On one of my trips into St. John's I encountered the Rev. Newton Steacy and was surprised to learn that he had left the ministry and had joined the Federal Civil Service. Sometime later I went to Halifax for a reading week at Pine Hill - the Maritime United Church of Canada seminary. While on the return flight to St. John's my seat companion was Newton Steacy. He and his family were living in Ottawa and were attending Westboro United Church. The assistant minister had left and Dr. Dan Matheson - the senior pastor - was looking for a replacement. Would I be interested?
I was flabbergasted but replied, "Yes!" A short time later I was flown to Ottawa to spend a few days with the Mathesons and at Westboro United. I was very impressed and, fortunately, so were they by me!
Before leaving the topic of Bell Island and Newfoundland, there are a few more remarks that I want to make. Yes - there were cultural differences - some of which were huge - but I did like the people whom I had met.
As readers may have guessed, I had my differences with 'Uncle George' Normore but, when he passed some months after I left, I received a telegram from his widow telling me of his passing. I was saddened.
Newfoundland must have the most unusual place names of anywhere. For instance, the village a few miles north of Portugal Cove - still on the shore of Conception Bay - is Pouch (pronounced locally as 'Pooch') Cove. Around Conception Bay on the other side are Harbour Grace and, nearby, are Hearts Delight, Hearts Content and Hearts Desire. Further north are Joe Batt's Arm and, where the refinery is located, is Come-by-Chance. One of my classmates spent a year or two at Nippers Harbour up in the Baie Verte area.
I visited Doug and his family up there and was given a tour. We saw a huge iceberg beached a couple of hundred yards from the highway along the shore. Also, Doug took me to the Parish Cemetery - a rectangular plot of land. He pointed out the fence which surrounded it and how, at one point, the fence jogged around one grave and then returned to the original alignment. That was the grave of a young man who had committed suicide. At the time of the incident it was thought to be a mortal sin to take one's own life so he was not allowed to be buried beside his family. Fortunately, at some later date, better thinking allowed them to realign the fence to allow his remains to lie within the hallowed grounds.
On the Monday of the Victoria Day weekend a friend and I went for a long drive. We drove northwest up the Trans Canada Highway to the junction of the highway leading down to the Burin Peninsula and the other ferry landing for boats from North Sydney. From there we drove towards St Pierre and Miquelon (the French prefectures remaining within Canadian territorial waters - that gave France the privilege of fishing for cod in our waters). From there we continued east and then north past Cape St Mary's ("Fishing off Cape St Mary's" is a popular Newfoundland folk song), up past Cape Race - the most easterly point in continental North America - and back to St John's.
What do I remember best about that trip? It was on the weekend called "The Widow's Holiday" as it marks the opening of fishing season for trout in the ponds - and it was cloudy and cool with intermittent showers.
The Reading Week at Pine Hill was almost canceled for me because of the amount of 'slob ice' clogging Conception Bay barring me from access to St John's Airport. Fortunately, the ice between Bell Island and the south shore was not as thick so someone ferried me to one of the communities over there from where I was able to get a ride around to the airport.
Once I was on the mainland fog rolled in and I became stranded in Halifax for the better part of the week. I filled my time by sightseeing and going to movies. One of the films that I saw while I was there was Franco Zeffirelli's "Brother Son, Sister Moon" which is now in my DVD collection.
After my conversation with Newton Steacy I was invited to fly to Ottawa for a few days where I visited with the Mathesons and saw the church. Soon after I returned to Bell Island I received word that I was being 'called' there so I began making arrangements for the move. That meant saying 'Good-bye' to a lot of people who were surprised and shocked that I was leaving.
I drove to Placentia and took the longer ferry ride from there to North Sydney and drove to Ottawa. This time I went via the most direct route so I visited Fredericton - the Capital of New Brunswick - for the first time.
I stopped briefly in Ottawa and then continued on home for a visit with Mom, Dan and others then returned to take up my new duties.
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Monday, 7 November 2011
England and Scotland
There I was in Newfoundland with three weeks of vacation time. From the West Coast, Great Britain seemed to be so far away. From Newfoundland, though, it was only 3000-odd miles translating to a 4 hour jet flight across the Atlantic Ocean. I booked a ticket and left on August 31, 1972.
At that time the famed Canada/Soviet hockey series was about to begin and the Munich Olympics were underway. I flew from St John's to Gander to connect with the Trans-Atlantic flight. Another passenger on that flight to Gander was Howie Meeker, the CBC Hockey Night in Canada color commentator. He was on his way to Montreal for the first game of that series. While jet planes were already flying non-stop across Canada, he was on a 'milk run' flying from St John's to Gander to Deer Lake to Sydney to Halifax and, finally, to Montreal. I didn't wish myself in his shoes!
I had a four hour lay over in Gander and then four hours on a bigger jet across the Atlantic to Heathrow. For most of the flight the going was smooth but with two bumpy sections - over Iceland where the American, Bobby Fischer, was playing the Russian, Boris Spassky for the Chess Championship; and over Northern Ireland where 'The Troubles' were a few years from being settled. I thought that the turbulence experienced in those air spaces were generated from the 'hot air' generated on the ground beneath!
Customs and Immigration at Heathrow were a breeze. A double deck bus was waiting right outside and soon I was standing on the pavement at Victoria Station - London!!!! The next task was to navigate the tube system to Stockwell and the 'Y'
on the south side of the Thames. After booking in and changing my clothes I took the tube back north to Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Carnaby Street and Oxford Street hardly believing that I was actually there. Being on a tight budget I had to watch my pennies but I forgot to check on the frequency of the transit and ended up having to ride one of those iconic London cabs back to the YMCA.
London!!! So much to see in and near that city and limited time. For the first few days I remained in Central London visiting many of the well known attractions (Kensington Gardens, High Park, St James Park, Buckingham Palace, St Paul's Cathedral). At the latter I climbed the stairs up into the great dome and experienced vertigo from the great height and, seemingly to me, danger of slipping and falling an awful long way to the floor of the nave.
I had planned to spend about ten days in Yorkshire and in Scotland so I decided to sandwich the London sites around the out-of-town excursion.
I went to Hampton Court and to Windsor touring both the buildings and the wonderful artwork and artifacts on display. While in Windsor I tried to find my buddy from Alice Springs and Goodnight, Barry Reynolds, but the Reynolds family I found in the telephone directory was not his.
On another day I took a train to Oxford and wondered at that historic place and all the famous 'colleges' which I visited. I went to the chapel/church of St Mary Magdalen and again I made the mistake of climbing the staircase to the belfry - more vertigo.
Back in London, I saw the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and heard some of the speakers at their corner in High Park.
Going to the Visitors' Bureau garnered me a free ticket on a London tour bus (double deck of course!). I availed myself of that and was seated beside an Israeli soldier who was visiting London. This was a few days after the massacre at the Jewish village in Munich so I commiserated with him.
Also, I toured Westminster Abbey which is so big that I had the feeling that I was all alone. When the voice of the Dean came over the loudspeaker suggesting that, in memory of those who had lost their lives in Munich, we all pause and recite together the words of the Lord's Prayer. I was by myself at that moment but I heard the voices of hundreds of others reciting the same words that I was.
Who could visit London and not purchase a ticket to a West End show? I did - and saw a production of "Jesus Christ Superstar". That was the second time that I had seen a production of that musical but the one in London was far better than the one that I had seen in St. John's.
During my final year at Union College I met a young Englishman who was doing a Post Graduate year at UBC. Peter Shaw - no relation to the Shaws whom I knew in B.C. - was from Bridlington in Yorkshire. We had remained in touch with each other and I had an invitation to spend a weekend with him and his widowed mother.
I should mention that, before leaving St John's, I had purchased a British Railway Pass so I was free to travel on those trains whenever I wanted to during that month. On the Friday after arriving in London I rode a train to Yorkshire - which was an interesting experience. The train from London to Hull was modern and fast but, in Hull, I had to change to a local which stopped at every town, village and hamlet along the way.
Peter met me at the railway station in Bridlingon and took me to the bungalow that he shared with his mother. The next day - Saturday - Peter drove me to York but, instead of taking a direct route, he drove to some of the other historic places in that area. One was to the town of Beverley which has a 'Minster' meaning that it, long ago, was the 'See' of a bishopric. We walked through the old church and, immediately, I noticed the name plaques in the floor - we were walking over/on a series of graves. Being raised with the understanding that one does not walk on a grave, this gave me pause - until I realized that, if I wanted to see everything, there was no choice. Not far from Beverley was Ely which has yet another Minster. On the surface one could assume that there was uniformity in the churches during the Middle Ages but such was not the case. Those three bishoprics cheek by jowl with each other were not cooperating but were rivals.
We drove on to York. It took Peter a little while to find a safe place in which to park the car from where we set out towards the Cathedral (the towers towered over the city so it could not be missed). Along the way we passed a man's clothing shop and Peter was quite attracted to an outfit displayed in one of the windows. He suggested that I carry on to the Cathedral while he shopped - he would catch up to me later.
What neither Peter nor I realized was that this was the Saturday when Yorkminster Cathedral was to be re-commissioned after renovations had been completed. I entered through one of the side doors into what seemed to be a relatively empty building - until I reached the nave where there were hundreds of people. There was a group of pilgrims there from the northwest city of Carlisle who had come to join the locals in celebrating the reopening of their magnificent building.
The Service of Dedication was underway and, very shortly, a hymn of praise was to be sung. There were no 'programs' handy (on which the words of the hymns were printed) so a nun who was near me offered to share hers with me.
Hundreds of voices raised in song in that magnificent building was almost ethereal! Also, in my line of vision, was the Rose Window - possibly the most glorious piece of glass art that I have seen. As the service ended Peter found me again so after a few minutes spent looking around we left. Peter is/was like me in one way - why use the Motorway when there are country roads going in the same direction and closer to the beautiful scenery? It was on that drive back to Bridlingon that I saw a British 'round about' for the first time - Peter had to navigate a few.
The next day being Sunday, Peter, his Mom and I went to the Methodist Chapel for the morning service. At the end of the service, his Mom went on home to attend to the roast beef dinner while Peter and I went for a stroll along the beach (Bridlington is a 'seaside resort' a few miles south of the better known Scarborough). As we strolled we passed many people most of whom were walking and talking in groups. Peter was listening to the accents and would comment to me as to which community and/or area each passersby came from. I found that to be quite entertaining!
As I mentioned above, Mrs. Shaw was cooking a roast for Tea - and I was shown how roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and gravy are supposed to be eaten.
First we were served the Yorkshire pudding with the gravy - I love beef gravy that is well made - and then the meat, potatoes and vegetables. That was followed by dessert - but I cannot now remember what that was.
Monday had been set aside as the day to tour Yorkshire - and it was wonderful. First we drove back into York so Peter could complete the business of buying the new clothes and then we headed west to the market town of Thornton-le-Dale where we went into a bakery and bought ourselves some meat pies. With these and beverages in the car we drove along a country road to a hamlet. Every so often along that road - and other like roads - 'park benches' are placed just up from the road in the shade of trees. We sat on one of these to eat our pies and, as we were across a lane from a farm, chickens from there recognized an opportunity and came begging.
After eating Peter drove along a circular route to where there was a road up onto the moors. For me, the story of Jane Eyre came to mind. We drove for a few miles over those barren hills and then down to a hamlet nestled beside a stream in a valley and then back up to go over another ridge and down to a new hamlet.
Eventually we reached the coastal highway facing the North Sea along which we turned south. We dipped down into a town which I had never heard of - Robin Hood's Bay - a smugglers' haven in days of yore. Also, we stopped at the ruins of Whitby Abbey where a conference was held in the early centuries of the Christian Era. That conference determined that England would follow the Christian faith as espoused by Rome and not the indigenous Celtic order. I had learned that fact in Church History!
As time was passing Peter drove on to the town of Scarborough where we went to a pub and then, after a 'couple', on to his home in Bridlington.
On the following Morning Peter drove me to the railway station where I caught the local into York in order to transfer to the train to Edinburgh. I was in York in plenty of time so I thought that I would walk to the Cathedral again. However, I had forgotten something - the streets are narrow and they meander all over the place. While walking back to the station I became turned around and, by the time that I had become reoriented, I had missed the train. Luckily for me, a second train that was coming up from Plymouth and was bound for Edinburgh had been held up due to an accident on the line. I was in time to catch it.
In correspondence between Peter and I before I left for England he had told me about the 'Countrywide Hiking Association' and the group hikes that they organize all over Great Britain. As it was the middle of September, their hostels in north Scotland had closed for the season but there was still one in operation - Kinfauns Castle - near the town of Perth, I reserved a space there.
