. John’s does a bit of boasting about its age, which can’t be matched elsewhere in Canada or the United States. Its tourist literature announces casually that St. John’s was an international port when New York was still a swamp. And any of its school children can tell you that Squantum, the Indian who greeted the Pilgrim Fathers in English when they reached Plymouth Rock, learned the language at far older St. John’s.

They can also tell you that it was on June 24, 1497 just five years after the epic voyage of Christopher Columbus —that John Cabot, an Italian navigator with a commission from Henry VII, discovered Newfoundland.

When Cabot returned to England, where King Henry paid a reward of ten pounds to him that found the new isle, he spread tales of fishing banks where the cod were so plentiful that they could be caught “with a basket.” Adventurous fishermen, stirred by his reports, flocked to Newfoundland in 1498. Cabot hadn’t exaggerated, and their harvest was tremendous.

As a rendezvous they used a fine sheltered harbour and they named it St. John’s because Cabot had sighted Newfoundland on St. John’s Day. Soon merchants had stores there, the English and Irish colonists established homes and gardens, and for decades St. John’s was the chief seaport in North America. In 1583 when Queen Elizabeth sent Sir Humphrey Gilbert to reaffirm England’s claim to Newfoundland the first British colony St. John’s was already a (own. English, French, Spanish, Portuguese and Dutch fishermen called there for fresh food and drinking water, and strolled the winding paths and exchanged news in the grog shops in a babel of tongues.

In this ancient place, which has been sacked by pirates, destroyed by French raiders, ravaged by flames, the leading hotel and the central fire hall both stand on the ruins of forts.

A third fort, on a hill where the French were defeated in 1762 in their last major battle against the English on this continent, is now a green park. In this park, in 1901, Guglielmo Marconi picked up the first trans-Atlantic wireless signal three dots, the letter S, flashed from Cornwall by his associate Poldhu. And not far from this spot is the field from which Alcock and Brown winged into the sky in

1919, in a biplane that looked like a kite, to make the first nonstop flight across the Atlantic.

Under the streets of St. John’s are vaults used for three centuries for maturing Portugal’s best wine, and the remains of a tunnel soldiers dug in early days so they would have an escape route.

History has left its mark on the rooftops, too. They bristle with oddly flamboyant clay chimney pots, which the houses wear jauntily, like decorations. And people remember that it was once illegal to have a chimney in Newfoundland. That was during the long night of oppression instigated by greedy West of England merchants in 1633. The merchants, who had a monopoly on the fish trade, feared competition from Newfoundland rivals. They persuaded Britain to regard the island as a “great ship moored near the (Grand) Banks for the convenience of English fishermen” and to persecute the colonists, probably numbering two thousand for the entire island. The law against chimneys was intended to freeze settlers out. Those who risked their necks by breaking it shared their hearth with others and a chimney pot, in St. John’s, became a badge of courage and a symbol of hospitality.

Britain’s incredible attempt to depopulate Newfoundland failed, but the residents suffered while it lasted. Besides being deprived of the right to heat their homes, they were forbidden to cultivate land. And St. John’s was the seat of a fantastic and tyrannical form of government—rule by “fishing admirals.”

Each spring the captain of the first fishing vessel from England to drop anchor at St. John’s proclaimed himself “admiral” for that season. The skipper of the second was “vice-admiral,” and that of the third was “rear admiral.” Ignorant, often brutal, these men acted as administrators and judges and were empowered by Whitehall to confiscate property, impose fines and order floggings and hangings. Not until the early 1800s was Newfoundland put on the same basis as other colonies and given a full-time governor.

Meanwhile, the early settlers had scattered to remote coves to escape mistreatment. That’s one reason why the tenth province, with a total population of only three hundred and sixty thousand, now has more than thirteen hundred small communities strung along six thousand miles of coast. Many of these “outports,” as they are called, are so old and isolated that they have preserved an Elizabethan dialect which strikes the modern ear with an unfamiliar ring and which includes forgotten words like fardlea bundle of kindling wood.

As capital and trading of the outports St. John’s reflects their character. It has, of course, the polish and dignity which befit its age and prestige, but behind its stone façades and pillared porticoes it’s as naive and neighbourly as a fishing village.

For example, when Mrs. Rupert Jackson, wife of a St. John’s journalist, had twins, the birth notice in the Evening Telegram stated that the mother and infants were doing well but that the father would “need a week or so to recuperate.” The town chuckled, the doctor and the hospital reduced their bills, gifts poured in to the Jackson bungalow.

The outports love individuals who are amiably eccentric. So does St. John’s. The biggest funeral in its four and a half centuries was for “Professor” Charles Danielle, who was the owner of Octagon Castle, an eight-sided inn on Topsail Road. Danielle, who was the man who advertised for a carpenter to shingle cows, fashioned his own coffin with eight thousand seashells and slept in it for years before he died.

Like the outports St. John’s enjoys singing the praises of its minor celebrities. It claims, among others, the most prodigious toiler in Canada, Dennis Neville; the youngest locomotive engineer, Archie Courage; and the cop with the hardest punch, Frank Stamp.

Neville, now sixty-six but spry as a boy, once dug fifty-six tons of ore in a day at the iron mines on Bell Island,, near St. John’s. Nobody has since approached that record. For years, from spring to fall, he laboured ten hours a day repairing roads and seven hours a day in his vegetable garden.

Courage, now twenty-seven, was a full-fledged engineer on a passenger train at twenty-two. Moses Courage, his father, was an engineer before him and was killed in a wreck caused by a washout. Archie Courage has four brothers who are railroaders like himself.

St. John’s policemen are said to be North America’s tallest and from the rank of sergeant up they swing walking sticks with a dashing air. Stamp, the one member of the force who doesn’t top six feet, has other qualifications. When he had to deal with a gigantic Norwegian seaman who was hell-bent for a fight the Norwegian woke up in a cell. In court he was asked by the magistrate if he knew what hit him. “It felt,” he replied rubbing his jaw, “like a pile driver.” “Well,” said the magistrate, “it wasn’t a pile driver, but it was Frank Stamp, the heavyweight boxing champion of Newfoundland, so 1 guess you’ve been punished enough. Case dismissed.”

The outports have a poetic streak which finds expression in folk songs and in such wonderful place names as Heart’s Desire, Happy Adventure, Heart’s Content, Sweet Bay and Come By Chance. St. John’s, where solemn businessmen are rumoured to bellow sea chanteys in their bathtubs, has a recognized circle of serious poets like Michael Harrington, who has had two volumes of his work published.

Although the people of the outports and those of St. John’s are alike in lots of ways they disagree in politics. The outports are enthusiastic about Confederation and favour the Liberals, but St. John’s grumbles about the union with Canada, blames it on the Liberals and consequently leans toward the Progressive Conservatives.

Its feelings were probably summed up by a pretty girl with an Irish brogue who is on the staff of the city’s principal

hotel, the Newfoundland. A salesman from the mainland, who entered the lobby drenched to the skin by a gale driven rain, informed her that “they ought to give this country back to the Indians.”

“My country,” she snapped, “was given back to the Indians on March 31, 1949.” That was the date on which Newfoundland joined Canada.

Ottawa’s taxes, since then, have jacked up the prices of scores of items, especially cigarettes and liquor. St. John’s resents this. It resents the federal regulation which has reduced the strength of “screech”—the Newfoundland word for rum -and members of the City Council thought out loud that it might be fair to charge the Newfoundland Liquor Control Board a dollar a quart for water, in view of the profit that somebody was reaping by adding water to screech.

St. John’s also resents the fact that Canadian tariffs have eliminated from the stores goods previously imported from the United States. You can hear women complain that “it’s impossible to buy smart clothes anymore.” Then, too, Canada’s high income taxes have walloped the rich in St. John’s, where Newfoundland’s wealth is concentrated. And St. John’s, accustomed to being a national capital, the centre of its own little world, isn’t too pleased about being one of ten provincial capitals.

