This story represents the first of my writings about Brent’s Cove. I’m still not sure if I made this short story too long or to short. Brent’s Cove for a young boy or girl represented a spacious playground with hills, trees and ocean; an incredible place, safe and cut off from the rest of the world during the winter. Every child’s delight, the coming of the snows meant sledding, skating and making snowmen. Christmas was magical. We firmly believed in Santa Claus, and our parents went through strides to ensure we became totally caught up in the magic. I can only assume they too found some magic. No televisions, no electricity, no refrigerator, no furnace, no running water. Outhouses, iced over water buckets, Kerosene lamps, fresh bread, donkeys(edible kind). The Tree by Russell Loyola Sullivan This time of year all around the shore, the land offered an endless tapestry of green and white. The sparse stands of birch had, long into late summer, lost their leaves and in any case, being far outnumbered by the stubby spruce and Christmas fir that dominated the area, had disappeared into the landscape. The jagged rocks and steep hills of the rugged coast now stood enveloped in rolling banks of white; the gray forms of stoic hills and ridges not to be seen again until late May of next year. This setting made up the Coves backyard; few fences to mark ownership. A quarter mile in any direction from our house one would find either the protected water of the Cove, or pristine wilderness and all its ponds, rivers and streams. We had been walking (or rather trudging) for some time with out dad in the lead and we approached a spot behind the White Hills north of Hokinsons pond. If you listened hard enough you would hear the snow falling in a constant whisper with only an intermittent chirp from a blue jay or two to mix with the quiet slumber of the downy spill. We travelled with a mission invoked by the time of year being the beginning of December. Snow had been falling on a fairly regular basis since mid October. A considerable amount of snow covered the ground, so the snowshoes we wore, if presenting a struggle to walk, saved us from sinking to our waists, or for our dad, up pass his knees. We might have used the regular path to get to our Christmas tree; out our front gate, pass a few other Sullivan houses and up over the “White Hills”. The path there utilized by local traffic was trampled-down from the many feet that moved along the cove, coupled with horse and sled teams pulling logs from “the woods.” We wanted the fun of snowshoes, and the feeling of being out in the woods alone with our dad. So we had headed out through the backwoods behind our house over the fresh fallen snow. The only tracks besides ours were the winter bird hops like a series of triple matchstick imprints going off in all directions, and the rare tracks of fox or rabbit out looking for food. The trees we sought grew with our concerns in mind, or so we assumed. They mostly stood out on their own, allowing us to navigate from tree to tree and walk around their boughs to confirm suitability. In reality of course the scarcity of soil over the rocky landscape gave little chance for a thick forest to take hold. The small stands of trees took hold in clumps, but we assumed it our private Christmas tree showplace. In less than ten minutes our decision made, the crack of my dad’s sharp axe rang through the otherwise silent woods. Three chops to one side, three chops to the other side, a push from a mittened hand and down came our Christmas tree. One more chop and the fallen tree separated from its stump, my dad’s job finished. Our part of the bargain, my sister and I, involved having to get the Christmas tree home. She eleven years old and me nine took turns dragging the tree; trunk first, falling down more than once along the way in the soft snow. The effort we put in represented a happy burden. The tree marked the beginning of Christmas, by far the most important, the most joyful, the most expectant, and the most celebrated holiday of the year for not only us but most everyone in the Cove. Even at four in the afternoon in early December, the night drew near its mantle of evening, and long shadows crossed our path as the sun skipped from tree to tree, keeping an anxious eye on our progress. The mile home took about thirty minutes, our precious tree tugging along behind us. Our hefty snowshoes also acted as an added drag on an otherwise hurried approach to get our prize home and inside. The first building to see as we crossed down unto our property was the woodhouse; and a little further down pass a small ticket of alders stood the old house which was very much our home. The house stood two stories, clapboard, and pale green with a funnel extending out its top directly up from the wood stove in the kitchen. A veranda extended the full width of the house. The snow already accumulated to the top step and snow still fell with the intent to bury everything in sight. On the front side of the house to the left hung the storm door which