As I was not expected at Kinfauns Castle until the following Saturday, I opted for some touring in Scotland on my own and Edinburgh was the first stop.
Upon arriving in that city I found the local Visitors' Bureau where I was given the address of the YMCA.
At times it can truly be a 'Small World'. In Edinburgh I met Chris Jack's married daughter (Chris was my supervisor during the "In Parish" training during the second year at Union College) who took me out and about and then to dinner. On my own I toured Edinburgh Castle, Holyrood Palace. John Knox's house and St Giles Cathedral. The tour of Holyrood Palace was a guided one and it was very interesting - especially the history of Mary Queen of Scots and her gentlemen friends. John Knox's house was dreary but the walls of St Giles Cathedral were lined with plaques commemorating the Reformation and the subsequent Counter Reformation.
This was Wednesday and I was not due at Kinfauns Castle until Saturday so I decided to take the train to Inverness, down to Aberdeen and then to Perth. The weather was sunny when we left Edinburgh but clouded over as we entered the Highlands. Still, as I was sitting on that side of the train, I did get some good views of Loch Ness - but not a sign of the Loch Ness Monster!
In Inverness I found a pleasant B&B and then went out to explore. Lucky for me, it was the weekend of a Piper's Conference and, everywhere I wandered that evening, I could hear the sound of the pipes. Dad would not have enjoyed that but I did!
The next morning I caught an early train to Aberdeen and my most vivid memory of that ride was the site of all those distilleries that we passed. The Scots do like their whiskey! Aberdeen is a clean city but more or less all of a monochrome color
- grey - the whole city seemed to be built of granite. After an hour or so there I caught another train for Perth. Fortunately, Kinfauns Castle is to the east of the town so I could see it as I passed on the train and, therefore, knew in which direction to head after alighting at the railway station.
Kinfauns is a castle - although not an overly large one. There were two other men in the room with me - Peter from Southport, Yorkshire (his parents were there as well) and Charles from Paris, France. We got along with each other very well. Our initial hike was next afternoon up to the top of nearby Kinouls Hill where we had an impressive view of the surrounding countryside including Dunsinane Hill and Birnam Woods. Yes - those two places mentioned by Shakespeare in 'Macbeth' do really exist!
The first major hike was on Monday - the following day. Buses were waiting for us and we were taken to the hamlet of Auchterhouse (I find it amusing to try to pronounce the names of these places as the Scots do - however, I wont try phonetic spelling here). As we were a large group we were split into two parties. Before we started out, though, a member of the hiking club in nearby Dundee spoke to us about the terrain we would be hiking over and what we should look out for. We went up a high hill walking through heather and bracken and then down to a hamlet situated beside a road. A rule that we followed was that the last hiker in the group was responsible for closing any gates that we may have opened to pass through. I and my roommates - Peter and Charles - were the last and Peter had closed the gate.
The hamlet was like many others over there - a neat row of houses along the road and no sprawl. The lane we were following came down beside the last house in the row and we turned left to descend the rest of the way to Glamis.
An elderly Scottish gentleman was waiting for us and he asked, "Be ye Sassenachs?" I answered by pointing to Peter and saying, "Aye, he is - but Charles is French and I am a Canadian". The old gentleman came back with, "Och! Canada is a bonny land!" to which I replied, "And Scotland is a bonny land too!"
Queen Mother Elizabeth's nephew, the Earl of Strathmore, had died and his funeral was that afternoon. As she was his cousin, the Queen attended as well. We were not allowed through the gate into the grounds of Glamis Castle so waited outside. The castle cemetery was situated just inside the walls of the estate and, when the Queen 'Mum' and Queen Elizabeth exited we had a good view of them and the former waved to us. Except for when I was three years old and too young to remember, that was the only time that I saw the Queen Mother in the flesh.
On our way back to Kinfauns Castle the bus stopped for a tea break in Kirriemuir. I knew that that was the home village of the playwright, James Barrie, so - while the others sipped their tea - I went to look for his house, found it and took a photo.
The hike on the following day was up one of the higher peaks - Ben Vrackie. The hiking was strenuous but I was thrilled to be walking through heather and seeing Scottish wildlife (hares galore and, in a wooded area, deer). Two of those hares scared the daylights out of one of the women and myself - they exploded from right under our feet.
Wednesday was an idle day so I accepted the invitation from one of the other men to go with him and a few others in his car over to Fort William on the West Coast of Scotland. Our route took us across country through the beautiful Glencoe and along the shore of Loch Laven. As we descended Glencoe there was a piper standing in a lay-by playing his pipes. Ah Scotland!
We stopped briefly in Fort William and then drove eastward to the site of the Battle of Culloden and then south back to Perth.
On Thursday we climbed the other higher peak - Ben Lawers. One of our group had learned that there would be a 'Ceilidh' at a pub in Perth that evening so, much to the dismay of the castle managers who had planned an evening of entertainment, Charles and I and one or two others went into town.
The ceilidh was a hoot. During the entertainment we were invited to introduce ourselves and, for the rest of the evening, Charles and I were not allowed to sit down but were asked to dance by many of the lassies in the pub. Also - that was the one and only time that I have been where haggis was being served. It was delicious!
Our final day in the Scottish countryside was a pleasant one. We rode in the bus to north of Dunkeld and walked over the lower hills and through the dales. More wildlife to see!
Our Scottish holiday ended Friday evening so, on Saturday morning, I joined Peter and his parents (Mr and Mrs Rawlings) for the drive down to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. After lunch we went to the Newcastle soccer pitch for the game against Leeds (which is where the Rawlings live). I was warned that, if I should decide to barrack for Leeds, to keep that quiet as it could be unsafe to do otherwise! The soccer pitch was not really that big but over 40,000 people crammed in there for the game which Newcastle won 3-2. The entry and exit to the grounds was by outside staircases along the sides of the stadium. This, for me, was somewhat nerve racking even though we waited until most of the crowd had dispersed.
After the game, Mr Rawlings drove me to the railway station where I caught a train to Durham. The ride was not that long and, once there, I found a bed in a B&B and then walked to the campus of the University of Durham, the Alma Mater of Peter Shaw.
I had time before the London train left to visit the University of Durham one more time - but in the daylight. Back in London I returned to the 'Y' in Stockwell and was surprised to find Peter Shaw there as well.
Back home Lowell Shaw played ice hockey for a team in Whalley (North Surrey) and I was startled to see a young man wearing a sweatshirt with that team's logo, riding on the tube going to the Tower of London. Yes - he knew Lowell and was over in Europe on his own vacation.
The tour of the Tower of London was fascinating.
Having a Brit-Rail Pass made decisions as to where to go a lot easier. I thought that, since I had seen Oxford, I should go to Cambridge. However, the rail service there was not as frequent as to the former. Instead I took a train to Brighton to see the seaside resort of which my Grandmother spoke of so fondly. There was an awful lot of 'kitsch' along the beachfront but the view out over the English Channel was pretty.
On Thursday, September 28 I flew back to Gander, Newfoundland and the reality of my job. I was amused by the woman who was sitting beside me on the bus from Victoria Station out to Heathrow. She was an American and needed to get to Dallas, Texas as quickly as possible. The only seat available was on an Air India flight to New York City. She said that she exclaimed in horror, "Air India?" only to have the clerk say to her, "Madam, not one of our aircraft has ever crashed!"
When we landed in Gander the baggage room personnel were talking about the final hockey game of the Canada/Russia series. At that time it was tied so, when I returned to the manse on Bell Island, I was able to watch the end of the game which Canada won.
At that time the famed Canada/Soviet hockey series was about to begin and the Munich Olympics were underway. I flew from St John's to Gander to connect with the Trans-Atlantic flight. Another passenger on that flight to Gander was Howie Meeker, the CBC Hockey Night in Canada color commentator. He was on his way to Montreal for the first game of that series. While jet planes were already flying non-stop across Canada, he was on a 'milk run' flying from St John's to Gander to Deer Lake to Sydney to Halifax and, finally, to Montreal. I didn't wish myself in his shoes!
I had a four hour lay over in Gander and then four hours on a bigger jet across the Atlantic to Heathrow. For most of the flight the going was smooth but with two bumpy sections - over Iceland where the American, Bobby Fischer, was playing the Russian, Boris Spassky for the Chess Championship; and over Northern Ireland where 'The Troubles' were a few years from being settled. I thought that the turbulence experienced in those air spaces were generated from the 'hot air' generated on the ground beneath!
Customs and Immigration at Heathrow were a breeze. A double deck bus was waiting right outside and soon I was standing on the pavement at Victoria Station - London!!!! The next task was to navigate the tube system to Stockwell and the 'Y'
on the south side of the Thames. After booking in and changing my clothes I took the tube back north to Piccadilly Circus, Regent Street, Carnaby Street and Oxford Street hardly believing that I was actually there. Being on a tight budget I had to watch my pennies but I forgot to check on the frequency of the transit and ended up having to ride one of those iconic London cabs back to the YMCA.
London!!! So much to see in and near that city and limited time. For the first few days I remained in Central London visiting many of the well known attractions (Kensington Gardens, High Park, St James Park, Buckingham Palace, St Paul's Cathedral). At the latter I climbed the stairs up into the great dome and experienced vertigo from the great height and, seemingly to me, danger of slipping and falling an awful long way to the floor of the nave.
I had planned to spend about ten days in Yorkshire and in Scotland so I decided to sandwich the London sites around the out-of-town excursion.
I went to Hampton Court and to Windsor touring both the buildings and the wonderful artwork and artifacts on display. While in Windsor I tried to find my buddy from Alice Springs and Goodnight, Barry Reynolds, but the Reynolds family I found in the telephone directory was not his.
On another day I took a train to Oxford and wondered at that historic place and all the famous 'colleges' which I visited. I went to the chapel/church of St Mary Magdalen and again I made the mistake of climbing the staircase to the belfry - more vertigo.
Back in London, I saw the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace and heard some of the speakers at their corner in High Park.
Going to the Visitors' Bureau garnered me a free ticket on a London tour bus (double deck of course!). I availed myself of that and was seated beside an Israeli soldier who was visiting London. This was a few days after the massacre at the Jewish village in Munich so I commiserated with him.
Also, I toured Westminster Abbey which is so big that I had the feeling that I was all alone. When the voice of the Dean came over the loudspeaker suggesting that, in memory of those who had lost their lives in Munich, we all pause and recite together the words of the Lord's Prayer. I was by myself at that moment but I heard the voices of hundreds of others reciting the same words that I was.
Who could visit London and not purchase a ticket to a West End show? I did - and saw a production of "Jesus Christ Superstar". That was the second time that I had seen a production of that musical but the one in London was far better than the one that I had seen in St. John's.
During my final year at Union College I met a young Englishman who was doing a Post Graduate year at UBC. Peter Shaw - no relation to the Shaws whom I knew in B.C. - was from Bridlington in Yorkshire. We had remained in touch with each other and I had an invitation to spend a weekend with him and his widowed mother.
I should mention that, before leaving St John's, I had purchased a British Railway Pass so I was free to travel on those trains whenever I wanted to during that month. On the Friday after arriving in London I rode a train to Yorkshire - which was an interesting experience. The train from London to Hull was modern and fast but, in Hull, I had to change to a local which stopped at every town, village and hamlet along the way.
Peter met me at the railway station in Bridlingon and took me to the bungalow that he shared with his mother. The next day - Saturday - Peter drove me to York but, instead of taking a direct route, he drove to some of the other historic places in that area. One was to the town of Beverley which has a 'Minster' meaning that it, long ago, was the 'See' of a bishopric. We walked through the old church and, immediately, I noticed the name plaques in the floor - we were walking over/on a series of graves. Being raised with the understanding that one does not walk on a grave, this gave me pause - until I realized that, if I wanted to see everything, there was no choice. Not far from Beverley was Ely which has yet another Minster. On the surface one could assume that there was uniformity in the churches during the Middle Ages but such was not the case. Those three bishoprics cheek by jowl with each other were not cooperating but were rivals.
We drove on to York. It took Peter a little while to find a safe place in which to park the car from where we set out towards the Cathedral (the towers towered over the city so it could not be missed). Along the way we passed a man's clothing shop and Peter was quite attracted to an outfit displayed in one of the windows. He suggested that I carry on to the Cathedral while he shopped - he would catch up to me later.
What neither Peter nor I realized was that this was the Saturday when Yorkminster Cathedral was to be re-commissioned after renovations had been completed. I entered through one of the side doors into what seemed to be a relatively empty building - until I reached the nave where there were hundreds of people. There was a group of pilgrims there from the northwest city of Carlisle who had come to join the locals in celebrating the reopening of their magnificent building.