The Blessing of Pepperrell

Yet it has never been more prosperous than in the last three years. Its wages, once notoriously low, are rapidly approaching mainland levels. Family allowances and old-age pensions are making life easier for thousands of its people. It is growing, ridding itself of slums, developing new residential areas, improving schools and hospitals. Its shops, theatres and taverns are constantly crowded.

But, as anti-Confederationists point out, much of its free-flowing money stems from U. S. military expenditures. St. John’s is one of the most vital spots on the global defense map. In the southeastern corner of Newfoundland, twelve hundred miles from New York and eighteen hundred miles from Liverpool, it straddles air and sea routes between the great cities of North America and Europe, and has a harbour that’s open the year round.

Fort Pepperrell, at St. John’s, is headquarters of the United States Northeast Command, which has jurisdiction over air and naval bases in Labrador, Newfoundland and Greenland and directs the operations of planes and ships that patrol an area larger than the area of the United States. Pepperrell, less than two miles from downtown St. John’s, sprawls over hundreds of acres and has huge office buildings, warehouses, long rows of dwellings, its own power plant, a radio station, a hospital and even a dairy. The dairy’s cattle were flown from New Brunswick to Newfoundland.

In 1951 Pepperrell employed eleven hundred civilians, mostly natives, and paid them two million dollars. Military personnel stationed there spent about a million dollars in St. John’s. This year’s civilian payroll may exceed three million dollars. While Pepperrell has been an economic blessing, it has brought such an influx of outsiders that St. John’s is up against an acute housing shortage and rents are skyrocketing.

Pepperrell’s young men in uniform and residents of St. John’s get on fine together. The Americans, who have it dinned into them by their top brass that one of their duties is to maintain friendly relations on foreign soil, go out of their way to be nice. At Christmas they taxi Santa Claus to St. John’s by helicopter; in summer they have a picnic for the orphans; throughout the year their rescue squadron locates lost fishing vessels and provides an air ambulance for emergencies.

Even without the lectures and pamphlets on friendly relations they would do these things because, like other visitors, they find St. John’s a captivating surprise. They go there expecting a grim poverty-stricken place with Eskimos and the sort of climate none but an Eskimo could endure. They find, instead, a gay city that is tolerably well off, hasn’t a single Eskimo—which is slightly disappointing and has a climate that is pleasantly cool in summer and much milder than that of most mainland centres in winter.

The Yanks are teaching the younger generation American slang hut they themselves unconsciously adopt the St. John’s accent a mixture of Devon, Dublin and Dundee — and borrow localisms like “ta, mate,” meaning good-by. In beverage rooms they drop nickels in II.S. juke boxes, then play darts, the venerable game of England’s pubs, to a jive accompaniment.

Newcomers acquire sore legs from their first enthusiastic burst of sightseeing, because St. John’s has Canada’s excavated streets a fact proved by the courthouse, which is perched on a typical slope and is seven floors high on one side and three floors high on the other.

They discover that the objects on corners resembling overgrown fire hydrants are mail boxes; that the Arctic steak in the windows of butcher shops is whale meat; that seal-flipper pie isn’t a tall tale but a real delicacy; and that residents of St. John’s are so courteous that they will often lift their hats and nod when passing complete strangers.

Any Cook’s Tour of St. John’s includes Government House, the Colonial Building, Canada House and Bowring Park.

Government House, built in 1828 at a cost of twenty-five thousand pounds, is set in spacious lawns and originally had a moat surrounding it. Judge Prowse, Newfoundland’s famed historian, termed it “an unredeemed pile of ugliness,” but to most eyes it’s as charming a piece of Tudor architecture as there is in this country. Its present occupant, Lieutenant - Governor Sir Leonard Outerbridge, was born in the U. S. of Newfoundland parents and educated in England before settling down to a business career in the land of his forebears.

Joe Plays Dorothy Dix

The Colonial Building, with six massive columns supporting the coat of arms over its entrance, was erected in 1849 with stone imported from Ireland and now webbed with cracks. When Newfoundland was a self-governing dominion the parliament met there. When Newfoundland tumbled into such financial difficulties in 1933 that it had to revert to the status of a colony, the commissioners appointed to govern deliberated there. And, since 1949, Newfoundland’s provincial legislature has assembled there. The cracks in the stone walls, so the story in St. John’s goes, were caused by the excessive heat of Newfoundland’s politics.

Canada House, once the residence of Canada’s high commissioner to Newfoundland. is now the office and home of Premier Joseph R. Smallwood, the man primarily responsible for leading Newfoundland into Confederation. Brisk and thin, a former journalist and radio commentator, he works at his desk all day with boundless energy while his secretaries keep callers at bay. But he devotes his evenings, when his staff has departed, to meeting anybody who wants to see him. His front door is never locked after dark and people even bring the Premier their matrimonial problems.

Bowring Park, with its lake, picnic grounds and gardens, has a life-sized bronze statue of a caribou, Newfoundland’s emblem. Framed by evergreens and mounted on rocks, this is a memorial to six hundred men of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment who died in France on July 1, 1916. The park itself was given to the city by Bowring's, a mercantile concern which is a Newfoundland institution.

Bowring's, which owns the biggest department store in St. John’s, was founded in 1811 by Benjamin Bowring, a clock-maker from England. While he dealt in timepieces Charlotte, his wife, branched into dry goods. Merchandise was exchanged for fish, the fish was exported, and the business grew until Bowring's had trawlers on the Grand Banks, sealers in the ice floes, whaling stations in the Arctic, plantations in the tropics. When Newfoundland’s banks failed during a financial panic in 1894 Bowring's printed private currency which served temporarily as Newfoundland’s money. Direct descendants of Benjamin and Charlotte Bowring still direct the firm’s activities, and the family, which has produced a baronet and three knights, is reputed to have accumulated more than fifty million dollars.

Bowrings long had a virtual monopoly on Newfoundland’s seal trade. One of its sealing skippers, the late Abraham Kean, accounted for more than a million seals and claimed to be the greatest animal killer in history. Another, Azariah Munden, was celebrated because he paced his bloody deck wearing a dress suit and beaver hat.

Bowrings is the best-known company in St. John’s, but not the oldest. Job Brothers (fish and fishing supplies) dates from 1777. Baine, Johnston, which looks after the port wine sent from Portugal to be matured, dates from 1780. Since Elizabethan days wine connoisseurs have been convinced that the climate of St. John’s works magic on port aged there.

Basically, St. John’s is a mercantile city. It revolves around Water Street where Bowrings, Job Brothers, Baine, Johnston and others have warehouses and stores beside their wharves. But it also has dozens of small factories turning out goods for Newfoundland consumption. The merchandise from St. John’s is carried to the hundreds of outports by coastal vessels, many of them schooners. Missionaries and hairdressers often cruise on these vessels, to call at one village after another. At some out ports, when a hairdresser arrives, men as well as women get their hair waved. The fishermen, like their Elizabethan ancestors, can see no reason why males shouldn’t have their locks curled.

St. John’s, for all its great age and in spite of its forest of chimney pots, has a reasonably modern look and fewer bad slums than the average seaport. One reason for this is that it was swept by fire jn 1816, in 1846 and again in 1892. The fire of 1892, the “Great Fire,”

swept away twenty million dollars’ worth of property and more than two thirds of the city had to be rebuilt. After that, the Newfoundland government stepped in and established a permanent fire department.

The St. John’s firemen are provincial employees, not civic. So are the policemen. Nor does the city control the schools, which are financed by the province and run by the churches. Each major denomination has its schools and the Roman Catholics, Anglicans, United Church and Salvation Army have junior colleges.

Because the Newfoundland government provides services for which municipalities are responsible on the mainland, cit> taxes are low and the duties of the mayor—Harry Mews, an insurance man—and the councillors are lighter than would otherwise he the case. But Mews and his colleagues are now in the midst of a housing program, striving to create dwellings for a rapidly increasing population and to hold rents within reason. They realize that in a town where food costs are high—milk is more than thirty cents a quart— there’s a limit to the rent people can pay, even when things are booming. And everything is booming in St. John’s, including culture.