led into the porch adjoining the kitchen. We needed to be careful entering the porch. Each limb of our tree had to be kept in tact, and all seven feet of tree guarded with protective hands until inside. Once in the porch, dad took the bucksaw and cut an even bottom to be set in a bucket of water to help with preservation. He usually waited until just before putting the tree in water to cut its stem; seeing the bucksaw, he muttered, “make hay while the sun still shines” and proceeded to cut off a piece from the bottom of the tree. Boots and outer clothes came off in the porch even though the porch was cold as the outside. No lights or windows in this room; its only purpose was to store boots, outer clothes, two buckets of fresh water used for drinking and a row of stacked wood along the wall to feed the ever hungry stove inside the kitchen. At the far right side of the porch was the door to the kitchen, closed in winter to minimize the drafts. On entering the kitchen a flush of warmth embraced us, as the kitchen stove roared with the wood fire which served to heat, not just that room but indeed the entire house. Two oil lamps glowed bright, their wicks turned up high; one on the kitchen table and the other on a mantle overlooking the rocking chair where dad would sit and listen to the radio. The kitchen represented by far the biggest and most important room in the house. In one corner sat the wood stove. Bigger than most with six dampers to cook on, a lower oven for baking, an upper oven, (hung like a mirror on a chest of drawers and protruding out over the stove some foot and a half above the dampers) for warming and a tank on the far side which held a supply of warm water. Against one wall between the door leading out to the porch and the door on the right leading to the dining room was a small stand containing a white enameled pan for hand and face washing. On one side of the stand hung the leather strap my dad used to sharpen his razor. On the other side hung a towel next to a large picture jug used to carry and dispense the water for washing and shaving. A small cabinet on the wall above the stand held a cake of soap, two combs, a hair brush, a set of hair chippers and a barber’s razor inside the original case, though the case was well worn from the many times being opened and closed. To the right of the stove attached to the wall hung a coo-coo clock. The fixture was brown, ornate with intricate wood carvings of small birds; a long chain with an iron plug on the end served as the ballast of energy which made the clock keep time. The top of the clock contained a small window from which a coo-coo bird would pop out his head on the hour to make as many coo-coos as represented by the hour of the day or night. Covering the walls of the far corner diagonally across from the stove was a small row of cabinets, and protruding up through the floor a hand cranking pump that had been put in place some years ago but was yet to earn its keep by giving water; the well below not being deep enough to sustain any level of water or perhaps an underground stream now diverted by nature. Next to the cabinets sat the kitchen table covered with the water proof white and red checkered table cloth; and beside the kitchen table the rocking chair just in front of the radio. Should you be awake and inside a house anywhere in the Cove, chances are you sat in the kitchen, especially in winter. The kitchen was the warmest room and the place where all socializing took place, both with family and any visiting neighbors; the funnel room above the kitchen being the second warmest. “So, you’re home” said my mother as she prepared to put another junk of wood on the fire. “How was the tree hunting?” “Oh, mom, we got the best tree ever,” my sister answered full of excitement. “Can we put it up now?” “No, not now, there is still snow on the branches. Leave it in the porch. We will get the snow off tomorrow, and put the bulbs on Monday after supper”. “Mom that’s two days away, I chimed in. “I have to get the boxes of decoration from the “room, she replied. “I don’t have time until tomorrow.” The “room” was off the dining room and stood locked for all the years I had been alive. I only ever went inside the room under supervision, never to stay long, never to sit, only to help put something in or take something out as the case my be. It was the special room. The room contained the “good” furniture; a sofa smelling and looking brand-new as the day purchased, a side board polished and ornate, framed pictures, nick-knacks, a stuffed seal, and what looked to any child to be a gold mind of treasures. What the room’s real function was remained a mystery. The room was never used even when the highest of company entered our house. It would never be lonely if a person never entered the space again. “Any news along the shore?” Dad piped in while glancing to the radio. “I missed the one o’clock,” came her reply, as he reached for the left-hand knob which controlled the on/off switch of the “Silver Tone” radio. The radio had been a