The Service of Dedication was underway and, very shortly, a hymn of praise was to be sung. There were no 'programs' handy (on which the words of the hymns were printed) so a nun who was near me offered to share hers with me.
Hundreds of voices raised in song in that magnificent building was almost ethereal! Also, in my line of vision, was the Rose Window - possibly the most glorious piece of glass art that I have seen. As the service ended Peter found me again so after a few minutes spent looking around we left. Peter is/was like me in one way - why use the Motorway when there are country roads going in the same direction and closer to the beautiful scenery? It was on that drive back to Bridlingon that I saw a British 'round about' for the first time - Peter had to navigate a few.
The next day being Sunday, Peter, his Mom and I went to the Methodist Chapel for the morning service. At the end of the service, his Mom went on home to attend to the roast beef dinner while Peter and I went for a stroll along the beach (Bridlington is a 'seaside resort' a few miles south of the better known Scarborough). As we strolled we passed many people most of whom were walking and talking in groups. Peter was listening to the accents and would comment to me as to which community and/or area each passersby came from. I found that to be quite entertaining!
As I mentioned above, Mrs. Shaw was cooking a roast for Tea - and I was shown how roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and gravy are supposed to be eaten.
First we were served the Yorkshire pudding with the gravy - I love beef gravy that is well made - and then the meat, potatoes and vegetables. That was followed by dessert - but I cannot now remember what that was.
Monday had been set aside as the day to tour Yorkshire - and it was wonderful. First we drove back into York so Peter could complete the business of buying the new clothes and then we headed west to the market town of Thornton-le-Dale where we went into a bakery and bought ourselves some meat pies. With these and beverages in the car we drove along a country road to a hamlet. Every so often along that road - and other like roads - 'park benches' are placed just up from the road in the shade of trees. We sat on one of these to eat our pies and, as we were across a lane from a farm, chickens from there recognized an opportunity and came begging.
After eating Peter drove along a circular route to where there was a road up onto the moors. For me, the story of Jane Eyre came to mind. We drove for a few miles over those barren hills and then down to a hamlet nestled beside a stream in a valley and then back up to go over another ridge and down to a new hamlet.
Eventually we reached the coastal highway facing the North Sea along which we turned south. We dipped down into a town which I had never heard of - Robin Hood's Bay - a smugglers' haven in days of yore. Also, we stopped at the ruins of Whitby Abbey where a conference was held in the early centuries of the Christian Era. That conference determined that England would follow the Christian faith as espoused by Rome and not the indigenous Celtic order. I had learned that fact in Church History!
As time was passing Peter drove on to the town of Scarborough where we went to a pub and then, after a 'couple', on to his home in Bridlington.
On the following Morning Peter drove me to the railway station where I caught the local into York in order to transfer to the train to Edinburgh. I was in York in plenty of time so I thought that I would walk to the Cathedral again. However, I had forgotten something - the streets are narrow and they meander all over the place. While walking back to the station I became turned around and, by the time that I had become reoriented, I had missed the train. Luckily for me, a second train that was coming up from Plymouth and was bound for Edinburgh had been held up due to an accident on the line. I was in time to catch it.
In correspondence between Peter and I before I left for England he had told me about the 'Countrywide Hiking Association' and the group hikes that they organize all over Great Britain. As it was the middle of September, their hostels in north Scotland had closed for the season but there was still one in operation - Kinfauns Castle - near the town of Perth, I reserved a space there.
As I was not expected at Kinfauns Castle until the following Saturday, I opted for some touring in Scotland on my own and Edinburgh was the first stop.
Upon arriving in that city I found the local Visitors' Bureau where I was given the address of the YMCA.
At times it can truly be a 'Small World'. In Edinburgh I met Chris Jack's married daughter (Chris was my supervisor during the "In Parish" training during the second year at Union College) who took me out and about and then to dinner. On my own I toured Edinburgh Castle, Holyrood Palace. John Knox's house and St Giles Cathedral. The tour of Holyrood Palace was a guided one and it was very interesting - especially the history of Mary Queen of Scots and her gentlemen friends. John Knox's house was dreary but the walls of St Giles Cathedral were lined with plaques commemorating the Reformation and the subsequent Counter Reformation.
This was Wednesday and I was not due at Kinfauns Castle until Saturday so I decided to take the train to Inverness, down to Aberdeen and then to Perth. The weather was sunny when we left Edinburgh but clouded over as we entered the Highlands. Still, as I was sitting on that side of the train, I did get some good views of Loch Ness - but not a sign of the Loch Ness Monster!
In Inverness I found a pleasant B&B and then went out to explore. Lucky for me, it was the weekend of a Piper's Conference and, everywhere I wandered that evening, I could hear the sound of the pipes. Dad would not have enjoyed that but I did!
The next morning I caught an early train to Aberdeen and my most vivid memory of that ride was the site of all those distilleries that we passed. The Scots do like their whiskey! Aberdeen is a clean city but more or less all of a monochrome color
- grey - the whole city seemed to be built of granite. After an hour or so there I caught another train for Perth. Fortunately, Kinfauns Castle is to the east of the town so I could see it as I passed on the train and, therefore, knew in which direction to head after alighting at the railway station.
Kinfauns is a castle - although not an overly large one. There were two other men in the room with me - Peter from Southport, Yorkshire (his parents were there as well) and Charles from Paris, France. We got along with each other very well. Our initial hike was next afternoon up to the top of nearby Kinouls Hill where we had an impressive view of the surrounding countryside including Dunsinane Hill and Birnam Woods. Yes - those two places mentioned by Shakespeare in 'Macbeth' do really exist!
The first major hike was on Monday - the following day. Buses were waiting for us and we were taken to the hamlet of Auchterhouse (I find it amusing to try to pronounce the names of these places as the Scots do - however, I wont try phonetic spelling here). As we were a large group we were split into two parties. Before we started out, though, a member of the hiking club in nearby Dundee spoke to us about the terrain we would be hiking over and what we should look out for. We went up a high hill walking through heather and bracken and then down to a hamlet situated beside a road. A rule that we followed was that the last hiker in the group was responsible for closing any gates that we may have opened to pass through. I and my roommates - Peter and Charles - were the last and Peter had closed the gate.
The hamlet was like many others over there - a neat row of houses along the road and no sprawl. The lane we were following came down beside the last house in the row and we turned left to descend the rest of the way to Glamis.
An elderly Scottish gentleman was waiting for us and he asked, "Be ye Sassenachs?" I answered by pointing to Peter and saying, "Aye, he is - but Charles is French and I am a Canadian". The old gentleman came back with, "Och! Canada is a bonny land!" to which I replied, "And Scotland is a bonny land too!"
Queen Mother Elizabeth's nephew, the Earl of Strathmore, had died and his funeral was that afternoon. As she was his cousin, the Queen attended as well. We were not allowed through the gate into the grounds of Glamis Castle so waited outside. The castle cemetery was situated just inside the walls of the estate and, when the Queen 'Mum' and Queen Elizabeth exited we had a good view of them and the former waved to us. Except for when I was three years old and too young to remember, that was the only time that I saw the Queen Mother in the flesh.
On our way back to Kinfauns Castle the bus stopped for a tea break in Kirriemuir. I knew that that was the home village of the playwright, James Barrie, so - while the others sipped their tea - I went to look for his house, found it and took a photo.
The hike on the following day was up one of the higher peaks - Ben Vrackie. The hiking was strenuous but I was thrilled to be walking through heather and seeing Scottish wildlife (hares galore and, in a wooded area, deer). Two of those hares scared the daylights out of one of the women and myself - they exploded from right under our feet.
Wednesday was an idle day so I accepted the invitation from one of the other men to go with him and a few others in his car over to Fort William on the West Coast of Scotland. Our route took us across country through the beautiful Glencoe and along the shore of Loch Laven. As we descended Glencoe there was a piper standing in a lay-by playing his pipes. Ah Scotland!
We stopped briefly in Fort William and then drove eastward to the site of the Battle of Culloden and then south back to Perth.
On Thursday we climbed the other higher peak - Ben Lawers. One of our group had learned that there would be a 'Ceilidh' at a pub in Perth that evening so, much to the dismay of the castle managers who had planned an evening of entertainment, Charles and I and one or two others went into town.
The ceilidh was a hoot. During the entertainment we were invited to introduce ourselves and, for the rest of the evening, Charles and I were not allowed to sit down but were asked to dance by many of the lassies in the pub. Also - that was the one and only time that I have been where haggis was being served. It was delicious!
Our final day in the Scottish countryside was a pleasant one. We rode in the bus to north of Dunkeld and walked over the lower hills and through the dales. More wildlife to see!
Our Scottish holiday ended Friday evening so, on Saturday morning, I joined Peter and his parents (Mr and Mrs Rawlings) for the drive down to Newcastle-upon-Tyne. After lunch we went to the Newcastle soccer pitch for the game against Leeds (which is where the Rawlings live). I was warned that, if I should decide to barrack for Leeds, to keep that quiet as it could be unsafe to do otherwise! The soccer pitch was not really that big but over 40,000 people crammed in there for the game which Newcastle won 3-2. The entry and exit to the grounds was by outside staircases along the sides of the stadium. This, for me, was somewhat nerve racking even though we waited until most of the crowd had dispersed.
After the game, Mr Rawlings drove me to the railway station where I caught a train to Durham. The ride was not that long and, once there, I found a bed in a B&B and then walked to the campus of the University of Durham, the Alma Mater of Peter Shaw.
I had time before the London train left to visit the University of Durham one more time - but in the daylight. Back in London I returned to the 'Y' in Stockwell and was surprised to find Peter Shaw there as well.
Back home Lowell Shaw played ice hockey for a team in Whalley (North Surrey) and I was startled to see a young man wearing a sweatshirt with that team's logo, riding on the tube going to the Tower of London. Yes - he knew Lowell and was over in Europe on his own vacation.
The tour of the Tower of London was fascinating.
Having a Brit-Rail Pass made decisions as to where to go a lot easier. I thought that, since I had seen Oxford, I should go to Cambridge. However, the rail service there was not as frequent as to the former. Instead I took a train to Brighton to see the seaside resort of which my Grandmother spoke of so fondly. There was an awful lot of 'kitsch' along the beachfront but the view out over the English Channel was pretty.
On Thursday, September 28 I flew back to Gander, Newfoundland and the reality of my job. I was amused by the woman who was sitting beside me on the bus from Victoria Station out to Heathrow. She was an American and needed to get to Dallas, Texas as quickly as possible. The only seat available was on an Air India flight to New York City. She said that she exclaimed in horror, "Air India?" only to have the clerk say to her, "Madam, not one of our aircraft has ever crashed!"
When we landed in Gander the baggage room personnel were talking about the final hockey game of the Canada/Russia series. At that time it was tied so, when I returned to the manse on Bell Island, I was able to watch the end of the game which Canada won.
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Clash of Cultures
As you may have gathered from reading the two preceding blogs, I liked the Newfoundlanders whom I met on Bell Island and in Portugal Cove. However, there were difficult moments - and some longer than moments. These stemmed from differences over how I should look when outside my home (the 'Manse').
I wore a dark suit and a clerical shirt when I was about on church business but I dressed in slacks and open-necked shirts or ('horror of horrors') jeans, plaid shirt and cowboy boots when I was on my own time.
Many of the people accepted me however I was dressed but a few of the 'Pillars' gave me no end of static when they saw me at my most casual.
A case in point - I took a few days during a week to visit a classmate and his family at an out port in the Baie Verte area. As I was on my own time, I drove in both directions dressed in my most comfortable clothes. Unfortunately I arrived back at the ferry slip in Portugal Cove late in an afternoon when one of the 'pillars' was returning from his job in St John's. He was dressed in dungarees, hard hat and work boots and he was furious with me - due to my casual attire. I refused to back down.
The elderly 'sweetheart' in the congregation was nearly as bad. He was a proud old churchman who loved his church. He was both the lay delegate from the congregation to regional and Provincial church meetings as well as being the sexton (it was to him that I referred when someone died and a plot in the cemetery needed to be put aside).
He did grumble about my 'casualness' but it was his wife who had the sharp tongue. She and I did have some serious arguments - mainly to do with different ideas as to how I should comport myself when not on official church business. Also about her perceived priorities when unforeseen circumstances collided with what had been carefully planned. I thought that I was covering 'all bases' as best as I could but that was not good enough.