Memorial University College, Newfoundland’s one nondenominational college, is being raised to degree-giving status. The Department of Education is offering cash prizes for art, music,

poetry, plays, historical essays and radio scripts with a Newfoundland theme. Two young painters, Reginald Sheppard and Helen Parsons, have successfully launched an Academy of Art. The Atlantic Guardian, a monthly magazine which publishes articles about Newfoundland by Newfoundlanders, is flourishing.

The columns of the St. John’s daily newspapers, the Telegram and the News, and of its weekly newspaper, the Sunday Herald, show a lively interest in Newfoundland arts and letters. So do the programs of its radio stations, CBN, VOCM and CJON.

And Newfoundland’s capital, so rich in history, is getting a place to display it; a museum eliminated in the 1930's as an economy move is being reestablished. L. E. F. English, a scholar with an inquiring mind and a photographic memory, who is the provincial archivist, is preparing the exhibits.

English has dug up evidence that Newfoundland’s first tourists were Norsemen, in 1001. He knows that the yellow bricks in the chimneys of the houses at Ferryland, forty miles from St. John’s, were salvaged from Lord Baltimore’s castle, and that Baltimore lived at Ferryland from 1622 until he went south in 1627 to found the commonwealth of Maryland. He knows that Newfoundland dogs, huge, black and gentle, trace their ancestry from St. Bernards and French Shepherds brought to St. John’s in the 1600s by fishermen; that one of these dogs rescued the passengers and crew of a sinking steamship by swimming out and towing a lifeline ashore in a violent storm; that they’ve been pictured on postage stamps, like kings, queens and statesmen; and that the greatest breeder of them in the world is Harold Macpherson, a St. John’s merchant.

English knows the story of the Beothuk Indians, Newfoundland’s extinct tribe, who were terrible thieves but would never rob a house with a cross on the door, although they weren’t Christians. He knows that outside the harbor of St. John’s, a giant squid once wrapped thirty-foot tentacles around a fishing dory and that the fishermen escaped by chopping the tentacles off with an ax.

He knows that Newfoundland’s moose, now abundant, all stem from two pairs introduced from New’ Brunswick in 1904, and that Newfoundland’s frogs were also introduced from the mainland; and that Newfoundland has no snakes, no skunks, no deer, but lots of caribou. He has collected Newfoundland’s folklore, listed its odd words and quaint phrases, and ascertained that there are forty-pound Loch Leven trout in the lake from which St. John’s draws its exceptionally pure water, which doesn’t have to be chlorinated.

He has gathered information about the first Atlantic cable, the western end of which was landed at Trinity Bay, north of St. John’s, in 1858 and which broke after Queen Victoria had sent the president of the United States this message: “Glory to God in the highest and peace on earth to men of good will.” He has also rounded up such data as what minerals have been found where in Newfoundland’s forty three thousand square miles and Labrador’s one hundred and ten thousand square miles.

He doesn’t see how he can cram all this and much more into one museum but he’s trying.

“We have,” he says mildly, “quite a lot of things to show people, quite a lot of things to tell them about, here in this ancient capital of this new province. Some of the mainlanders who visit us are surprised.”

First Listen: Years May Come, Years May Go by the Walsh Family Band

One Man Sally Ann

From Newfoundland to Freedom!

Cleaning up in 'The Business World'- from Fort McMurray Today by Avril Calloway


Ever since she was a little girl in Newfoundland selling lemon crystals for extra pocket change, Janette Brentnall Davis has embraced her entrepreneurial spirit as a natural part of her being. Her mother owned a general store and her father ran a saw mill, so it seems that it was destined from the beginning that Janette would live the life of an entrepreneur; it's in her blood. When I asked her why she would rather work for herself, she replied, "you see the way someone else does it and you don't like it, you don't like the rigidity of eight to five, so you try to change it for yourself." Janette Davis is the owner of Davis Enterprises, a janitorial company in Fort McMurray, Alberta, and thanks to Alberta's oil trade, it has grown very quickly from a small venture to a million dollar company.
Born and raised in Newfoundland, after finishing high school, Janette attended business school and attained a job at Canadian National as a long distance toll operator. She worked there for five years until she got married and decided to work with her husband for a small business owned by her father-in-law. She found that as a team, she and her husband worked well together and saw the business grow to be a multi million dollar company. By 1992, they owned both an IGA and Petro Canada franchise. However, when IGA decided to change from being franchise run to being run as a corporate store, this left them with only a Petro Canada franchise. By most people's standards this would be enough to keep busy, however finding it "slow" they finally said "to hell with it" and decided to move to Alberta in 1995 to discover new business opportunities.
With her children to keep her busy, Janette went from job to job waiting for the right opportunity to come along. She turned down a couple of offers, including an offer to open another IGA franchise (which she refused for fear that the same fate awaited the IGA franchisees in Alberta as it had for those in Newfoundland). Her patience paid off. The timing was right and Janet's opportunity arose three years ago when her daughter, now twenty three, started her own cleaning company. Although clearly endowed with the entrepreneurial spirit of her mother, Janette's daughter soon found this new business to be growing to be a little more than she could handle on her own and that's when mom stepped in. Although her daughter still works for the business doing administration, Janette's experience and hunger for a new challenge attracted an offer from a company in Long Lake requiring the services of an industrial cleaning company.
Davis Enterprises grew quickly from two to twenty employees. It also grew financially from a business that was previously operational on Janette's own money, to a million dollar company. Janette tells me that when she was younger, like many people, she had big dreams about gaining financial freedom by doing the thing she loved most. Now her biggest hurdle is figuring out how to handle this rapid financial growth in the best way possible.
Janette is now looking for someone who can help her to deal with the rapid growth (financial and other) of her business and make sure it is handled properly. Her professional goals are to maintain the two major contracts she currently holds and hold true to her ability to be a flexible, open minded person in the world of business.

Lynching- The great American Cover up

A crowd of nearly 2,000 people gathered in Georgia in 1899 to witness the lynching of Sam Holt, an African American farm laborer charged with killing his white employer. A newspaper described the scene:

Sam Holt...was burned at the stake in a public road.... Before the torch was applied to the pyre, the Negro was deprived of his ears, fingers, and other portions of his body.... Before the body was cool, it was cut to pieces, the bones were crushed into small bits, and even the tree upon which the wretch met his fate were torn up and disposed of as souvenirs. The Negro's heart was cut in small pieces, as was also his liver. Those unable to obtain the ghastly relics directly paid more fortunate possessors extravagant sums for them. Small pieces of bone went for 25 cents and a bit of liver, crisply cooked, for 10 cents.

From 1889 to 1918, more than 2,400 African Americans were hanged or burned at the stake. Many lynching victims were accused of little more than making "boastful remarks," "insulting a white man," or seeking employment "out of place."

Before he was hanged in Fayette, Mo., in 1899, Frank Embree was severely whipped across his legs and back and chest. Lee Hall was shot, then hanged, and his ears were cut off. Bennie Simmon was hanged, then burned alive, and shot to pieces. Laura Nelson was raped, then hanged from a bridge.

They were hanged from trees, bridges, and telephone poles. Victims were often tortured and mutilated before death: burned alive, castrated, and dismembered. Their teeth, fingers, ashes, clothes, and sexual organs were sold as keepsakes.

Lynching continues to be used as a stinging metaphor for injustice. At his confirmation hearings for the U.S. Supreme Court, Clarence Thomas silenced Senate critics when he accused them of leading a "high-tech lynching."

Lynching was community sanctioned. Lynchings were frequently publicized well in advance, and people dressed up and traveled long distances for the occasion. The January 26, 1921, issue of the Memphis Press contained the headline: "May Lynch 3 to 6 Negroes This Evening." Clergymen and business leaders often participated in lynchings. Few of the people who committed lynchings were ever punished. What makes the lynchings all the more chilling is the carnival atmosphere and aura of self-righteousness that surrounded the grizzly events.

Railroads sometimes ran special excursion trains to allow spectators to watch lynchings. Lynch mobs could swell to 15,000 people. Tickets were sold to lynchings. The mood of the white mobs was exuberant--men cheering, women preening, and children frolicking around the corpse.