present from mom to him a couple of years ago on his forty-sixth birthday. The face of the radio was a dark brown wood with gold-like mesh in the center. Two wires stuck out the back and ran to a large dry cell battery on the floor that served to provide its “power. A small plaque was screwed to the front near the bottom reading “To Pad, love Mary - 1958.” Only two knobs protruded, one to turn the radio on and regulate volume, and a second to search for a station. In our case there was only one station that could be picked up this far north from St. John’s so that knob never moved. “Well I can get the five o’clock; should be on in a few minutes.” He sat down in the rocking chair to begin the evening vigil” “Supper will be ready in a few minutes, so you children wash your hands. Throw out the water in the pan first. It’s been there since morning, mom added, after a pause to put the damper back on the stove and move the poker to a side damper so it would not get too hot to handle. My sister moved to do as we were told; the evening DOSCO news began, and my dad settled in to listen, just as all fifty families who lived in the cove might probably be doing at this time. “Good Evening, this is Peter Morrissey with the five o’clock DOSCO news. “This evening’s news is brought to you by Carnation Milk and DOSCO, our sponsors for the five o’clock news in Newfoundland.” “The Northern Ranger left LaScie at 2 pm this after noon on route to Twillingate on its turn back to St. John’s.” “Seas are reported rough with swells up to ten feet. Weather forecast for the area is for snow ending this evening and a clear night…” And on the news went for the next half-hour, The news ended with “radio messages” from folks who were away travelling for whatever reason (to have a baby, an operation, a holiday, though not this time of year) and wanted to get a message back to some one in their particular fishing cove.” Eighty percent of the messages came from women to men; women mostly went to the hospital, either to deliver babies, or else with a sick child or relative. Men stayed home. Dad had never been to a hospital, not even to be born. Mom had gone many times. Four children in all, two boys had since died, all a part of life in a remote fishing village. Telephones came rare, one to a community at best. Telephones were expensive to use, and you probably could not talk to whom you wanted to anyway. You would have to wait for them to be gotten from their home; a home which was often a good walk there and back, thus making the episode an unreasonable option of communication unless in the greatest of emergencies. So messages on the radio represented the usual means of long distance communication; folks stayed tuned to their radio …….. “Beth Mackey from Harbor Round….. “had 6 ½ pound baby boy, both doing well, hello to Matt and sons.” “John Bartlett from La Scie…. “Need to stay another two days, hello to May, and please forty dollars to .....” “Susan to Greg Barker in Baie Verte……. “be home soon, good time had by all”. The DOSCO news continued until all messages got read from love ones to love ones. After the news supper was put on the table. Salt ribs, boiled potatoes, and sweet mustard pickles from the bottle. The bottle had been opened before, so my sister and I did not dive for the jar, the cauliflower had already been gobbled up and only the regular pickles and small onions in sweet mustard remained. “I don’t feel hungry,” said my dad stirring from his chair. I’ll have a cup of tea until my stomach feels better.” “I’ll put it in the oven for you, said mom. You can have a bite later.” The coo-coo clock announced six o’clock; the outside now dark with little specks of lights in the distance from the windows of houses along the Cove. Dad lay down on the couch, his favorite spot for an early evening snooze. He was up early and to bed late so he liked his snooze in the early evening. He would then get up and listen to the late news before retiring for the evening. After supper and before the evening news, in advance of my sister and me heading off to bed we all ascended to our knees for the rosary. We each had our own set of Beads, and my sister and I were required to recite the particular set of mysteries for the evening. Mine were the sorrowful mysteries. Five mysteries, five sets (ten to a set) of “Hail Mary’s”, Holy Mary’s”; “Our Fathers” and “Glory Be’s” at the end of each set and we were done. Then one quick look at our Christmas tree and off to bed, my sister in the funnel room, me in the room next to dad and mom, big down quilt to keep me warm and a pee pot under the bed if I needed to relieve myself during the night. A lamp with its wick turned down was in the hallway outside, a help should we have to move around in the late of night. The next day rose bright and clear and being Sunday we would be required to go to mass; first dunkeys for breakfast. The dunkeys were made from left over dough from the fresh bread always made on Saturday evening. The dough was fried in a frying pan with fat back and covered