Before leaving the story of the Normores, there was one question that he raised frequently that floored me. Whenever somebody new arrived to work on the Island - be he or she a nurse, a school teacher, a bank clerk, the RCMP officer - I was expected to learn the family surname and from which community they originated. That way it could be determined if they were United Church of Canada folk or not. I am from B.C. where practically everybody is/was from somewhere else and there was no way to determine what denominational adherence they had - if any.
In Newfoundland, out port communities seemed to have been settled by homogeneous groups of people all of the same denominational persuasion - more or less - so it could be determined which flock they would belong to in their new community. It was fine with me if they had no denominational affiliation at all - but not to 'Uncle George'.
Another sore point was that I started up Youth Groups on Bell Island and in Portugal Cove - and even went so far as to organize a weekend camp on church property set aside for that purpose up in the heights between Portugal Cove and St John's. I sincerely felt that these were needed but ran into no end of static in both communities. I must admit, though, that it did not help when a few of these kids acted up and caused some damage to church property. When that happened, the miscreants were reprimanded and then ordered to help repair it.
There was one kid who hung around my place - with my roommate and one or two others - a lot of the time. I knew that he could be a problem from time to time and I was quite saddened one day when he told me that it was only a matter of a few days before the authorities would be coming after him to place him in a borstal institution. There seemed to be nothing that I could do to help him. He was a pleasant young man and, yes, in need of attention and approval.
I have been rereading the journals which I kept and was reminded of another problem. I was ORDERED to disassociate myself from all of those youths who were not from a United Church background! This was carried even further when I was told that I 'had to' get rid of my roommate as he was an Anglican and not United Church (the truth be known, he did not attend any church but I liked him as a person). No, he was NOT gay but very heterosexual with 'girlfriends' all over the place. I ignored that order.
Naturally, nothing happens in smaller close-knit communities without everybody hearing about it. Therefore I was floored when the 'Pillar' who objected to me being seen at the ferry slip while dressed in jeans and boots came up to me and voluntarily shook my hand. I understood that action to mean that he was not siding with those who objected to my friends.
On the island I met a young woman whose family were adherents of the United Church of Canada. She lived at home and was a Registered Nurse who worked in the local cottage hospital. That friendship was approved of because she was a female and she belonged to the correct denomination. We saw each other pretty regularly for a number of months - I watched Hockey Night in Canada telecasts every Saturday evening at her place. Her family owned the first large color TV set that I had seen.
The people in Portugal Cove as well as a couple of men on Bell Island were not nearly as conservative in their outlook. Those two Bell Islanders were a former mine manager whose origins were from Nova Scotia and the RCMP officer who was raised in Central Canada.
Yes, in some ways, this blog is a rant but to tell you of my experiences living in that community without writing about the down side would be telling only part of the story.
I wore a dark suit and a clerical shirt when I was about on church business but I dressed in slacks and open-necked shirts or ('horror of horrors') jeans, plaid shirt and cowboy boots when I was on my own time.
Many of the people accepted me however I was dressed but a few of the 'Pillars' gave me no end of static when they saw me at my most casual.
A case in point - I took a few days during a week to visit a classmate and his family at an out port in the Baie Verte area. As I was on my own time, I drove in both directions dressed in my most comfortable clothes. Unfortunately I arrived back at the ferry slip in Portugal Cove late in an afternoon when one of the 'pillars' was returning from his job in St John's. He was dressed in dungarees, hard hat and work boots and he was furious with me - due to my casual attire. I refused to back down.
The elderly 'sweetheart' in the congregation was nearly as bad. He was a proud old churchman who loved his church. He was both the lay delegate from the congregation to regional and Provincial church meetings as well as being the sexton (it was to him that I referred when someone died and a plot in the cemetery needed to be put aside).
He did grumble about my 'casualness' but it was his wife who had the sharp tongue. She and I did have some serious arguments - mainly to do with different ideas as to how I should comport myself when not on official church business. Also about her perceived priorities when unforeseen circumstances collided with what had been carefully planned. I thought that I was covering 'all bases' as best as I could but that was not good enough.
Before leaving the story of the Normores, there was one question that he raised frequently that floored me. Whenever somebody new arrived to work on the Island - be he or she a nurse, a school teacher, a bank clerk, the RCMP officer - I was expected to learn the family surname and from which community they originated. That way it could be determined if they were United Church of Canada folk or not. I am from B.C. where practically everybody is/was from somewhere else and there was no way to determine what denominational adherence they had - if any.
In Newfoundland, out port communities seemed to have been settled by homogeneous groups of people all of the same denominational persuasion - more or less - so it could be determined which flock they would belong to in their new community. It was fine with me if they had no denominational affiliation at all - but not to 'Uncle George'.
Another sore point was that I started up Youth Groups on Bell Island and in Portugal Cove - and even went so far as to organize a weekend camp on church property set aside for that purpose up in the heights between Portugal Cove and St John's. I sincerely felt that these were needed but ran into no end of static in both communities. I must admit, though, that it did not help when a few of these kids acted up and caused some damage to church property. When that happened, the miscreants were reprimanded and then ordered to help repair it.
There was one kid who hung around my place - with my roommate and one or two others - a lot of the time. I knew that he could be a problem from time to time and I was quite saddened one day when he told me that it was only a matter of a few days before the authorities would be coming after him to place him in a borstal institution. There seemed to be nothing that I could do to help him. He was a pleasant young man and, yes, in need of attention and approval.
I have been rereading the journals which I kept and was reminded of another problem. I was ORDERED to disassociate myself from all of those youths who were not from a United Church background! This was carried even further when I was told that I 'had to' get rid of my roommate as he was an Anglican and not United Church (the truth be known, he did not attend any church but I liked him as a person). No, he was NOT gay but very heterosexual with 'girlfriends' all over the place. I ignored that order.
Naturally, nothing happens in smaller close-knit communities without everybody hearing about it. Therefore I was floored when the 'Pillar' who objected to me being seen at the ferry slip while dressed in jeans and boots came up to me and voluntarily shook my hand. I understood that action to mean that he was not siding with those who objected to my friends.
On the island I met a young woman whose family were adherents of the United Church of Canada. She lived at home and was a Registered Nurse who worked in the local cottage hospital. That friendship was approved of because she was a female and she belonged to the correct denomination. We saw each other pretty regularly for a number of months - I watched Hockey Night in Canada telecasts every Saturday evening at her place. Her family owned the first large color TV set that I had seen.
The people in Portugal Cove as well as a couple of men on Bell Island were not nearly as conservative in their outlook. Those two Bell Islanders were a former mine manager whose origins were from Nova Scotia and the RCMP officer who was raised in Central Canada.
Yes, in some ways, this blog is a rant but to tell you of my experiences living in that community without writing about the down side would be telling only part of the story.
Saturday, 29 October 2011
Portugal Cove and St. John's
It is a pleasant drive from St John' northward past Quidi Vidi (a good-sized pond in a park where the local fair is staged each year) up past the St John's Airport and then down to the shore of Conception Bay.
Where the highway begins its descent into the Cove there is another road running off to the east. It is up there where the Provincial Agricultural Farm is located. That bemused me as the nickname for Newfoundland is "The Rock" - there is little arable land unlike there is in the other provinces of Canada. The manager of the farm was Mr. Cunningham and his family were nominal members of the Portugal Cove congregation. They were originally from Quebec and it amused me to hear Mr. Cunningham's mother speaking in English but with a mixture of French-Canadian patois and a Scottish brogue!
I was invited for a visit one New Years Day and was given the chance to go out with my host on a skidoo. That was great - until I failed to make the proper turn to come back through the gate in the rail fence. Instead I hit the gatepost, stalled the machine - and went flying off to land on my chin. There was a crust on the snow so I received a scrape and shed a little blood. Well - at least I gained a memento.
The man who acted as 'Sexton' for the church lived a few hundred yards down from the building (which was built on top of a small promontory just above the harbor). He came to the church early to light the furnace and then to ring the bell - which merely tolled.
His married son and daughter-in-law lived with him and his wife and they had a sweet little girl who was about 4 years old. She would come to church with her Granddad and sit beside him. When one is little it is almost impossible to sit still for an hour. I was annoyed by the way he admonished her to sit still and to not move a muscle but I was helpless to say anything.
I firmly believe that, if going to church can be an enjoyable experience, it is likely that the person would carry on attending through life but - if it is NOT enjoyable, they will drop away. I felt that the Granddad had it all wrong - instead of finding something to amuse the little girl, he would threaten her when she became restless.
There was a road that wound its way all around Conception Bay and one could drive to other 'out port communities'. Along that road was the Roman Catholic Church as well as some houses. One of those houses was where the CBC Hockey Night in Canada Color Man lived. He was Howie Meeker who was Don Cherry's predecessor on the Saturday night telecasts. I saw him once - he and I were seated on the same aircraft.
The villages lining the bays were only a few miles apart from each other. A year after I arrived in the Bell Island/Portugal Cove Pastoral Charge another younger minister arrived in one of those villages. We met each other at a Presbytery meeting and became friends. He was involved in the Charismatic Movement that was very popular in the early 1970s and he had quite a strong influence on my life. He was the Reverend Mervyn Skey.
I went into St. John's at least once a week and, usually, more often than that. As I mentioned in the 'Bell Island' blog, it was really the sole place to shop for items beyond the daily basic necessities. Also, I attended the annual Quidi Vidi Regatta each year enjoying the festival.
I did go to Memorial University but, as I was obligated to return to Bell Island on most evenings, I could not remain there long enough to be of any use to the Chaplain. I really regret that as I liked him and would have loved to have assisted him in the programs at the Memorial University residence.
In another blog I mentioned that smaller Quebec City and St. John's are the only two cities in Canada where I have become lost while driving along the streets.
When I lived in Sydney, Australia I had heard the legend that when British settlers first arrived and let the cattle - that came with them - off the ship, where ever a cow wandered that was where the settlers built a street. The same appeared to be true for St John's. There were no streets nor avenues that cut clear across the city - instead one has to memorize routes between point A and point B.
One day I was on my way to the St John's Hospital to visit with a Bell Islander who was a patient there. As I was on an official visit I was wearing my dog collar. A policeman pulled me over for making an illegal left turn. He was an Irish Catholic boy and was embarrassed and apologized, "Father, I am sorry to have to give you this ticket but it is Safe Driving Week and you did make an illegal turn!" As it so happened, the eldest daughter of one of the parishioners in Portugal Cove worked in the Traffic Court so she had the ticket voided. I still feel guilty about that - after all, I was in the wrong.
I don't remember if films were screened on Bell Island or not but, when an interesting movie was released, I went to the movie theater in a shopping center in St John's to see it. One of those films was "Cabaret". For reasons that I cannot remember now, I failed to allow enough time to see the entire film before having to leave to catch the ferry. It was years before I finally saw and heard the closing scene.
There were live theater productions too and one of those was a pirated version of "Jesus Christ Superstar". I took the Youth Group from Portugal Cove to see it and enjoyed the production very much.
Bell Island and Portugal Cove are a long way from the West Coast and Newfoundlanders have created a strikingly different culture which was difficult to get used to. Still, I enjoyed the experience and often think back to 1971-73. I feel blessed to having been able to meet and share with those good folk.
Where the highway begins its descent into the Cove there is another road running off to the east. It is up there where the Provincial Agricultural Farm is located. That bemused me as the nickname for Newfoundland is "The Rock" - there is little arable land unlike there is in the other provinces of Canada. The manager of the farm was Mr. Cunningham and his family were nominal members of the Portugal Cove congregation. They were originally from Quebec and it amused me to hear Mr. Cunningham's mother speaking in English but with a mixture of French-Canadian patois and a Scottish brogue!
I was invited for a visit one New Years Day and was given the chance to go out with my host on a skidoo. That was great - until I failed to make the proper turn to come back through the gate in the rail fence. Instead I hit the gatepost, stalled the machine - and went flying off to land on my chin. There was a crust on the snow so I received a scrape and shed a little blood. Well - at least I gained a memento.
The man who acted as 'Sexton' for the church lived a few hundred yards down from the building (which was built on top of a small promontory just above the harbor). He came to the church early to light the furnace and then to ring the bell - which merely tolled.
His married son and daughter-in-law lived with him and his wife and they had a sweet little girl who was about 4 years old. She would come to church with her Granddad and sit beside him. When one is little it is almost impossible to sit still for an hour. I was annoyed by the way he admonished her to sit still and to not move a muscle but I was helpless to say anything.
I firmly believe that, if going to church can be an enjoyable experience, it is likely that the person would carry on attending through life but - if it is NOT enjoyable, they will drop away. I felt that the Granddad had it all wrong - instead of finding something to amuse the little girl, he would threaten her when she became restless.