Photographers recorded the scenes and sold photographic postcards of lynchings, until the Postmaster General prohibited such mail in 1908. People sent the cards with inscriptions like: "You missed a good time" or "This is the barbeque we had last night."

Lynching received its name from Judge Charles Lynch, a Virginia farmer who punished outlaws and Tories with "rough" justice during the American Revolution. Before the 1880s, most lynchings took place in the West. But during that decade the South's share of lynchings rose from 20 percent to nearly 90 percent. A total of 744 blacks were lynched during the 1890s. The last officially recorded lynching in the United States occurred in 1968. However, many consider the 1998 death of James Byrd in Jasper, Texas, at the hands of three whites who hauled him behind their pick-up truck with a chain, a later instance.

It seems likely that the soaring number of lynchings was related to the collapse of the South's cotton economy. Lynchings were most common in regions with highly transient populations, scattered farms, few towns, and weak law enforcement--settings that fueled insecurity and suspicion.

The Census Bureau estimates that 4,742 lynchings took place between 1882 and 1968. Between 1882 and 1930, some 2,828 people were lynched in the South; 585 in the West; and 260 in the Midwest. That means that between 1880 and 1930, a black Southerner died at the hands of a white mob more than twice a week. Most of the victims of lynching were African American males. However, some were female, and a small number were Italian, Chinese, or Jewish. Mobs lynched 447 non-blacks in the West, 181 non-African Americas in the Midwest, and 291 in the South. The hangings of white victims rarely included mutilation.

Apologists for lynching claimed that they were punishment for such crimes as murder and especially rape. But careful analysis has shown that a third of the victims were not even accused of rape or murder; in fact, many of the charges of rape were fabrications. Many victims had done nothing more than not step aside on a sidewalk or accidentally brush against a young girl. In many cases, a disagreement with a white storeowner or landowner triggered a lynching. In 1899, Sam Hose, a black farmer, killed a white man in an argument over a debt. He was summarily hanged and then burned. His charred knuckles were displayed in an Atlanta store window.

The journalist G.L. Godkin wrote in 1893:

Man is the one animal that is capable of getting enjoyment out of the torture and death of members of its own species. We venture to assert that seven-eighths of every lynching part is composed of pure, sporting mob, which goes...just as it goes to a cock-fight or prize-fight, for the gratification of the lowest and most degraded instincts of humanity.

Opponents of lynching, like the African American journalist Ida B. Wells, sent detectives to investigate lynchings and published their reports.Had Miss Wells been born in Newfoundland she would have exposed the hated Townie for what he really was
but I don't think The Newfoundlander could ever have done to his neighbour what the American Whites have done to The Black man.

Firefox Profiles

I occasionally like to clean my Firefox profile. I test quite a few extensions, and play around a bit, so every once in a while, I just want to clean up. This method has worked rather well for me over the years. Essentially I imported my Netscape 4 profile into Netscape 7, then Mozilla App Suite, then split into Firefox and Thunderbird, so essentially I have data in there that’s several years old. I thought I’d share what I do, and why I do it, in hopes that perhaps someone else would benefit.These directions were drafted with Firefox 1.5 as a reference point, for older or newer releases the directions may not work (for example if you use a Firefox build with “Places”).

A word of advice:
For the record, this is at your own risk, back up before you touch anything. Backup by copying The Firefox directory as mentioned in respective location below (a directory above Profiles). You’ve been warned.
Directions
You may want to start out by going to the Bookmarks menu and selecting “Manage Bookmarks”. Then cleaning out and organizing your bookmarks, if you want to keep them in your new profile. It’s a good habit to get into.
The first real step I do is visit my profiles directory:
C:\\Documents and Settings\\[Windows Username]\\Application Data\\Mozilla\\Firefox\\Profiles\\
Your profile will be a directory with a salted name. Something like xxxxxxxx.default. Those x’s are random characters.
Because I only have 1 real profile (and one for dev purposes of which I choose to preserve nothing), I like to rename mine to something else. As far as I’m concerned this one is dead to me. I’m going to also get rid of the profiles.cfg and pluginreg.dat files in the Firefox Folder (up above profiles), then run Firefox and create a new profile on prompt. If you have multiple profiles you wish to leave untouched you would be better off using firefox.exe -profilemanager in the command prompt and simply creating a new profile.
Ok, so now we have this really clean new profile, and that old crusty one with lots of junk. Well, I want some of my stuff in my new clean profile, but only certain things. So here’s a breakdown of what I do, pick and choose as you want. Obviously the less you bring over, the better.
Only perform the following when Firefox is not running.
Bookmarks
Simply copy the bookmarks.html file from the old profile into the new profile.
Cookies (stay logged in with all your sites)
I like to carry these over, since I like being logged into certain sites (forums and such). Just copy the cookies.txt file from the old profile into the new profile. If you open the file up in a text editor you can delete a line or two (get rid of those old cookies, or just to satisfy that tin-foil-hat feeling). Just be careful if you do.
Password
I also like to keep my stored passwords (nothing important, just those news sites, and other silliness that I don’t feel like entering each and every time). Password Manager is great for that. The files you want to copy over are: cert8.db, secmod.db, key3.db, signons.txt.
Extensions
My recommendation on Extensions is to visit addons.mozilla.org (Google for the ones you can’t find) and re-download. The reason I prefer to do that rather than move them over, is because some just seem to stubborn to use the update service, and that leaves me with some old extensions. Also, in this process I typically realize there are one or two that sounded like great ideas, but I just never really used them. Less extensions means less chances for a memory leak. That’s always a good thing.
Search
Just copy the search.rdf file and searchplugins directory over.
Final Notes
This process typically takes me about 5-10 minutes (mainly depending on if I cleanup my bookmarks and cookies). Overall not bad. Gets rid of the crud that tends to accumulate over time, and keeps things pretty lean. This is also pretty useful if you encounter some profile corruption or other ugliness, especially if your one of us trusting soles who occasionally run nightlies from the trunk.
If you do it all correctly, you get a nice clean profile, but still keep your important data. Cache and autocomplete list will rebuild pretty quickly as you use the profile. I’ve found this technique is great for reviving that profile that’s just littered with garbage from various things I’ve done, and extensions I’ve tried.
Hopefully this helps someone.

A Collins Story

Part of the Collins saga of Nothern Bonavista Bay is that most of the families that started out in Newport/New Harbour can all trace their early beginnings to Samuel Collins. From this man came many of the Collins names that we know today. One such man was Enoch Collins who married Frances Lane of Gambo in 1872. From this family we see Mary Ann who married Philip Holloway who were the grandparents to Carrie (Caroline) Noseworthy of Newport/Gambo. Sarah Sims Collins who married Louis Keats of Dover back in 1899. Enoch the son who married a Sarah Pickett from Fair Island back in 1901. Andrew who married and moved to Botwood back @ 1915. Another daughter Susanna married another Holloway and stayed at New Harbour. The 6th child Keziah probably named after her Aunt Keziah and sister to her Mother married Thomas Lush and lived at Gambo for many years. The next child Eli Collins married a Henrietta Bragg of Shamblers Cove. The last child Elizabeth Ellen married Archelaus Collins of Newport. When Archelaus died in the winter of 1910 Elizabeth was widowed but soon married again. This time to Obediah Hunt of Silver Fox Island and that is the story of just one Collins family of Bonavista Bay North. One thing in this genealogy thread that has always intrigued me is the Sims names as in Sarah Sims Collins and sister to Keziah. Keziah's grand daughter Shirley Lane Simms married a David Simms from Badger Bay in Notre Dame Bay many years later. Another thing of note was the relation between Keziah Collins and Esau Lane. Keziah was a 1st cousin once removed to Esau Lane of Gambo as her mother Frances was Esau's 1st cousin. Alma Lush was Keziah and Thomas Lush's daughter. Alma's husband Frank Lane was son to Esau and Agnes Brown Lane which means all the children born to this couple are related on both sides of their parents more than once. Interesting! The picture above is  Elizabeth with  brother Enoch and possibly a friend or other relative around taken @ 1910.