with butter and molasses. Usually Dad made breakfast; this morning Mom insisted he take it easy while she made breakfast. In the porch we put on our boots and winter clothes. The Christmas tree still held onto its snow, though its special scent filled the porch. The scent was what stayed in your senses even after the tree was gone. If you never smelled another Christmas tree until next year you could not forget the scent. It’s what made it special even before the decorations. A quick inspection and off to mass. Back from mass at about 11o’clock, the rest of the day would be quiet. First the chores. Armfuls of chopped wood from the woodhouse. A small wood box next to the stove in the kitchen needed filling, and the pile in the porch had to be brought up to full. After the wood we took the old square hoop and the two one-gallon buckets over to Patty’s well and returned with fresh water. Your hope was someone else had gotten there first and already chopped through the ice to get to the water. Sunday usually meant an oven baked hen from our own hen house; not this Sunday as dad still felt his “bad” stomach acting up, so we went with fried baloney while he listened to the DOSCO news. The Northern Ranger cruised well on its way to St. John’s; we would not see her down (in reality up) our way for another two weeks. Any travel we had to make would be on foot in deep snow. Each fishing village was essentially the same, family homes along the shore, a church, a small school, and a lightly stocked general store. If you wanted to travel any distance after the snow set in then you waited for the Northern Ranger to arrive. Pack ice might very well hamper those visits. Short trips would be made on dog and sled if required, but only to another near-by cove like the one you were in. All else waited until spring. This represented why the news always started with the port of the Northern Ranger and her course. Sunday night the five o’clock DOSCO news went on for two hours, to repeat special messages that aired during the week in addition to the new ones; repeated on Sunday to ensure being heard, as no one but no one would miss the Sunday night radio news. Sunday sought to be the most important day of our lives. ***** Tuesday after-noon we returned from Aunt Lys’s. We entered the porch and silently took off our winter clothes. The tree sat there though no longer holding onto its snow. It looked different somehow. Slanted up against the wall, the lower boughs bent upward towards the ceiling and the top slouched crooked. The tree no longer shined with the expectation of decorations which would not come. It was a dead tree. Sap seeped from its base and puddled on the cold canvas floor like bubbles of tears. Perhaps the tree was destined to become this way from the first chop; after all we had never had a reason in prior years to notice its rapid decline in health. We would bring it inside, adorn the boughs with decorations and presents and toss the tree outside once Christmas was over. It was always there for our pleasure. We did not comprehend that this particular tree would never be again. We assumed it was ours to have, to celebrate. We never turned our minds to what would happen to it after Christmas. There would always be another one to replace it next year. The death of one tree was of interest to no one and after-all Christmas was not a time to think of death. We opened the kitchen door and entered the kitchen to see mom sitting in the rocking chair cutting a coil of black ribbon into pieces. The five o’clock DOSCO news was ending with the usual messages……. “and now a special note, Pad Sullivan of Brents Cove died last night leaving behind to mourn, his wife and two children.” “The Northern Ranger altered it course back towards the cove in an attempt to get him to hospital, but could not get there in time” “And finally the weather.” “It looks like we’re in for a cold Winter……..” That was obviously not the great Christmas that I alluded to at the beginning of the story. My dad had stomach problems for awhile. He was not one to go to a doctor, not unlike the rest of the folks in Brent’s cove. His ulcers perforated just before Christmas, he was of course poisoned and died within two days. He knew he was dying, and both me and my sister got to say “good-bye”. Such a silly condition to die from in today’s environment; but, all too common in the isolated settlements of Newfoundland in the 1950’s and prior. But I did have many great Christmases in Brent’s Cove, and vivid memories to this day. I remember Janning aka Mummering, where we would dress up and dance or sing to get a cookie and a glass of ginger drink. this would extend from Christmas to Little Christmas. I remember that most kids got sleds, and we would be out sledding on the many hills that were available. The death of my dad ended my life in the Cove as we moved to St. John’s the following summer where the boy from the bay disappeared for a long time.
Posted on: Sat, 30 Nov 2013 20:34:09 +0000
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