There was a road that wound its way all around Conception Bay and one could drive to other 'out port communities'. Along that road was the Roman Catholic Church as well as some houses. One of those houses was where the CBC Hockey Night in Canada Color Man lived. He was Howie Meeker who was Don Cherry's predecessor on the Saturday night telecasts. I saw him once - he and I were seated on the same aircraft.
The villages lining the bays were only a few miles apart from each other. A year after I arrived in the Bell Island/Portugal Cove Pastoral Charge another younger minister arrived in one of those villages. We met each other at a Presbytery meeting and became friends. He was involved in the Charismatic Movement that was very popular in the early 1970s and he had quite a strong influence on my life. He was the Reverend Mervyn Skey.
I went into St. John's at least once a week and, usually, more often than that. As I mentioned in the 'Bell Island' blog, it was really the sole place to shop for items beyond the daily basic necessities. Also, I attended the annual Quidi Vidi Regatta each year enjoying the festival.
I did go to Memorial University but, as I was obligated to return to Bell Island on most evenings, I could not remain there long enough to be of any use to the Chaplain. I really regret that as I liked him and would have loved to have assisted him in the programs at the Memorial University residence.
In another blog I mentioned that smaller Quebec City and St. John's are the only two cities in Canada where I have become lost while driving along the streets.
When I lived in Sydney, Australia I had heard the legend that when British settlers first arrived and let the cattle - that came with them - off the ship, where ever a cow wandered that was where the settlers built a street. The same appeared to be true for St John's. There were no streets nor avenues that cut clear across the city - instead one has to memorize routes between point A and point B.
One day I was on my way to the St John's Hospital to visit with a Bell Islander who was a patient there. As I was on an official visit I was wearing my dog collar. A policeman pulled me over for making an illegal left turn. He was an Irish Catholic boy and was embarrassed and apologized, "Father, I am sorry to have to give you this ticket but it is Safe Driving Week and you did make an illegal turn!" As it so happened, the eldest daughter of one of the parishioners in Portugal Cove worked in the Traffic Court so she had the ticket voided. I still feel guilty about that - after all, I was in the wrong.
I don't remember if films were screened on Bell Island or not but, when an interesting movie was released, I went to the movie theater in a shopping center in St John's to see it. One of those films was "Cabaret". For reasons that I cannot remember now, I failed to allow enough time to see the entire film before having to leave to catch the ferry. It was years before I finally saw and heard the closing scene.
There were live theater productions too and one of those was a pirated version of "Jesus Christ Superstar". I took the Youth Group from Portugal Cove to see it and enjoyed the production very much.
Bell Island and Portugal Cove are a long way from the West Coast and Newfoundlanders have created a strikingly different culture which was difficult to get used to. Still, I enjoyed the experience and often think back to 1971-73. I feel blessed to having been able to meet and share with those good folk.
Thursday, 27 October 2011
St Patrick's Day Weekend 1972
I was awakened at 7:30 AM by the sound of the telephone ringing. Glancing out the window I could see that it was a gloriously sunny day. Unfortunately, a 'sunny day' was not in store for Bell Island.
I had graduated from the United Church of Canada School of Theology in June of 1971. The biggest question during that final year - to where would we eleven new ordinands be posted? Usually, a first Pastoral charge was somewhere in rural B.C. Or somewhere in the Prairie Provinces. Not that year, though - four of us were sent to Newfoundland and I was posted to the Bell Island/Portugal Cove Pastoral Charge less than 10 miles from St John's.
Bell Island had been the site ot the largest underwater iron mine in the world. It had closed a couple of years before when the quality ore had petered out. That was near the end of Joey Smallwood's tenure as Premier of Newfoundland and Labrador. The loss of the iron mines was a serious blow to the Provincial economy and some compensation for the displaced miners and their families was important. To solve this problem Joey offered each family on Bell Island $300 if they abandoned their homes and moved elsewhere. Already a number of people had moved to the towns of Galt, Preston and Hespeler (later those towns were amalgamated and are now a part of the City of Cambridge which is northwest of Toronto). As there were profitable factories in that area, a move there appealed to many of the Islanders.
The caller on the telephone introduced herself as Mrs. Peddie. She had an urgent message for the family of a Peddie boy who had been seriously injured in a traffic accident near Guelph, Ontario the evening before. Mrs. Peddie had telephoned the Rector of the Anglican Church but had been informed that he was off of the island on business. Mrs. Morgan, mother of the Rector, suggested that I be called instead.
I had never heard of the Peddies and had no idea as to where they lived in that sprawling community. However, through my pastoral work, I had met a young man, Wayne Purchase, through visiting his late mother while she was a patient in the community hospital. When Mrs. Purchase died and Wayne was alone in the house. I had invited him to move into the manse where I lived. He worked at the local Post Office and knew practically everybody in the old mining community.
I woke Wayne and told him the news. He knew John Peddie so he was shocked. As my car was in a garage for repairs he offered me the use of his. He would ride with me to the Peddie house so I would know where it was located and then I would drive him to the Post Office and return.
Because of the nature of my visit I had changed into my clerical attire. After dropping Wayne at his work I returned to the Peddie house. It was obvious that the main entry to the home was by the back door so I walked around there and knocked. The door was opened by a middle-aged man who reeled back into the kitchen at the sight of me.
Out of nowhere a woman rushed past me and into the corridor that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house where she enveloped Mrs. Peddie into her arms and exclaimed, "There there, Mary, God wants Johnny more than you do!" That is the worst bit of theology that I have heard ever!!!
In the meantime Mr. Peddie sat at the kitchen table so I sat opposite him. He was very distressed and he nervously nudged the telephone towards me. I asked if he would like me to make a telephone call? Yes - to his brother who lived in Galt, Ontario. I placed the call and there I learned that the auto accident had been major and that there were others who were hurt - including the son (Chesley Eveleigh) of the woman who looked after my housekeeping.
While this was going on Mrs. Peddie, her young daughter, and the neighbor woman were keening in the corridor while another son, Robert. was nervously pacing around. When I rose to leave Robert asked if he could accompany me. Robert was 15 or 16 years old (Johnny was 19) and he just had to get away from the grief.
Mrs. Eveleigh came to my house to clean on Thursdays and always took my laundry home with her. I would go over on Saturday to retrieve it. It was 9:30 in the morning when Robert and I arrived there. An older brother of Ches' opened the door and, when he saw me, naturally he thought that I was there to collect my laundry. I had to tell him "No" - but that his brother, Ches, had been in a bad car accident during the evening before. The rest of the family were still in bed - however they could hear my voice and, before their brother could get to them, they began keening. The older brother then placed a call to a family member in Galt.
Robert remained with me all day as I drove here and there and everywhere on errands. During that time we learned that there had been five people in that car - the young woman who owned the vehicle (she had just purchased it and was taking the boys for a spin up the 401 Freeway) - Johnnie and Ches beside her and two more Bell Island boys in the back seat. As she was tooling along the highway she came upon a transport truck which was parked on the shoulder of the road. She slammed right into it killing herself, Ches and Johnnie and injuring the two guys riding in the back seat. One of those boys got off fairly lightly - he only suffered a broken leg and was able to make it home for the funerals.
A member of my congregation was Dr. Smith one of the two physicians on the Island. He had a private pilot's license. Naturally, the news of the accident spread everywhere almost immediately so the good Doctor telephoned me offering to take me up for a ride in his plane. Unfortunately, I had so much to attend to that I had to decline.
St Patrick's Day was on the Friday and the Catholic congregation - the largest of the four religious communities on the Island - held a St Patrick's Day party on the Saturday evening. It was the time of Spring Breakup so the ground was soft and muddy. The Catholics had a goodly supply of collapsible chairs and, knowing that we would have overflowing crowds, they voluntarily walked over with the chairs when their event ended. A member of my congregation was a teacher at the Trades School. He remained up all of Saturday night with a wet mop cleansing the floor of the muddy footprints - an example of the residents of a small community coming together in the face of difficulty.
Bell Island was connected to the rest of Newfoundland by a ferry that crossed "The Tickle" to Portugal Cove. The final ferry left "The Cove" at 11:15 PM. However, after returning from Bell Island, the ferry crew waited at the slip in the Cove until the hearses arrived from the airport - the flight had been delayed. The ferry crew took the hearses across to the Island so that the bodies could be delivered to the two churches. Yet another example of a small community pulling together in the face of tragedy.
Being more liberal in my thinking than my Newfoundland neighbors, I was hoping for a joint funeral but both families vetoed that suggestion. Instead, we held the service for Ches Eveleigh in the United Church at 1:00 PM on Monday, took the casket to the United Church cemetery and then went to the Anglican Church and cemetery for the services for John Peddie. Those lads had been life long buddies but they could not be buried together!
To complicate matters even further, a Provincial Election had been called and, on the Monday, my journal notes that I had to play host to some of the ruling Conservative Cabinet ministers. When it came to the funeral for Ches, I looked down from the pulpit and saw each of the candidates from the three major parties seated to my right, center and to my left. No matter what the circumstance, politicking must go on.
As soon as the burial in the United Church cemetery had been completed, everybody - including myself - rushed to the Anglican Church to repeat the process.
The events of March 18 to 21, 1972 will linger in my memory forever.
I had graduated from the United Church of Canada School of Theology in June of 1971. The biggest question during that final year - to where would we eleven new ordinands be posted? Usually, a first Pastoral charge was somewhere in rural B.C. Or somewhere in the Prairie Provinces. Not that year, though - four of us were sent to Newfoundland and I was posted to the Bell Island/Portugal Cove Pastoral Charge less than 10 miles from St John's.
Bell Island had been the site ot the largest underwater iron mine in the world. It had closed a couple of years before when the quality ore had petered out. That was near the end of Joey Smallwood's tenure as Premier of Newfoundland and Labrador. The loss of the iron mines was a serious blow to the Provincial economy and some compensation for the displaced miners and their families was important. To solve this problem Joey offered each family on Bell Island $300 if they abandoned their homes and moved elsewhere. Already a number of people had moved to the towns of Galt, Preston and Hespeler (later those towns were amalgamated and are now a part of the City of Cambridge which is northwest of Toronto). As there were profitable factories in that area, a move there appealed to many of the Islanders.
The caller on the telephone introduced herself as Mrs. Peddie. She had an urgent message for the family of a Peddie boy who had been seriously injured in a traffic accident near Guelph, Ontario the evening before. Mrs. Peddie had telephoned the Rector of the Anglican Church but had been informed that he was off of the island on business. Mrs. Morgan, mother of the Rector, suggested that I be called instead.
I had never heard of the Peddies and had no idea as to where they lived in that sprawling community. However, through my pastoral work, I had met a young man, Wayne Purchase, through visiting his late mother while she was a patient in the community hospital. When Mrs. Purchase died and Wayne was alone in the house. I had invited him to move into the manse where I lived. He worked at the local Post Office and knew practically everybody in the old mining community.
I woke Wayne and told him the news. He knew John Peddie so he was shocked. As my car was in a garage for repairs he offered me the use of his. He would ride with me to the Peddie house so I would know where it was located and then I would drive him to the Post Office and return.
Because of the nature of my visit I had changed into my clerical attire. After dropping Wayne at his work I returned to the Peddie house. It was obvious that the main entry to the home was by the back door so I walked around there and knocked. The door was opened by a middle-aged man who reeled back into the kitchen at the sight of me.
Out of nowhere a woman rushed past me and into the corridor that led from the kitchen to the rest of the house where she enveloped Mrs. Peddie into her arms and exclaimed, "There there, Mary, God wants Johnny more than you do!" That is the worst bit of theology that I have heard ever!!!
In the meantime Mr. Peddie sat at the kitchen table so I sat opposite him. He was very distressed and he nervously nudged the telephone towards me. I asked if he would like me to make a telephone call? Yes - to his brother who lived in Galt, Ontario. I placed the call and there I learned that the auto accident had been major and that there were others who were hurt - including the son (Chesley Eveleigh) of the woman who looked after my housekeeping.
While this was going on Mrs. Peddie, her young daughter, and the neighbor woman were keening in the corridor while another son, Robert. was nervously pacing around. When I rose to leave Robert asked if he could accompany me. Robert was 15 or 16 years old (Johnny was 19) and he just had to get away from the grief.