Charlotte Wicks of Fair Island

I found this picture on the wall of a friend (Domino Howse) on Facebook  which had more than 31 comments under it. History is quite alive for the people of Hare Bay to be sure. If anyone in the comments section needs any info on the residents of Hare Bay for the past 200 years I'm sure I can help you. And now for a short story. Charlotte Wicks (1878 - 1957) of Fair Isalnd was born to Samuel and Eliza Boland (not to be confused with Charlotte Collins of 1845). She married George Collins (1870 -1918) in Dec of 1893 at Fair Island. Together they bore 4 sons and 3 daughters. When George died of inflamation in Jan of 1918 at Hare Bay, Bonavista Bay Charlotte married Tobias Goulding of Gambo at Grand Falls in June of 1920.

Like Charlotte, Tobias had also been widowed from Margaret Collins (a 4th generation Collins lady going all the way back to Samuel and Hannah Bundle Collins and 2 of the earliest residents of Newport) on May 6, 1919 at Gambo.

Margarets Death
Goulding, Margaret Jane died May 6, 1919 aged 38 years (Wife of Tobias)
http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~cannf/bbnor_gambosacem.htm

Charlotte Wicks 

As the story goes Tobias married Charlotte in 1920 at Grand Falls. Most of Charlotte's and George's children lived at the same residence as their Mom and stepdad in at least 1921 as did the only son of Tobias and Margaret lovingly called Domino Goulding. There may have been a daughter Susie Goulding but the name does not appear on this census.

Tobias Goulding died in Aug of 1923 of Tuberculosis only 3 years after his marriage to Charlotte. No info on the actual date that Charlotte married for the 3rd time to James Cooze is readily available at this time but it is known that the newlyweds did not have children.

Angus 1920 and Dolly 1925 were the children of James and Alice Parsons Cooze. Alice died in 1930.

To end the story of Charlotte and George and Charlotte and Tobias and Margaret and Charlotte and Alice and James Cooze I must say I found their story to be a wonderful and unique life of honour failure bad luck good luck hard times and a pinch of humanity in people and how survival can create a picture of people through words. Her strengh and tenacity is something we don't often see in the world of today. Charlotte and her marriages and families are something worthy of an O.B.E. Another piece of great Newfoundland history. Fascinating!

John James Brentnall: A family in triumphant times:
http://freshwaterbay.blogspot.ca/2011/11/story-of-john-james-brentnall.html

The History of Middle Brook, Gambo

 As a permanent settlement of peoples of European and Mi'kmaq descent begins on Doloman's Point. In late May or early June of 1834 James and Susanna (nee Honeyburn) Pritchett and their four children - Mary, Elizabeth, John, and James - landed at Doloman's Point, Freshwater Bay to set up permanent residence there. James was 33 years old and his wife was 34. Over the next seventeen years they would have another eight children - Anne Patience (1836), Job (1838), William Absolom (1839), Caroline(1841), Susanna (1845), George Barnet (1846), Abraham (1849) and Amy "Emma" (1851) - and lay down roots for a new settlement that would outgrow itself causing its residents to abandoning the site to move to nearby Middle Brook.

According to local lore, James' father, Job Pritchett, had left England sometime around 1812 to escape the press gangs of that era. He moved to Goose Bay, Bonavista South (in the Bloomfield area). Sometime after that Job secured exclusive salmon fishing rights (maybe from Benjamin Lester and Company of Trinity) to Middle Brook, the Gambo River, and Taverner's (Traverse) Brook. That meant that every spring Job, with his son, James, and other workers came into Freshwater Bay to prosecute that fishery. So James was very familiar with Freshwater Bay and Doloman's Point when he moved there in 1834. James's father, Job, had passed away the previous year (1780-1833) and now James was the holder of his father's exclusive rights to fish the three rivers. More than likely James and Susanna were accompanied in their move by the Barrow, Barry, Inder, and Feltham families who worked for James. Available to these settlers was not just the lucrative salmon fishery, but a potential logging and saw milling industry. The abundance of wildlife in the Bay and up the three rivers - beaver, martin, lynx, fox (for fur), and bear and caribou and ducks and geese and hares for food -- also added to the attractiveness of the area. James believed that with God's help (he was a very religious man) and with hard work, they could build a new and prosperous settlement. With James and his father and their fellow workers having spent many summers (May to August) prior to 1834 in Freshwater Bay, it's likely that when they settled in in 1834 they had already built their houses and the requisite wharves and slipways and storage sheds right on the nose of Doloman's Point. The land on which they built had already been cleared of trees and brush by Beothucks and Mi'kmaq who had preceded them into Freshwater Bay. The Beothuck were no more, the last of that unfortunate race, Shawnandithit, having passed away in St. John's in 1829. The Mi'kmaq, who had preceded them as permanent settlers in the Bay and had encamped on Doloman's Point, now numbered a dozen so settled unto on reserve a few miles away on the northern bank of the Middle Brook River. In 1857 there were six houses on Doloman's Point and in Clay Cove. These houses belonged to George and Jane Barrow, George and Diana Inder, Philip and Mary Feltham, John and Ruth Pritchett, and a James Feltham along with, of course, James and Susanna. Since James was primarily a fisher of salmon he had to build a cooperage to saw the staves needed to make tierces. Tierces were large barrels that could hold 136kg (300 pounds) of pickled salmon. The packed salmon he sold to merchants in St. John's who shipped them to Europe where it was a favourite food for the merchants and aristocrats. For instance, in 1872 James' sons - John, Abraham, William A., George B., and James - reported that they had netted 21 tierces of salmon on the Gambo River that summer and had shipped them in their own schooner to P. and L. Tessier of St. John's who paid them 4 pounds, and 10 shillings (around $120 in 2012 dollars). Meanwhile around this time the Pritchetts established at the mouth of Traverse Brook a salmon cannery. The cannery did not prosper for very long because by the late 1800s the number of salmon entering the rivers in Freshwater Bay was in steep decline. The decline, in hindsight, was inevitable. The Pritchetts, like all river lords in Newfoundland having exclusive access to rivers, would tail out their nets at the mouth of a river in the spring and hold them there until the annual run of salmon up the rivers was over in July or August. They lifted these nets for one day a week, Sunday, which meant that salmon could enter the river unimpeded only one day a week. That one day proved to be insufficient to allow enough salmon to enter the river to replace themselves in their annual spawning. The Pritchetts and other residents, as the salmon declined, turned to the forest industry to replace the salmon as a source of wealth. On the rivers in which they had set their salmon nets they now built sawmills and produced lumber for the insatiable lumber markets of St. John's and other large communities in Conception Bay. Census reports show that by 1884 there were 41 people in Doloman's Point/Clay Cove. But, already, the Point was being overcrowded. Along with the original families, James' sons were now grown and married and had to have houses of their own. His son, John, had married Ruth Barry in 1855 and they had built a house on Doloman's Point. His son, William A., had married Susannah Bourne in 1863 and they were also living on Doloman's Point. His son, Abraham, had married Rebecca Cross in 1866 and had built a house in Clay Cove. The crowding on the point probably led James' son, George B., who married Rachel White in 1872, to build their house in Middle Brook. Their action reflected the reality of the time. Most men were now taking a good part, if not most of their living from woods work and sawmill operations along the Middle and Traverse Brooks and in and around these rivers' watersheds. So people were no longer settling on the Point and other people already living there were starting to move away. The first to leave was James Feltham. Within a few years the Pritchetts had all moved to the south side of Middle Brook River while the Inders, Barrows, and Felthams took to the north side. By 1894 Doloman's had been totally resettled. Only the cemetery remained. Susanna died at the age of 91 and was buried in the cemetery at Doloman's Point beside her husband, James, who had passed away in 1858. Their son, James , passed away in the same year from the flu and was buried beside his mother and father, leaving to mourn his wife, Amelia Barry, with whom he had nine children. Also buried there were Arthur Lewis Pritchett, Sarah Barry, John Madgwick, infant James Pritchett,et al. Even before Doloman's Point had completely resettled George B. and his wife Rachel (1890) had built a water-powered sawmill at Water Point on the Middle Brook River. By 1892 George's brother, William A., with his wife, Susanna (neeBourne), had also moved to Middle Brook South and were the owners/operators of a water-powered saw mill on the Middle Brook River at the Over Falls. And their brother, Abraham, and his wife, Rebecca, owned and operated a sawmill on Traverse Brook as well as a general store in Middle Brook. These three, along with their brother John, also continued to hold the salmon rights which they had inherited from their father. By 1901 these four men were part of the fifty families living in Middle Brook South who now had their own church and school (Church of England). Meanwhile, across the River the Inders moved into the sawmill business and the Barrows and Felthams worked in the woods and in the mills. They became Salvationists and built their own church and school. In 1964the community of Middle Brook amalgamated with Dark Cove and the combined community incorporated itself under the name of "Riverwood". However, that name never took hold because nobody used it. But when "Riverwood" amalgamated with Gambo on October 3, 1980, the amalgamated communities took the name of Gambo. It stuck. Now, there is only Gambo . Church of England Cemetery This cemetery was declared a historic place by the Gambo Town Council in 2011. Although the aboriginal Beothucks and Mi'kmaq were frequent visitors who encamped on this point and may have buried here their deceased, the earliest known burial in this cemetery occurred, most likely, in April 1777. The burial plot used was marked by a headstone that identified the deceased as a nine year old boy named John Madgwick. Other than the information engraved on the headstone nothing further is known about the boy, his family, the circumstances of his death, and why he would have been buried here. What, though, is very interesting is that the headstone was still standing and decipherable in 1970(?) when a local Anglican clergyman, afraid it would collapse and be buried under moss and grass, removed it from this site. After being stored for a number of years in the Middle Brook Anglican Church it was retrieved, cleaned up, the lettering restored, and erected outside the entry to the church. It is still there today. It is fitting to note that the founder of the Doloman's Point settlement - James Pritchett is buried here. James, who settled permanently on Doloman's Point in 1834, died here on December 19, 1858. He was 57 years old. Otto Tucker who was a Salvation Army teacher and cadet in Middle Brook in the 1950 wrote down the inscription engraved on James Pritchett's headstone which has since crumbled and has been covered with grass and brush. Another person known to be buried in this cemetery is Sarah Barry. Sarah Barry was born in 1872 the daughter of George and Jane Barry who were at the time living in Clay Cove. Sarah probably died as an infant. Another headstone that had already shattered when this photo was taken in 2005 was that of Arthur Lewis Pritchett. The photo illustrates that Arthur Lewis was the son of Abraham and Rebecca Pritchett of Clay Cove. Arthur Lewis was born on October 1, 1882. He died in 1884. Although there is no headstone remaining in this cemetery to mark her spot, church burial records reveal that James's wife, Susanna Honeyburn, is also buried here. She died on May 16, 1891 at the age of 91. Nine days later her son James, age 57, died and was also buried in this cemetery. Who else might be buried in this cemetery is purely speculative. For example, the records show that James Pritchett's father died in 1833 in Freshwater Bay but there has been nothing found to indicate where he was buried. Is it possible he's also buried on Doloman's Point, or was he buried in Goose Bay, Bonavista Bay? As well, there is no burial record for Abraham Pritchett's first wife, Rebecca (nee Cross), for the Anglican Cemetery in Middle Brook. It therefore is likely that she would have been buried here in Doloman's Point. And since infant mortality was very high at this point in history it is more than plausible that other children were buried in this cemetery.

