It has been said that ‘the
savage craves his native shore’ and that is exactly what
happened to me: the pull back to the Island of Newfoundland. My
husband and I were both born and raised in Newfoundland, a huge
Island in the North Atlantic that is the tenth Province of
Canada. It’s culture is unique, distinct, and kind. Thousands of
boats fill the little coves and bays, the fishery is dying now
because the Northern Cod Stocks are at such a low level, but the
grit of the Newfoundlander keeps the province going. The mix of
cultures, Irish, British, Scottish, French, are all blended
together, with a Native Indian Reservation still thriving as
well. Music abounds, talent is everywhere and Newfoundlanders
are known for their wit, their ‘don’t give a darn’ outlook on
life and their kindness to friend and foe. Yes, this Island of
ours in the Sea, known as ‘The Rock’ is a special place with
sunsets and sunrises so glorious your heart can ache at the
sight of it all. There are miles and miles of wilderness
unexplored, that man has never set foot on, and we love it just
the way it is. Baby boomers are returning to retire by the
hundreds, and the joke is made that ‘Newfoundland is
experiencing a ‘Boom’ !.
The
Newfoundland accent is a mixture of all cultures, but a person
from the capital city of St. John’s could easily be mistaken as
a person from Dublin, Ireland. That part of our province is very
Irish. As a matter of fact if you stand on the shoreline on the
east coast of Newfoundland and look out to sea, you have to
realize if you start out in a boat, your next stop is Ireland!
The Province abounds with wildlife, has a population of 500,000
which is slowly dwindling, as is the birth rate, as the fishery
declines and young people move away to greener pastures.
After marrying I had to
leave the land of my birth as my husband was one of Canadas’
Mounties, and they could not serve in their own province. So for
thirty-five years we worked and raised our family in Nova
Scotia. In those thirty-plus years my life had been guided by
the ebb and flow of hospital life and the seasonal concerns of
the farmers. I had yearned at times for the feel of the salt
air, the shore breezes of home=to just be outside and look at
the ocean.
Over the years it became
more discomforting to have a sense of not being where you felt
you should be. This was not something I or my husband had
planned or anticipated. Finally after our children had grown and
flown to the Canadian West to start their own lives, it was time
to come home. We were mind-boggled by the emotions we were
experiencing, we were tired of the long hours and the commute to
the city for him every day was becoming more tiring, and in
essence we really had no reason to stay in another province. We
were both in a position to retire early, we both had passions
and hobbies to pursue, my parents were getting older, his had
long since left us, and the pull was too great to ignore. I flew
to Gander, Newfoundland, rented a car and drove and drove, miles
and miles around the bays and coves and eventually came to Shoal
Harbor, my husbands’ hometown. It is a small seaside community,
and it had a huge house, its’ peaked roof reaching for the sky,
and the smell of lilacs and wild roses surrounding it, a house
that was his now, a house that needed somebody to make it less
lonely. His parents were gone, but the house and workshop were
his and his sisters; he would love the house as he always had.
Returning to Nova Scotia
we spent much time planning and deciding, and eventually, just
as we knew we should, we moved back to Trinity Bay, and the land
of his forefathers.
The moving was bittersweet
and emotions ran high, because we were leaving behind so many
good friends, a comfortable way of life, a more moderate
climate-in fact a whole different way of life. But the pull was
too strong to ignore. Our house sold in one day, taking us by
surprise, and from then on it was nonstop planning, saying our
farewells and getting on with the relocation. After all was said
and done we drove off the Argentia Ferry onto the shores of
Newfoundland at one o’clock in the morning, June 29, 2000. Not
even the two hour drive to Shoal Harbor, socked in by fog,
driving separate vehicles, with an upset cat, did anything to
dampen our spirits. We were back, come what may.
Almost a year later began
my first Spring to be spent in Newfoundland. I found myself
outside on a beautiful spring day pruning the rose bushes, the
black currants and blueberry bushes, and last but not least, the
dear old lilac tree still standing the test of time, having
grown so much over the years. I raised the pruning shears and
snipped a few old limbs, then all of a sudden I snipped a small
shoot and I caught the scent of the lilac, and memories long
locked in the chambers of my mind came tumbling forth, a rush or
treasures. The scent was the key to the lock.