Mrs. Eveleigh came to my house to clean on Thursdays and always took my laundry home with her. I would go over on Saturday to retrieve it. It was 9:30 in the morning when Robert and I arrived there. An older brother of Ches' opened the door and, when he saw me, naturally he thought that I was there to collect my laundry. I had to tell him "No" - but that his brother, Ches, had been in a bad car accident during the evening before. The rest of the family were still in bed - however they could hear my voice and, before their brother could get to them, they began keening. The older brother then placed a call to a family member in Galt.
Robert remained with me all day as I drove here and there and everywhere on errands. During that time we learned that there had been five people in that car - the young woman who owned the vehicle (she had just purchased it and was taking the boys for a spin up the 401 Freeway) - Johnnie and Ches beside her and two more Bell Island boys in the back seat. As she was tooling along the highway she came upon a transport truck which was parked on the shoulder of the road. She slammed right into it killing herself, Ches and Johnnie and injuring the two guys riding in the back seat. One of those boys got off fairly lightly - he only suffered a broken leg and was able to make it home for the funerals.
A member of my congregation was Dr. Smith one of the two physicians on the Island. He had a private pilot's license. Naturally, the news of the accident spread everywhere almost immediately so the good Doctor telephoned me offering to take me up for a ride in his plane. Unfortunately, I had so much to attend to that I had to decline.
St Patrick's Day was on the Friday and the Catholic congregation - the largest of the four religious communities on the Island - held a St Patrick's Day party on the Saturday evening. It was the time of Spring Breakup so the ground was soft and muddy. The Catholics had a goodly supply of collapsible chairs and, knowing that we would have overflowing crowds, they voluntarily walked over with the chairs when their event ended. A member of my congregation was a teacher at the Trades School. He remained up all of Saturday night with a wet mop cleansing the floor of the muddy footprints - an example of the residents of a small community coming together in the face of difficulty.
Bell Island was connected to the rest of Newfoundland by a ferry that crossed "The Tickle" to Portugal Cove. The final ferry left "The Cove" at 11:15 PM. However, after returning from Bell Island, the ferry crew waited at the slip in the Cove until the hearses arrived from the airport - the flight had been delayed. The ferry crew took the hearses across to the Island so that the bodies could be delivered to the two churches. Yet another example of a small community pulling together in the face of tragedy.
Being more liberal in my thinking than my Newfoundland neighbors, I was hoping for a joint funeral but both families vetoed that suggestion. Instead, we held the service for Ches Eveleigh in the United Church at 1:00 PM on Monday, took the casket to the United Church cemetery and then went to the Anglican Church and cemetery for the services for John Peddie. Those lads had been life long buddies but they could not be buried together!
To complicate matters even further, a Provincial Election had been called and, on the Monday, my journal notes that I had to play host to some of the ruling Conservative Cabinet ministers. When it came to the funeral for Ches, I looked down from the pulpit and saw each of the candidates from the three major parties seated to my right, center and to my left. No matter what the circumstance, politicking must go on.
As soon as the burial in the United Church cemetery had been completed, everybody - including myself - rushed to the Anglican Church to repeat the process.
The events of March 18 to 21, 1972 will linger in my memory forever.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
Bell Island
As I will mention again in a later blog, Bell Island was the site of the largest underwater iron mine in the world. The mine had operated from the early days of settlement until it was closed - because of poorer quality ore - in the 1960s.
It - Bell Island - was the only place in eastern North America that was subjected to an attack during world War II. The older residents could remember that Sunday morning in 1944/45 when they were shaken out of their beds by loud BOOMS. One or more German submarines had sneaked into Conception Bay and torpedoed at least one boat tied up there to load iron ore. The iron mine was very important then as it was a main source of iron ore to be converted into steel and then manufactured into military machines. The ruins from that attack were still visible.
At the time of the mine closing the population had been between 10,000 and 15,000 people but, with no work for many of them, about half of them had moved away. Joey Smallwood (the only "Living Father of Confederation") offered those who wished to leave $300 per family. Before that others had moved to the Ontario towns of Galt, Hespeler and Preston northwest of Toronto (now part of the City of Cambridge) where there were jobs available. To many Bell Islanders, $300 was a lot of money - but it did not go far in Ontario!
The Town of Wabana still existed on the Island and I could see where many buildings had been abandoned and/or torn down. Also, where there had been - in all probability - a municipal government at one time, there wasn't any while I was there.
There were four religious communities on the Island - the largest was the Roman Catholic Church (more than 50% of the residents were of Irish origin), followed by the Anglicans, the United Church and the smallest were the Salvation Army folk. There were two undertakers there - the busiest was the Catholic one while the other - a Salvation Army man - looked after the needs of the Protestants.
In the core of the island there were still a few stores including a reasonably sized supermarket (the owners of that establishment were a part of my 'flock'). There was a dry goods store as well although most of the residents went over to St John's to shop for clothing, appliances and the like. There was one bank branch, a Post Office, and a garage.
There were two fairly new government buildings - a cottage hospital and, as a sop from the Provincial government when the mine closed, a Trades School. There were a public and a Catholic elementary school but those going on through high school had to go into St John's for their education.
When I caught the ferry over to the island for the first time I met Willis Jarvis at the ferry - one of the stalwarts of the United Church . Soon I would meet "Uncle George" Normore, the King family (three generations) the Tuckers and others.
The system that was already in place was that the two churches - one on Bell Island and the other in Portugal Cove - alternated as to the time of the weekly Sunday service. A morning service every other week with an evening service on the alternate Sundays.
As I lived alone - and never really liked to cook - I was invited to various homes for meals - although, in Portugal Cove, it was often to the same house - that of another King family. That household consisted of the husband (who was the Treasurer of the Pastoral Charge), his wife and her sister. The women rarely came to church but, on Sunday mornings. would be at home cooking 'Dinner' (what the midday meal was always called). There was a standing joke among them - they knew that I detest cooked turnip - a common staple there - so, when I appeared, invariably I would hear, "The Reverend is here - put on the turnips!"
On Bell Island one fairly large house was occupied by two women - Mrs. Rose and Miss Minnie Rose. They were sisters-in-law and they seemed to detest each other. When I was there for a meal I would see Miss Minnie with her cutlery and plates - and Mrs. Rose with hers (as well as separate condiment shakers). They were amusing and each of them tried to feed me the food that I loved to eat which led to some interesting dishes. For instance, I love roast beef and beef-based gravy. Both of them would make gravy and, usually, with onions in it. I have nothing against onions, per se, except that they tend to give me indigestion. Upon learning this - and the fact that I do like garlic - they began serving me 'garlic gravy'! They were two sweet ladies.
Just up the lane from the house where I lived - "the Manse" - lived the Clerk of Session of that congregation. Art was a single younger man who lived with his widowed mother - and he was quite effeminate. I was warned not to be seen with him too much or people 'may talk'! Although I am Gay too, he was not 'my type' so the worriers really had nothing to worry about.
Just after I arrived some of the elderly and infirm began dieing with alarming regularity so I received the nickname "the burying minister". Often the call came in the evening and I had no idea which way to go to find the home of the deceased so I had to rely upon Art. While I conducted only one funeral in Portugal Cove. I cannot recall the number on Bell Island and, thanks to Art (the Clerk of Session), I was able to find them all.
A few stand out in my memory (one of them is the subject of the next blog "St Patrick's Day Weekend 1972"). Another was 'amusing' in a way - an elderly woman and former Bell Island resident - had passed away at the nursing home in which she was living in St John's. She had three daughters - one lived on Bell Island (I had not met her), another in St John's and the third in Ontario. All three of them were present at the funeral and, during my address, one of them left her seat, ran to the casket, threw herself on top of it, and yelled "Mommy! Don't leave me! Don't go!" After the funeral I was told that she was the daughter who lived the closest to her mother - but never had visited.
Another was the funeral for a little boy who had died of leukemia. He lived with his family in a mean little house where the simple coffin was resting on a bier in the living room. I will never forget the sight of him lying there with his eye sockets covered by gauze pads.
As everything else on that Island was segregated, so were the cemeteries. The United Church burial ground was a fenced off plot at the point where the road from the ferry slip reached the top of the hill.
Across the road from the cemetery was a convenience store which was owned by a family who, nominally, were United Church of Canada folk. At one funeral the cortege had arrived at the cemetery and the casket was about to be lowered into the open grave when the boy (from the family who owned that store) arrived to watch. He was clad in grubby clothes. As the pall bearers were lowering the casket, it tilted and the 'family spray' slipped off of the top and down into the hole. The undertaker grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck ordering "Get down there and get those flowers!". I never saw a kid move so fast in my life. He successfully retrieved the spray but I never saw him at another interment service.
I made it a habit at noon every day - when I was on the Island - to go to the hospital to visit. I called upon each patient in there - seldom were there many - visiting a little longer with some than with others.
That was how I met Mrs. Purchase - an Anglican lady. Over the time that I visited with her I came to like her and, at her request, to visit her at her home as well. When she passed on I attended her funeral. Through this I met her adopted son, Wayne, a young man in his early 20s. After his Mom died he was all alone in that house and, as I was all alone in mine, I invited him to move into the Manse with me. That proved to be beneficial for me as well as for him. He was born and raised on the Island, he worked in the local Post Office - and he seemed to know everybody. You will find him mentioned in the next blog.
There were a number of families with the surname 'Penny'. One was a United Church family and the husband was one of the first funerals at which I officiated. Mrs. Penny was in ill health herself and was hospitalized a number of times. During one of her stays the woman in the next bed was Mrs. Fitzgerald. I would stand between the beds while visiting and, when I was about to leave, I would take each hand in mine and say a brief prayer.
One afternoon I was on the ferry returning to the island when one of the other passengers was Father Lahey, the priest at the Catholic church. We spoke and he told me this with amusement. He also visited the hospital every day - but at supper time. He told me that he usually paused in the doorway of each room, greeted everybody in there, made the Sign of the Cross and then moved on.
One day Mrs. Fitzgerald brought him up short by exclaiming, "Father Lahey, you know that I am a good Catholic?" He nodded and then she continued, "How come it is that Reverend Lacasse says a prayer with me while you do no more than stand in the doorway, make the Sign of the Cross, and move on?" I was embarrassed but Father Lahey laughed.
When Mrs. Fitzgerald passed on I made a point to attend her funeral Mass and then the reception afterward at the family home.
In Newfoundland at that time, the only way Provincial Statistics were updated was from the forms which each clergy person was obliged to complete every month. Most important - that was how babies were registered. Therefore, I was called upon to baptize a number of children. Naturally I had to wear my collar and robes. The babe seemed to be always dressed in some antique baptismal gown made of slippery material. What I was forced to wear was made of slippery material too so, for me, taking those infants in my arms in order to baptize them was rather nerve wracking. I did not drop any one of them!
I was called upon to marry a few couples as well. The most memorable one was the one that I wished that I did not have to be the officiant.
A young man from elsewhere left his 'betrothed' at home to come to the Trades School on Bell Island. There he met a local girl, their hormones got the better of them, and she was pregnant. I honestly felt that their marriage was doomed to failure but, with the father of the bride standing there - figuratively - with the legendary shotgun, I felt that I had no option. I hate that memory!
If you look at a map of Newfoundland, you will see Bell Island sitting towards the bottom end of Conception Bay. The view from the front of my home was of the bay and, at a certain time each year, I could see a magnificent iceberg grounded on the north head of the bay. Beautiful but cold!
Sometimes being able to cross on the ferry or back was dicey (high winds or 'slob ice'). The latter is the 'cousin' of the iceberg - pans of ice from up north that had drifted into the bay and became clogged along the shore. Rarely was it really cold enough for the Bay to freeze over on its own.
In the spring of 1973 I was to go to Halifax for a study week. On the day that I was to fly out from St John's the usual route for the ferry to cross was blocked. Fortunately for me, boats were able to cross to the southern shore of Conception Bay from where I was able to get a lift to the airport.
At the end of two years I was happy to leave - yet I do have some very fond memories of having had the opportunity to live in that unusual part of Canada.
It - Bell Island - was the only place in eastern North America that was subjected to an attack during world War II. The older residents could remember that Sunday morning in 1944/45 when they were shaken out of their beds by loud BOOMS. One or more German submarines had sneaked into Conception Bay and torpedoed at least one boat tied up there to load iron ore. The iron mine was very important then as it was a main source of iron ore to be converted into steel and then manufactured into military machines. The ruins from that attack were still visible.
At the time of the mine closing the population had been between 10,000 and 15,000 people but, with no work for many of them, about half of them had moved away. Joey Smallwood (the only "Living Father of Confederation") offered those who wished to leave $300 per family. Before that others had moved to the Ontario towns of Galt, Hespeler and Preston northwest of Toronto (now part of the City of Cambridge) where there were jobs available. To many Bell Islanders, $300 was a lot of money - but it did not go far in Ontario!