Memories of Silver Fox Island

by Rhoda May Collins
I was born and raised in a small place called Silver Fox Island, Bonavista Bay. My parents were Job and Maggie Rogers. I had three sisters–Eva, Statia, and Priscilla–and a brother, John. Childhood days were exciting days. I loved going to school and I liked helping my mom around the house. I was the oldest child and felt responsible to help. My sisters and brothers grew up the same way. My father spent a lot of his time away from home. He went down to Labrador in the summertime, or was away getting firewood, cutting logs and catching rabbits in the wintertime. Wintertime we would have a lot of snow. Sometimes it would be up over our heads. Mother would work so hard shovelling it. First she had to clear a very long path for us to go to school. Then she would have to clear a path to the woodshed, the drinking well, and the clothesline. Then she would take a break to prepare dinner for us children, who would come home hungry as bears. In the afternoon she would go right back shovelling again. She would make sure it was all cleared before another storm came. We would have fun sliding over the hills in the snow and making snowmen. Evening we all had our chores to do. I would get two one-gallon cans and fill the water barrel, which had to be filled every day. Then the woodbox had to be filled and kindling had to be prepared for lighting the fire in the morning. Mother would light the fire and warm up the place before calling us children up. Sometimes our bread would be frozen. We would put it in the oven until it got hot and then put butter on it. It would be delicious. I loved my father and hated to see him working so hard. He would have to bring firewood up over the hill on his back. I would help him saw the wood with the old crosscut saw. Later we got a bucksaw which was easier to use. There were no chainsaws in those days. My dad would cleave the wood and my brother and sisters would pack it in the woodshed. The shed would be filled, making sure there was enough for all winter. One day at school I took very sick. I tried to walk home but only made it halfway and couldn't walk another step. My sister stayed with me while my brother ran home and told my parents. Dad came and picked me up in his arms and carried me home. Each day I got worse. Dad went to Greenspond and brought the doctor. He said I had rheumatic fever and had to have total bed rest. Mother brought my bed down to the kitchen where she could be with me all the time. I grew worse and couldn't feed myself. After a month I could stand but my feet were still swollen. Our minister, Rev. Sheppard, came to visit me one day and encouraged me. I wanted to go to school so badly, even though I could hardly walk. I was determined to go, so mother would dress me warm and pack a lunch. I would go to my Aunt Lizzie Hunt's house, which was near the school. My brother and sister would pull me on a sleigh to and from school. How I loved to be back in school again. It wasn't long before I was back on my feet. Our first year of school was primer class, where we learned about animals and their names. Then we went into grades one and two. The only books we had then were the Royal Readers and an exercise book. We had a slate and learned to add, multiply and subtract. We had bookbags to carry our pencil box, slate pencils and water in a bottle, with a cloth to clean our slates. One morning I was so disappointed. My water was frozen and my pretty little bottle had broken. Sometimes we would carry a couple of pieces of wood to school for the woodstove, our source of heat. School days were exciting. Sometimes the harbour would freeze over and we would walk across the ice, which was a much shorter way. We dressed warm, with our knitted caps, mitts, and socks. There were no slacks for girls, but we had spats to pull over our boots and button up the sides. We also had fur muffs to put our hands into. We looked forward to Sunday. It was our feast day. Saturday was a day of preparation for Sunday's breakfast, dinner, and supper. Hard bread was put in soak, salt fish cut up and soaked, and salt pork cut up and fried. That would be for breakfast. Vegetables would be peeled and cleaned for dinner, with rabbit, bird, or fresh pork, and for supper tarts and cakes that were made on Saturday. This was a tradition all through the years on our island. I kept it up long after I got married, but gradually left the old tradition behind. We used kerosene lamps in those days, one in each room. They were filled and trimmed each day before darkness came. Sunday morning, the church bell would be ringing. After breakfast, dishes were done. We dressed in our Sunday best and off to church we would go, as happy as could be. We were taught the Ten Commandments and the Lord's Prayer. At the age of ten or eleven, we were ready to be confirmed by the laying on of hands by the Bishop. Then we would receive our first Holy Communion, the bread and wine as commanded by the Lord. I remember Mother making soap. She would save all the fat from the table until she got enough. Then she took ashes from the stove and poured boiling water on it to make lye. She added salt to it and put it outside to cool and harden. Next morning she would cut it into cakes and put it on boards to dry in the sun. It would be stored in the attic to be used for washing clothes and cleaning floors. My mother used a large wooden tub and a wooden washboard to wash clothes in. Sometimes in winter the water in the well would be low and she had to melt snow for water. We bought Sunlight soap to wash ourselves with, and to do the dishes. There was no liquid detergent in those days. Everyone did the best with what they had and no one complained. In later years there were large galvanized tubs and glass washboards. Small children could bathe in the large tubs. For adults, a large earthen basin and matching jug would be kept on a washstand in the bedroom, for sponge baths. My favourite pastime at night was to help my mother hook rugs. My father would make a rug hook from a fork or large needle. Then he made a large wooden frame. Hard bread and potatoes came in burlap sacks. These sacks would be ripped apart, hemmed, and laced onto the frame. Strands of burlap would be barked for colour and a pattern of choice would be marked out on the rug. Some patterns were done with pretty colours from white material we had dyed. When it was finished and taken off the frame it would be beautiful. There was no carpet in those days, but the bedrooms and hallways were covered with hooked rugs. Once every week, on a good day, the rugs would all be rolled up and taken outside to be dusted. I would do the rugs while Mother cleaned the floor before we put the rugs down again. We were always helpers. When we left home we were well trained and knew how to keep house. I thank God for my parents. They worked very hard to provide for us children. When I became a teenager I wished many times I could earn money to help them, but it was not possible. Some people were much worse off than us. Some children I know had to wear patched clothing, but we always had shoes and nice clothes. In late summer or fall my father would arrive home from Labrador. Sometimes they had a full load, but other times they had only half a load. It was very disappointing for them because they had worked so hard. The fish was taken to St. John's and shipped away. When they returned from St. John's they brought back our winter supplies. This always depended on how much fish they caught. We always looked forward to Dad coming back from St. John's. We were sure he would have something for us: a few oranges, apples, and candy as treats. Many precious souls never made it back from St. John's in the fall. There would be terrible storms at sea and many a schooner went down with all the crew lost. It would be heart-rending to all. When I was a little girl, my father's brother Uncle Chris got lost in a storm. He was married with a wife and two little children. They were living with us at the time, and he had promised to bring me a doll when he returned. Their schooner was lost with all on board. I remember the terrible time my father went through. He was broken-hearted and no one could comfort him. It seems he took it harder than anyone else. Another man from our island, Thomas Button, was lost on that boat. Their bodies were found and brought home to be buried.

