St. John’s Street, a Grenadian Street There are spots in Grenada that evoke a special fondness. One can think of the Lance and the myriad things that made it a favored place in the minds of Grenadians. The Lance is the Lance and will always be the Lance and there is no other Lance. But there is another place, a sort of “self-contained township” called St. John’s Street. When one eventually peruses the varied chapters in the history of Grenada, somewhere tucked within the informative pages should be the story of St. John’s Street. The street, which opens like a river’s mouth engulfing the sanctity of the Catholic Church at the top and runs right down to the rumshops at the foot, has its own story to tell. St Johns Street has a story like all the other places in Grenada Grenadians, who obtain great energy sustained from the big jacks, coo coo, sea moss and yams, climb St. John’s Street with relative ease. They walk up the street for different reasons. Some, on reaching the top, go straight to the church and repent after drinking rum at the bottom. Others, who get themselves in trouble, make a right and end up in the nearby courthouse. School children take easy strides as they head for PBC, Mother Rose and St. Joseph Convent. There are those, who on reaching the top, are afraid to turn left because they will end up among their dearly departed on Cemetery Hill. They prefer to visit those departed souls only on All Saint’s night. St. John’s Street is therefore a convenient shortcut to various destinations. It is a designated bus route too. The last time I was in Grenada, I had to scamper to escape the darting buses on St. John’s Street. One cannot speak of St. John’s Street and omit its many shops. It is essential to include the part played by shopkeepers of Indian descent who lent their vigor to advance the economic stability of Grenada I cannot tell you all the reasons why Mr. Peters, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Coomansingh chose St John’s Street. It was, however, a good place to purchase pig’s snout, saltbeef, sugar and flour. The Syrians loved the area where Halifax Street kissed St. John’s Street. The Syrians walked all over the place selling “teleeleen” cloth and before one could have uttered brango, they opened a shop already. Grenadians grew familiar with names like Nahous and Aboud. Aboud initially sprung up on St. John’s Street. I can still remember the Radio advertisement: Aboud for shoe Aboud for shoe Aboud for shoe Aboud for shoe? Yes, Aboud for shoe, Abu, Abu, Abu for shoe, shoe, shoe. Syrians started coming to Grenada in greater numbers during the nineteen sixties. They were first spotted toting suitcases and selling “teleeleeeen.” They used to roll their tongue as they said the word. Have you ever heard a Syrian say the words “Teleeleeeen, teleeleeeen, five dollaaas?” They sold all kinds of cloth, including crimpeleen. The only cloth the Syrians did not sell to Grenadians was flour bags. Grenadians got that freely from the shops. There were the other shops. Mrs. Romain’s shop quickly comes to mind. I still see the leeches in the bottles. In those days, leeches were important and Grenadians knew how important leeches were to medicine. I still picture Mato, Conqueror, Big Chow, Cashier and a calypsonian called the Mighty Lizard hanging out in front of the shop. Lizard was the calypsonian that told Wakax his mother so and so when the music kept breaking down in Queen’s Park. One must not forget Clouden’s shop and the female entrepreneur par excellence called Mama Aird. Mama Aird imported those Volkswagen cars CPD now loves. It’s still easy to visualize young men jooking billiards on the boards Mama Aird provided on St. John’s Street. When they grew tired playing by Mama Aird, they hurried over to McMonroe’s place for some more jooking. These days Grenadians jook pool with style. Many women forgot how to jook a jooking board, but retained their jooking style on Carnival day. One must not leave out two very important enterprises that sprung up on St. Johns Street—Mckie Printery and Photo studio and Clarkes Printery were printing pioneers in Grenada. When one speaks of St. John’s Street, it is imperative to talk about the small funeral agencies. Anyone remembers Papa Hinds and Holas? Stiff competition existed between those two. Their huss were not as fancy as La Qua’s, but they served a purpose on St. John’s Street. It was said that undertakers used to go to the hospital and ask people how they were feeling and who were their relatives. Then, they looked to see if they had suitable coffins. A coffin was never too short as they were skilled in the craft of shortening people to make them fit the coffin. Viewing a foot was never important and one hardly got to see the foot anyway. Have you ever seen a funeral procession go down St. John’s Street? Then you have probably seen old people pull brakes. Following the huss down St. John’s Street was never easy. It required, and still calls for, good foot balance and the ability to suddenly halt. If the huss suddenly pulled brakes, one had to pull brakes too to avoid a collision with the coffin. St. John’s Street was the escape route masqueraders took when blows began to pelt one Carnival day. The mas people ran all the way up St. John’s Street and headed for Cemetery Hill. They ran just like people ran when the Mongoose Gang got bad in town. They ran the same way people ran from Belmar, the policeman. During the big looting in Gairy’s time, people carried all kinds of heavy stuff up St. John’s Street. Don’t ask me how they did it! Perhaps it was the bluggoe that gave them the energy. Some ended up, unintentionally, dragging away dog food all the way past the tailor shops that stood on St. John’s Street. A woman carried a huge bed up that street. St. John’s Street is indeed an important street. It remains a special street. It was special when prominent citizens like the Justice of Peace R. C. P. Moore and the politician Doc Mitchell lived there. St Johns Street is as famous as Melville Street, where one can find dead fish in the fish market, dead cows in the meat market and dead people in La Quas funeral home. But that is a story for another day. Anthony Wendell DeRiggs
Posted on: Thu, 31 Oct 2013 09:31:49 +0000
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