The Town of Wabana still existed on the Island and I could see where many buildings had been abandoned and/or torn down. Also, where there had been - in all probability - a municipal government at one time, there wasn't any while I was there.
There were four religious communities on the Island - the largest was the Roman Catholic Church (more than 50% of the residents were of Irish origin), followed by the Anglicans, the United Church and the smallest were the Salvation Army folk. There were two undertakers there - the busiest was the Catholic one while the other - a Salvation Army man - looked after the needs of the Protestants.
In the core of the island there were still a few stores including a reasonably sized supermarket (the owners of that establishment were a part of my 'flock'). There was a dry goods store as well although most of the residents went over to St John's to shop for clothing, appliances and the like. There was one bank branch, a Post Office, and a garage.
There were two fairly new government buildings - a cottage hospital and, as a sop from the Provincial government when the mine closed, a Trades School. There were a public and a Catholic elementary school but those going on through high school had to go into St John's for their education.
When I caught the ferry over to the island for the first time I met Willis Jarvis at the ferry - one of the stalwarts of the United Church . Soon I would meet "Uncle George" Normore, the King family (three generations) the Tuckers and others.
The system that was already in place was that the two churches - one on Bell Island and the other in Portugal Cove - alternated as to the time of the weekly Sunday service. A morning service every other week with an evening service on the alternate Sundays.
As I lived alone - and never really liked to cook - I was invited to various homes for meals - although, in Portugal Cove, it was often to the same house - that of another King family. That household consisted of the husband (who was the Treasurer of the Pastoral Charge), his wife and her sister. The women rarely came to church but, on Sunday mornings. would be at home cooking 'Dinner' (what the midday meal was always called). There was a standing joke among them - they knew that I detest cooked turnip - a common staple there - so, when I appeared, invariably I would hear, "The Reverend is here - put on the turnips!"
On Bell Island one fairly large house was occupied by two women - Mrs. Rose and Miss Minnie Rose. They were sisters-in-law and they seemed to detest each other. When I was there for a meal I would see Miss Minnie with her cutlery and plates - and Mrs. Rose with hers (as well as separate condiment shakers). They were amusing and each of them tried to feed me the food that I loved to eat which led to some interesting dishes. For instance, I love roast beef and beef-based gravy. Both of them would make gravy and, usually, with onions in it. I have nothing against onions, per se, except that they tend to give me indigestion. Upon learning this - and the fact that I do like garlic - they began serving me 'garlic gravy'! They were two sweet ladies.
Just up the lane from the house where I lived - "the Manse" - lived the Clerk of Session of that congregation. Art was a single younger man who lived with his widowed mother - and he was quite effeminate. I was warned not to be seen with him too much or people 'may talk'! Although I am Gay too, he was not 'my type' so the worriers really had nothing to worry about.
Just after I arrived some of the elderly and infirm began dieing with alarming regularity so I received the nickname "the burying minister". Often the call came in the evening and I had no idea which way to go to find the home of the deceased so I had to rely upon Art. While I conducted only one funeral in Portugal Cove. I cannot recall the number on Bell Island and, thanks to Art (the Clerk of Session), I was able to find them all.
A few stand out in my memory (one of them is the subject of the next blog "St Patrick's Day Weekend 1972"). Another was 'amusing' in a way - an elderly woman and former Bell Island resident - had passed away at the nursing home in which she was living in St John's. She had three daughters - one lived on Bell Island (I had not met her), another in St John's and the third in Ontario. All three of them were present at the funeral and, during my address, one of them left her seat, ran to the casket, threw herself on top of it, and yelled "Mommy! Don't leave me! Don't go!" After the funeral I was told that she was the daughter who lived the closest to her mother - but never had visited.
Another was the funeral for a little boy who had died of leukemia. He lived with his family in a mean little house where the simple coffin was resting on a bier in the living room. I will never forget the sight of him lying there with his eye sockets covered by gauze pads.
As everything else on that Island was segregated, so were the cemeteries. The United Church burial ground was a fenced off plot at the point where the road from the ferry slip reached the top of the hill.
Across the road from the cemetery was a convenience store which was owned by a family who, nominally, were United Church of Canada folk. At one funeral the cortege had arrived at the cemetery and the casket was about to be lowered into the open grave when the boy (from the family who owned that store) arrived to watch. He was clad in grubby clothes. As the pall bearers were lowering the casket, it tilted and the 'family spray' slipped off of the top and down into the hole. The undertaker grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck ordering "Get down there and get those flowers!". I never saw a kid move so fast in my life. He successfully retrieved the spray but I never saw him at another interment service.
I made it a habit at noon every day - when I was on the Island - to go to the hospital to visit. I called upon each patient in there - seldom were there many - visiting a little longer with some than with others.
That was how I met Mrs. Purchase - an Anglican lady. Over the time that I visited with her I came to like her and, at her request, to visit her at her home as well. When she passed on I attended her funeral. Through this I met her adopted son, Wayne, a young man in his early 20s. After his Mom died he was all alone in that house and, as I was all alone in mine, I invited him to move into the Manse with me. That proved to be beneficial for me as well as for him. He was born and raised on the Island, he worked in the local Post Office - and he seemed to know everybody. You will find him mentioned in the next blog.
There were a number of families with the surname 'Penny'. One was a United Church family and the husband was one of the first funerals at which I officiated. Mrs. Penny was in ill health herself and was hospitalized a number of times. During one of her stays the woman in the next bed was Mrs. Fitzgerald. I would stand between the beds while visiting and, when I was about to leave, I would take each hand in mine and say a brief prayer.
One afternoon I was on the ferry returning to the island when one of the other passengers was Father Lahey, the priest at the Catholic church. We spoke and he told me this with amusement. He also visited the hospital every day - but at supper time. He told me that he usually paused in the doorway of each room, greeted everybody in there, made the Sign of the Cross and then moved on.
One day Mrs. Fitzgerald brought him up short by exclaiming, "Father Lahey, you know that I am a good Catholic?" He nodded and then she continued, "How come it is that Reverend Lacasse says a prayer with me while you do no more than stand in the doorway, make the Sign of the Cross, and move on?" I was embarrassed but Father Lahey laughed.
When Mrs. Fitzgerald passed on I made a point to attend her funeral Mass and then the reception afterward at the family home.
In Newfoundland at that time, the only way Provincial Statistics were updated was from the forms which each clergy person was obliged to complete every month. Most important - that was how babies were registered. Therefore, I was called upon to baptize a number of children. Naturally I had to wear my collar and robes. The babe seemed to be always dressed in some antique baptismal gown made of slippery material. What I was forced to wear was made of slippery material too so, for me, taking those infants in my arms in order to baptize them was rather nerve wracking. I did not drop any one of them!
I was called upon to marry a few couples as well. The most memorable one was the one that I wished that I did not have to be the officiant.
A young man from elsewhere left his 'betrothed' at home to come to the Trades School on Bell Island. There he met a local girl, their hormones got the better of them, and she was pregnant. I honestly felt that their marriage was doomed to failure but, with the father of the bride standing there - figuratively - with the legendary shotgun, I felt that I had no option. I hate that memory!
If you look at a map of Newfoundland, you will see Bell Island sitting towards the bottom end of Conception Bay. The view from the front of my home was of the bay and, at a certain time each year, I could see a magnificent iceberg grounded on the north head of the bay. Beautiful but cold!
Sometimes being able to cross on the ferry or back was dicey (high winds or 'slob ice'). The latter is the 'cousin' of the iceberg - pans of ice from up north that had drifted into the bay and became clogged along the shore. Rarely was it really cold enough for the Bay to freeze over on its own.
In the spring of 1973 I was to go to Halifax for a study week. On the day that I was to fly out from St John's the usual route for the ferry to cross was blocked. Fortunately for me, boats were able to cross to the southern shore of Conception Bay from where I was able to get a lift to the airport.
At the end of two years I was happy to leave - yet I do have some very fond memories of having had the opportunity to live in that unusual part of Canada.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Off To Newfoundland
I should not go forward with this narrative without mentioning the visiting that I did while driving back and forth across Canada.
By this time a number of fellow students from Union College had been settled in various western locations and most of them were reachable from the east - west highways. For instance, while at Union College I had become good friends with John Palmer - the son of a minister who felt called to the same career and was ordained the year before I was. He was settled in Warburg, Alberta and I had the opportunity to visit with him.
I am the type of person who, when I like somebody, thinks that we will always remain in the orbit of each other. Nothing is further from the truth. There are none of my classmates - or their predecessors - whom I now know whether they are living and, if they are, where they now reside.
When I arrived back in Vancouver I found a letter waiting for me. This missive spelled out where I would be going (I knew that it was supposed to be Newfoundland but not where exactly). It was the Bell Island/Portugal Cove Pastoral Charge. Dr Furcha was correct in assuming that I would be placed within close proximity of Memorial University in St John's. Portugal Cove is only a fifteen minute drive from there - but, traditionally, the United Church of Canada minister always lives on Bell Island
The folk in Portugal Cove could receive spiritual help from St John's in minutes but those on Bell Island would have to rely upon ferry service to bring the clergy to them in an emergency situation. Therefore they would not hear of me living in The Cove.
The next oldest brother of Terry Shaw wanted to visit the Eastern Provincial Capitals so he opted to journey with me on my drive to Newfoundland. So, less than a week after returning from the wedding trip, I collected Lowell Shaw and set out again.
Another resident at Union College worked at the Chateau Lake Louise in Banff National Park. As he was the 'Night Auditor' he was able to let us have a room at no cost (the 'High Season' had not yet commenced) so we decided to take advantage of the offer.
At that time the Trans Canada Highway through Banff and Yoho was being rebuilt and, as the old highway had not yet been completely abandoned, we turned onto it at the west end. After driving along that road for a few miles we saw a number of cars parked off to the side of the road. We looked at each other and exclaimed "Bears!" so we parked as well, saw where we could get through a wire fence with ease and a few feet from there, came up to a group of people who were standing at the edge of a giant hole. Down below was garbage from Chateau Lake Louise and - presumably - from the Banff Townsite which is a few miles further east.
Rummaging through the garbage were SEVEN adult grizzly bears and a few cubs - what an awesome sight! We could tell that the bears could hear and/or smell us as some of them paused in their munching to look up.
After a few minutes we turned to walk back to the car and saw yet another grizzly crossing the road a few yards from where we were.
We drove across to Ontario on the Trans Canada Highway staying with friends or in hotels/motels each night. When we arrived in Barrie - north of Toronto - we turned onto Ontario Highway 9 for the beautiful drive over the Caledon Hills to Orangeville and then south to Niagara Falls. The Falls and the layout of the town were/are very impressive.
Leaving Niagara we drove northeast around Lake Ontario to Toronto where we booked into the Central 'Y' and then did the 'tourist thing' like the new City Hall, Yorkville, my first ride on a North American subway, and Casa Loma.
Lowell and I parted for a few days in Toronto meeting up again in Montreal. I made my way via Highway 7 up to Ottawa and went looking for the Brules. They had gone out to the summer cottages which they owned on White Lake. The village of While Lake was easy to find but following the roads to the other end of the lake - where the cottages were situated - was another matter. I made it eventually.
My ideal of a cottage on a lake is a bucolic house situated where one could sit on a porch and look out onto the water. There would be neighbors, of course, but not as close as they are in the city.
Not where the Brules had their cabin - their extended family's cabins and those of neighbors were so close that it was nearly impossible to walk between them! However, there were a number of horseshoe pitches nearby for land amusement. Of course there was swimming, boating and fishing as well.
After the weekend visit I drove on to Montreal and met up with Lowell who was staying at the 'Y'.
The twin to Ma Tante Mouisa (Sister Cecile) remained at the Mother House of the Order for all of her active life. The Mother House was on rue St. Matthew in downtown Montreal but she was at the retreat center at Pierrefonde which is on another island to the north and lying where the Ottawa River flows into the St. Lawrence. Ma Tante Cecile was quite different than Mouisa - whereas the latter was a heavyset woman, Cecile was petite, almost birdlike.
One of Dad's twin sisters, Cecile Lacasse - a Grey Nun - at the Pierrefonds Retreat Center, Montreal June 1971
She was obviously thrilled to meet me - my sisters, kid brother and I were the only nieces and nephews whom she had not met. Mouisa, because of living in the Northwest Territories , could speak English but Cecile could only speak French. My French was what I had learned in high school and I was no where near fluent in that language, but we managed to communicate. In her excitement, Tante Cecile would speak too quickly for me to catch what she was saying so my stock phrase became, "Lentement, Ma Tante, lentement!" ('Slow down, Auntie, slow down').