 Christmastime was a very exciting time for us. We looked forward to it with joy. All work ended on Christmas Eve. Our traditional supper that day would be watered salt cod and molasses raisin bread. Even today, I like the same on Christmas Eve. It brings back pleasant memories. After supper, our tree was hung and trimmed and stockings hung. Before nine o'clock, we would be in bed, anxiously awaiting next morning to see what we received in our stockings. Next morning we would run downstairs and bring our stockings up. We found candy, apples, sometimes grapes, and candy canes. Then we would look at our tree all trimmed with fruit. Figs and apples would be dangling down. Best of all were the beautiful, big heart-shaped candy. It was so tempting to us but we had to wait out the twelve days of Christmas when the tree came down before we could eat the fruit. We wouldn't dare disobey our parents. Finally the day would came and we enjoyed eating all except the big candy hearts. They had to be carefully put away for next Christmas. The last night of Christmas we would hang our stockings up again for another time of excitement. We were truly thankful for whatever we received. The children of today are bored and unhappy even though they have so much. Christmas was twelve days of fun for everyone. We all went from house to house to share in what we had. Sometimes we would dress up in old clothes, cover our faces and go mummering. We knocked on doors and asked, "Any mummers in tonight?" In some houses we would dance, anything to make fun. There would be a soup supper and concert at the school and we'd have homemade ice cream. There was no drinking and very little smoking in those days. I never saw a girl or woman smoke. That would have been a great disgrace. Once I saw a man get sick from drinking, after a soup supper. I became very frightened and fainted. My parents had to take me home. We had a nice dinner on Christmas Day, but never turkey or chicken. Maybe ducks or pork. We raised our own pigs. Mother made sure we had a new garment to wear on New Year's Day. That was a tradition as well. We always had special clothes to wear to church but were not allowed to wear it any other time.

As a child, I loved to visit my grandfather at Newport. My grandmother died before my mother married. Mother was their only daughter and they had a son, Uncle Elias Collins. Later my grandfather remarried. I knew and liked my step-grandmother. My father's parents died before I was born, so I didn't know them. Grandfather Collins would often come up to my parents' home to visit. He always brought me something, a doll, a cap, or candy. He gave me so many little things I appreciated very much. Of course I was his first grandchild, so I got all the attention. When I got older I used to go to Newport to visit Grandfather. I loved his house. There was something special about it that still brings back good memories that I shall never forget. Uncle Elias Collins married Aunt Jane. They had a family and all lived at Grandfather's house. I can still picture my grandmother putting her white flour-bag tablecloth on the table and her beautiful homemade bread. With roasted cod and homemade jam, it would sharpen the appetite of any child. Pancake Day, the beginning of Lent, was a day we looked forward to. We knew what we would have for dinner that day. When we got home from school there would be a large plate of pancakes on the table. Each one had something inside it, such as a ring, a button, or straw. Each was supposed to mean something. The child who got the ring was going to be married first, the button meant a seamstress, the straw a good housekeeper, the nail a good carpenter. I must have gotten the nail! The person who got the nickel was supposed to get rich. We all wanted that one. The next day, Ash Wednesday, we went to church, morning and evening. We also went every Friday all through Lent. It was a solemn time when everyone was supposed to fast from something. There was no activity during that time, not even a marriage.

On Good Friday nobody would work or cook a meal. We wouldn't even throw water outdoors until after sunset. Saturday was a solemn day as well, thinking of our Lord's death, but Sunday was a day of rejoicing, remembering the Lord's Resurrection. Eggs were a treat for us children. We had a couple of hens and sometimes we watched them to find out where they laid their eggs. We were sure to save up enough so that everyone had one on Easter Sunday morning. We boiled them and put them in egg cups. Of course, Easter Monday was a big day. There were soup suppers and teas, and dancing at the school house. Valentine's Day was another day we enjoyed. We didn't send cards like children of today. Our tradition was to make a request for something in the form of a rhyme. We didn't ask for anything big, just small things, as we knew we were more likely to get them. I used to watch my mother making bread and begged her to let me do it. She wouldn't, but one day I went to Newport to visit my Aunt Elsie. She was in her sick bed and needed bread made. Her children were all younger than me, so I offered to make it. I placed the pan on a little chair and made my first bread. I had a problem putting it in the pans and couldn't see how I could manage it. I did my best and the children enjoyed it anyway. Summertime we would play outside. We would cover the top of the woodhorse and make a tent. We would chew hard bread and make cakes from it, then enjoy eating them. Wintertime I would watch my father knit or mend nets. Sometimes he would make a casting net for casting caplin. We used caplin for fertilizer on our gardens in the summer. Dad and Uncle Bill would build boats together in the wintertime, either motorboats or rowboats. The rowboat had a sail, and depending on the size, paddles or an oar. When the wind was in the right direction you could sit in the boat and have a nice time along. Sometimes I would watch Dad and Uncle Bill saw plank with a crosscut saw. One man stood in the stage while the other stood up in the stage loft and they pulled the saw up and down until the planks were sawed. When the boat was built it was caulked and painted. It was fun watching the boats being launched and given names. The motorboat had an old-fashioned engine. Before I got out of bed in the morning, I would hear the boats all around the harbour, with the click click click of the engines. Everyone was on the move as soon as the ice moved out in the spring, getting their firewood home. It had been cut in the winter and hauled out by rope and hand slide to the shoreline, ready to be loaded aboard the boat in the spring. Sometimes they would tow a small, full boat behind. They had to have enough to last until fall. It was hard bringing it all uphill to the house and sawing it up and packing it away. The women would be busy in spring also. Most everyone owned sheep. They would shear the sheep, wash, card, and spin the wool. There were plenty of mitts and socks to be knit, making sure everyone had enough for the winter. Everyone had vegetable gardens. Before starting gardening, they had to take the sheep away, as no gardens were fenced. Names were put around the sheep's necks with leather name tags. Then they were loaded into boats and taken over to Indian Bay where they were free to feed all summer. In the fall, after the vegetables were up, we'd go back for the sheep. Sadly, many of them were never found. The last one I had after I married was never found and I never got another. We would cut grass in summer and make hay to feed the sheep all winter.