I remembered my first
visit here to meet my future in-laws, graduating from nursing
school at the Grace Hospital, planning a wedding, and meeting my
finances’ friends from childhood days.
Then there was the
wedding, the moving away, coming back bringing a baby boy who
loved to jump and sway in the Jolly Jumper, the dent of the hook
still visible in the doorway that held it for him. The little
boy loving his times with his grandfather who taught him about
woodworking, the boy who is now a man of thirty,stands six feet,
four inches and would probably have to bend his head to walk
through this same doorway.
Then the visit back with
him and his baby sister, a little girl who loved the flowers and
the beach, who splashed glue and paint on rocks and stuck them
together to make ‘Pet Rock families’. Two children who grew to
love the visits to swim in the ‘Trout Hole’, the days spent
berry picking, the picnics, birthday parties with family and
friends, and the trip to Terra Nova National Park on each
vacation.
Then there was the one
special trip to the park when the capelin were rolling in and
they stood in the water with the little fish swirling around
their legs yelling "Look at all the fish Mom!"
I remembered the little
friends they made, who sometimes joined us on our forays, my
son’s attraction to his Poppys’ workshop, the fascination my
daughter had for the paint and paint brush her Poppy gave her,
her red paint dabbed here and there on the workbench and step.
The old Lilac bush caused
a stir every year at blossom time when I would call my
mother-in-law and let her know that my Nova Scotia Lilac was in
bloom. Every year she would patiently tell me that
Newfoundland’s growing season was a month behind Nova Scotia but
the buds were out and she expected blossoms any day! It became a
family story, the lilac blossom competition. The sweet memory of
the children picking the black currants, the sea roses, and the
lilac blooms and bringing them to Nanny, with a few buttercups
thrown in for good measure. Nanny would make such a occasion
over finding a nice vase to display her bouquet, carefully
arranging it while they watched, so proud of their offering.
Then also were the sad
memories, those of coming home to funerals, of opening Christmas
gifts already arrived from Nova Scotia but Poppy would not get
to open. Then coming home with just a young daughter, her
brother having left the nest, then of course coming back again
without her, back to being just the two of us again. Then the
not coming back as there was no longer anyone left in Shoal
Harbor to visit anymore.
The lilac is in bud, the
smell so sweet, and now is lovingly pruned as are the roses,
after five years of being forgotten. The Lilac stands alone, the
trunk weathered and old but the new shoots holding the promise
of blossoms once again. It faces the sea, and is a living
reminder that life continues and traditions live on.
The little girl who
visited here for so many years comes back to visit now, bringing
her own little girl and her young husband and they visit all the
old familiar places that she remembers from her childhood. So we
are the Nanny and Poppy Lowe now. Now we know how they felt, why
they didn’t care about a splash of red paint here and there, why
they didn’t get upset about the bucket of carefully chosen rocks
spread out on the kitchen floor, why they didn’t complain about
the noise of children sliding down the worn stair bannister. Now
we too know why the terror of an unidentified insect brought
into the house in a bottle and set free, causing Nanny to stand
on a chair until the huge moth was recaptured did nothing but
cause us all to laugh with her as she overreacted to the
incident, purely for the children s’ entertainment.
Now we Know.
The house is in and of
itself a box of memories, the Lilac a symbol of times
past-standing in quiet company beside the house. Now it is our
turn, that stage in our lives that finds us waiting anxiously
for the headlights of a vehicle coming down the lane when
friends or family is expected. Now we know the wait is worth it
when the hugs are spread around and everyone is talking at the
same time, carried away with the excitement of the reunion.
The lesson is told that
life is a continuum, but we don’t really know that until we
experience it on a personal level. Now we know the best lesson
of all, we know that we are back again in the place where we
belong.
Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe
ŠAll Rights Reserved. Story submitted by Bonnie Jarvis-Lowe