Summertime we went berry picking. We would walk in a little path to the upper end of the island. Blackberries would be the first to get ripe. We got lots of them to keep Mother going, making cakes and puddings. After that it would be raspberries, red currants, and blueberries, enough to keep us busy all summer. Mother would go to the marshes to pick bakeapples and bottle them. They were delicious for desserts, lasting all through the winter. When I got older, I joined up with a crowd and we would row over to the main shore to pick bakeapples. We would be gone all day, especially if they were plentiful. We would light a fire and boil the kettle on the beach and sit down for a big feed of smoked salmon and homemade bread. Some people on the island had smokehouses and smoked salmon all summer long. We enjoyed our trip and our feeds, making sure we got home before dark. I remember the first trip I had away from home. My mother took us up to Glovertown on the steamer. It was at night and as we were coming up the bay a little bird flew down in the cabin. That caused quite a bit of excitement. Mail was carried by the steamer, both in Newfoundland and Labrador. To send a letter to someone on the Labrador, it had to be addressed to the person, name the schooner, in care of Labrador Afloat. If they chanced to connect with the steamer, they got their mail, but if not, they would be gone all summer without a word from home. If there were a death at home the steamer would raise a black flag. If there were a telegram for anyone on our island, a flag would be raised on a pole at Fair Island. Someone would go up in boat to get the message. Often it wasn't for the person who went for the message, but there was much co-operation among the people. The mail boat brought our mail and we loved to see it coming in the harbour. To get the train we would go by passenger boat to Gambo to connect with it. My first trip on the train was when I was about twelve years old. My mother went to Fair Island with me where we met with Caleb Ackerman who was going through on the train. I was going to Glovertown, so she put me in his care. All my teenage years I spent away from home. The first summer I spent at Traytown with Uncle John and Aunt Florence Littlejohn. Aunt Florence's family were all grown so she wrote Mother and asked her to let me come and spend the summer with her. The following summer I came back to Traytown to work with the Kean family. When I was fifteen, I went to Glovertown to work with Aunt Jane Holloway. She had four sons at home, but was unable to work. She was a dear lady and each day would manage to get downstairs and sit in her chair. She showed me what to do. I would wash, cook, and clean for them. People were so limited in those days, with no jobs and very little money. I remember I got five dollars and bought myself a nice grey coat. I was so pleased with it, and later got enough to buy a pair of white sneakers. Aunt Jane taught me how to card and spin sheep's wool. I knitted socks for the boys. That benefited me much in years to come. The next time I left home it was with my parents. They moved up to Lockyer's Bay to cut logs. I spent one night with them. The next day I went to Hare Bay and got a job with Percy and Nellie Wells who owned a business and took boarders. I earned five dollars a month. I stayed for six months and went home in the spring. Transportation from Hare Bay wasn't easy. I knew the Matthews brothers were at Trinity building their schooner and would be going to the island on the weekend. I decided to go Trinity and go home with them. There I met Walter Matthews, who became my boyfriend and later my husband. Later that spring I made up my mind to do something I never thought I could do, because I didn't like being on the water. I was always seasick.

Father was going to Labrador with Uncle Bill Wicks in the Polly Bee. They needed a cook and asked me to go, so I decided I would go. I thought that I might meet up with Walter sometime during the summer, but I was in for a big disappointment. His crowd was home a month before we got back. We left home the first of July and arrived home the sixth of October. It was a terrible long trip, and unusual to be that late getting home. We were over a month on the water. Everyone at home was worried and wondered if they'd ever see us again. It was not all hard times, though fish was scarce and we only got part of a load. We went down as far as Mount Pike. One day, it was a beautiful morning and all the men from our schooner and the schooner nearby had gone out to haul their traps. I didn't know anyone lived near where we were, but we saw a boat coming toward us, and heard men talking. The girl on the other schooner was just as scared as I was. Two dark men were coming right for our schooners. I didn't know what to do. First they went to the back of the schooner, I guess, to see her name. They were talking loudly in their own tongue. They could speak some English, and one man came over talking to me. He asked where I was from, and my age, and then asked me to marry him. I was scared stiff and didn't know what to do. I had bread baking in the oven, but I was afraid to go down to take it out. They had a loaf of dry bread and jug of water in their boat. They kept getting down in their boat to break off a piece of bread. I knew they were hungry and if I hadn't been so afraid I would have given them a meal, as I was taught to be kind to people. I had never seen a black man before, and I guess, the fear instilled as a child came forth. As children, we were told not to tell lies or the black man would have us. That meant the devil. We never questioned the old people, but I did fear the black man. I'm sure it was this fear that so terrified me. I didn't even know there were coloured people in the world, at that time. We came up to a place called Ford's Harbour and I came in contact with Eskimos again. I was on the schooner alone this time also. I heard them come and was still very much afraid. I had heard that Eskimos didn't like heat, so I went down in the forecastle and put lots of wood in the stove, hoping the heat would drive them away. 

Two women and two or three men came aboard. They went back and forth, looking at everything they could see. Then the old man came up to me and asked my name and age. I told him, even though I was almost too scared to speak. After that, a woman came over. They admired my hair. We all black hair, she said. I was wearing a red skirt. They admired red and wanted so much to have it. I knew they were hungry, so I invited them to have some pea soup I had cooked. They couldn't stay long because it was too hot for them. They brought a pair of beaded slippers and a little purse made of sealskin, which they wanted to exchange for some clothes. I looked among my clothes and gave them all I could spare. I really enjoyed my fur slippers and have never seen a pair like it since. The first of July when we left home it was a beautiful day. We planned to have fish and brewis for supper. When we were coming in to Seldom the wind changed and the schooner listed on her side. The pot with the fish and brewis came off the stove and over the floor. I didn't cook under sail anymore. I was too seasick for that. We got caught in a terrible storm that came on suddenly. I was down in the forecastle and couldn't get back to the cabin where I used to stay under sail. The storm didn't feel so bad back there. However, I climbed up in the top bunk and held on for dear life. Every time she took a nose-dive, water came into the forecastle. It took two men pumping constantly to keep the water out. Every man did his best to get back to land. Every now and then I heard someone shout to ask someone to check on me to see if I was still alive. We had been out in some high winds and heavy seas, but that storm was the worst. The Polly Bee was very old. She had no engine and they had to depend on the wind. When it came the wrong way it would be tough going, and when it was calm, sails were no good.

They would put out the motorboat to tow the schooner. You can imagine how far we would get in a day with a small boat towing a big schooner. When we crossed the Strait of Belle Isle, it was so calm the men put the oars out and started rowing. We all looked forward to that wonderful day when we would reach home. Each day brought us a little closer. We never despaired, thinking of the joyful reunion we would have with our families who were anxiously awaiting our return. My boyfriend was also anxiously awaiting. Tears of joy were shed that sixth day of October when we sailed in the harbour. Mom had a beautiful supper prepared for us, with bakeapples for dessert. To meet up with my boyfriend that night was an experience of homecoming one could not forget. Uncle Sam Wicks's wife had a new baby the day we came home. So after spending one day at home, I went over to help my aunt take care of her family for a few days. I was hoping to go to St. John's in the fall, but it looked hopeless for me. Our schooner had been so late getting home, and it would be very late before they had their fish ready to take to St. John's. However, the Silver Jubilee had been home early, and ready to take their fish in. It would be the first trip to St. John's for the Silver Jubilee and a couple of the Matthews women were going and asked me to come along. I gladly accepted and we had a very enjoyable trip. I worried about Dad and the crew of the Polly Bee having to travel so late in the fall. However, God took care of them and they made it back safely. I was married to Walter Matthews at the age of eighteen, in St. Andrew's Church on Silver Fox Island, on June 5, 1936. We didn't have much of this world's goods or a big wedding, or large gifts as people get today. But we loved each other and love covers it all. I remember the day I walked down the church aisle with the man I loved. I felt like the happiest person in the whole world.

Submitted and reformatted for www.Freshwaterbay.blogspot.com