A few years after this I found myself living in Ottawa so I visited Tante Cecile a number of times - and took first Mom and then my brother, Dan, to meet her.
When Lowell and I reconnected we drove up the highway along the west bank of the St Lawrence River to Quebec City and found a lovely inn in the Old Town.
To my mind the two loveliest Provincial Capitals in Canada are Quebec City and Victoria - one very French and the other very English - and both of them are beautiful.
In Quebec City I loved the Old Town with its narrow twisting streets and old architecture. While Lowell and I were walking around we stumbled upon a street vendor selling paintings of Quebec City so I bought two and, later, had them framed.
Naturally, we visited the Chateau Frontenac, the Citadel and the Plains of Abraham.
Neither Quebec City nor St John's Newfoundland are large cities yet these were the only Provincial capitals where I became lost while trying to get from point 'A' to point 'B'. From Quebec City we wanted to cross the St Lawrence River to Levis on the old bridge - as opposed to the freeway bridge - but could not find the route to the former. We gave up and crossed the river on the less romantic freeway bridge.
On the south shore we drove northeast towards Gaspe. When we arrived in Rimouski it was past time for a lunch break so we pulled into a roadside cafe. For the longest time - in a virtually deserted eatery - we were ignored. We suspected that that was because we were speaking in English!
For me it is always a great thrill to physically see a place that is storied for its history and/or its scenic beauty. For me that was true for Gaspe and, a few miles further, Perce Rock.
We crossed into New Brunswick at Campbellton and, using secondary highways, found ourselves in the town of Shediac. We lucked out on that one - it was their annual Lobster Festival! My first taste of fresh lobster
We did not remain there for long but drove a few miles further to Cape Tormentine and the ferry to Prince Edward Island and the town of Summerside where, through a brochure we found while on the ferry, we booked into another charming B&B.
The next morning we set out to drive around Prince Edward Island - the only Canadian province that one can drive all around in one day! We saw Charlottetown and the place where Confederation was worked out in 1867, and out to Souris near the northeast corner. Our 'drive around' was shortened so we could cross back to the mainland and continue our eastward trek.
From Cape Tormentine we drove southeast towards Truro, Nova Scotia but. being adventurous, we did not drive the direct route but took a secondary highway. This road led us to Springhill which, by coincidence, was Anne Murray's hometown. It was her birthday and she was home for a celebration. Talk about a traffic jam! Unfortunately, we did not get to see Anne Murray in person.
The next day we headed southwest and saw one of Canada's prettiest villages - Peggy's Cove. We parked and walked along the seashore photographing that iconic lighthouse, the rocky shore and the thundering surf.
Our next stop was Halifax where we drove up to the Citadel and around that city leaving via the bridge across Halifax Harbor to Dartmouth. We had decided to drive that way following secondary roads to where another highway led north to Antigonish. We thought that that route would afford us some fantastic views of the coastline but the road remained inland.
On we went across the Canso Causeway to Cape Breton and the direct highway to North Sydney and the car ferry to Port aux Basques in Newfoundland. We did not have reservations - not being sure as to exactly when we would be arriving - but we were able to drive right onto the ferry and we were able to get a cabin.
The Ambrose Shea - the ferry - was a bucket of bolts and the water across to Port aux Basques was stormy but we slept fairly comfortably - except when the girls in the neighboring cabin woke us up by their retching. Fortunately, Lowell is like me - we have good 'sea legs'. We went to the restaurant for breakfast - not many people were there - and then were ready to drive off of the boat when we docked in Port aux Basques.
Newfoundland has made two dates statutory holidays which are not statutory holidays in any of the other Provinces - March 17 (St Patrick's Day) and July 12 (the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne - the 'Glorious 12th' to Irish Protestants).
That 'Glorious 12th' was not glorious at all - rain poured down almost all of the way along the drive to St John's. I had been in touch with the Rev Dr Kewley who was Chair of the local Presbytery so he - and his wife - were expecting us. We stayed there for two nights.
On the intervening day Lowell and I drove around that quaint city sightseeing so Lowell could say that he had seen that capital. During the drive I went out to Portugal Cove so we could look across at Bell Island (unfortunately, Lowell had to fly back to Vancouver and never did see that place).
The next day I drove Lowell to the airport and he flew back to Vancouver
By this time a number of fellow students from Union College had been settled in various western locations and most of them were reachable from the east - west highways. For instance, while at Union College I had become good friends with John Palmer - the son of a minister who felt called to the same career and was ordained the year before I was. He was settled in Warburg, Alberta and I had the opportunity to visit with him.
I am the type of person who, when I like somebody, thinks that we will always remain in the orbit of each other. Nothing is further from the truth. There are none of my classmates - or their predecessors - whom I now know whether they are living and, if they are, where they now reside.
When I arrived back in Vancouver I found a letter waiting for me. This missive spelled out where I would be going (I knew that it was supposed to be Newfoundland but not where exactly). It was the Bell Island/Portugal Cove Pastoral Charge. Dr Furcha was correct in assuming that I would be placed within close proximity of Memorial University in St John's. Portugal Cove is only a fifteen minute drive from there - but, traditionally, the United Church of Canada minister always lives on Bell Island
The folk in Portugal Cove could receive spiritual help from St John's in minutes but those on Bell Island would have to rely upon ferry service to bring the clergy to them in an emergency situation. Therefore they would not hear of me living in The Cove.
The next oldest brother of Terry Shaw wanted to visit the Eastern Provincial Capitals so he opted to journey with me on my drive to Newfoundland. So, less than a week after returning from the wedding trip, I collected Lowell Shaw and set out again.
Another resident at Union College worked at the Chateau Lake Louise in Banff National Park. As he was the 'Night Auditor' he was able to let us have a room at no cost (the 'High Season' had not yet commenced) so we decided to take advantage of the offer.
At that time the Trans Canada Highway through Banff and Yoho was being rebuilt and, as the old highway had not yet been completely abandoned, we turned onto it at the west end. After driving along that road for a few miles we saw a number of cars parked off to the side of the road. We looked at each other and exclaimed "Bears!" so we parked as well, saw where we could get through a wire fence with ease and a few feet from there, came up to a group of people who were standing at the edge of a giant hole. Down below was garbage from Chateau Lake Louise and - presumably - from the Banff Townsite which is a few miles further east.
Rummaging through the garbage were SEVEN adult grizzly bears and a few cubs - what an awesome sight! We could tell that the bears could hear and/or smell us as some of them paused in their munching to look up.
After a few minutes we turned to walk back to the car and saw yet another grizzly crossing the road a few yards from where we were.
We drove across to Ontario on the Trans Canada Highway staying with friends or in hotels/motels each night. When we arrived in Barrie - north of Toronto - we turned onto Ontario Highway 9 for the beautiful drive over the Caledon Hills to Orangeville and then south to Niagara Falls. The Falls and the layout of the town were/are very impressive.
Leaving Niagara we drove northeast around Lake Ontario to Toronto where we booked into the Central 'Y' and then did the 'tourist thing' like the new City Hall, Yorkville, my first ride on a North American subway, and Casa Loma.
Lowell and I parted for a few days in Toronto meeting up again in Montreal. I made my way via Highway 7 up to Ottawa and went looking for the Brules. They had gone out to the summer cottages which they owned on White Lake. The village of While Lake was easy to find but following the roads to the other end of the lake - where the cottages were situated - was another matter. I made it eventually.
My ideal of a cottage on a lake is a bucolic house situated where one could sit on a porch and look out onto the water. There would be neighbors, of course, but not as close as they are in the city.
Not where the Brules had their cabin - their extended family's cabins and those of neighbors were so close that it was nearly impossible to walk between them! However, there were a number of horseshoe pitches nearby for land amusement. Of course there was swimming, boating and fishing as well.
After the weekend visit I drove on to Montreal and met up with Lowell who was staying at the 'Y'.
The twin to Ma Tante Mouisa (Sister Cecile) remained at the Mother House of the Order for all of her active life. The Mother House was on rue St. Matthew in downtown Montreal but she was at the retreat center at Pierrefonde which is on another island to the north and lying where the Ottawa River flows into the St. Lawrence. Ma Tante Cecile was quite different than Mouisa - whereas the latter was a heavyset woman, Cecile was petite, almost birdlike.
She was obviously thrilled to meet me - my sisters, kid brother and I were the only nieces and nephews whom she had not met. Mouisa, because of living in the Northwest Territories , could speak English but Cecile could only speak French. My French was what I had learned in high school and I was no where near fluent in that language, but we managed to communicate. In her excitement, Tante Cecile would speak too quickly for me to catch what she was saying so my stock phrase became, "Lentement, Ma Tante, lentement!" ('Slow down, Auntie, slow down').
A few years after this I found myself living in Ottawa so I visited Tante Cecile a number of times - and took first Mom and then my brother, Dan, to meet her.
When Lowell and I reconnected we drove up the highway along the west bank of the St Lawrence River to Quebec City and found a lovely inn in the Old Town.
To my mind the two loveliest Provincial Capitals in Canada are Quebec City and Victoria - one very French and the other very English - and both of them are beautiful.
In Quebec City I loved the Old Town with its narrow twisting streets and old architecture. While Lowell and I were walking around we stumbled upon a street vendor selling paintings of Quebec City so I bought two and, later, had them framed.
Naturally, we visited the Chateau Frontenac, the Citadel and the Plains of Abraham.
Neither Quebec City nor St John's Newfoundland are large cities yet these were the only Provincial capitals where I became lost while trying to get from point 'A' to point 'B'. From Quebec City we wanted to cross the St Lawrence River to Levis on the old bridge - as opposed to the freeway bridge - but could not find the route to the former. We gave up and crossed the river on the less romantic freeway bridge.
On the south shore we drove northeast towards Gaspe. When we arrived in Rimouski it was past time for a lunch break so we pulled into a roadside cafe. For the longest time - in a virtually deserted eatery - we were ignored. We suspected that that was because we were speaking in English!
For me it is always a great thrill to physically see a place that is storied for its history and/or its scenic beauty. For me that was true for Gaspe and, a few miles further, Perce Rock.
We crossed into New Brunswick at Campbellton and, using secondary highways, found ourselves in the town of Shediac. We lucked out on that one - it was their annual Lobster Festival! My first taste of fresh lobster
We did not remain there for long but drove a few miles further to Cape Tormentine and the ferry to Prince Edward Island and the town of Summerside where, through a brochure we found while on the ferry, we booked into another charming B&B.
The next morning we set out to drive around Prince Edward Island - the only Canadian province that one can drive all around in one day! We saw Charlottetown and the place where Confederation was worked out in 1867, and out to Souris near the northeast corner. Our 'drive around' was shortened so we could cross back to the mainland and continue our eastward trek.
From Cape Tormentine we drove southeast towards Truro, Nova Scotia but. being adventurous, we did not drive the direct route but took a secondary highway. This road led us to Springhill which, by coincidence, was Anne Murray's hometown. It was her birthday and she was home for a celebration. Talk about a traffic jam! Unfortunately, we did not get to see Anne Murray in person.
The next day we headed southwest and saw one of Canada's prettiest villages - Peggy's Cove. We parked and walked along the seashore photographing that iconic lighthouse, the rocky shore and the thundering surf.
Our next stop was Halifax where we drove up to the Citadel and around that city leaving via the bridge across Halifax Harbor to Dartmouth. We had decided to drive that way following secondary roads to where another highway led north to Antigonish. We thought that that route would afford us some fantastic views of the coastline but the road remained inland.
On we went across the Canso Causeway to Cape Breton and the direct highway to North Sydney and the car ferry to Port aux Basques in Newfoundland. We did not have reservations - not being sure as to exactly when we would be arriving - but we were able to drive right onto the ferry and we were able to get a cabin.
The Ambrose Shea - the ferry - was a bucket of bolts and the water across to Port aux Basques was stormy but we slept fairly comfortably - except when the girls in the neighboring cabin woke us up by their retching. Fortunately, Lowell is like me - we have good 'sea legs'. We went to the restaurant for breakfast - not many people were there - and then were ready to drive off of the boat when we docked in Port aux Basques.
Newfoundland has made two dates statutory holidays which are not statutory holidays in any of the other Provinces - March 17 (St Patrick's Day) and July 12 (the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne - the 'Glorious 12th' to Irish Protestants).
That 'Glorious 12th' was not glorious at all - rain poured down almost all of the way along the drive to St John's. I had been in touch with the Rev Dr Kewley who was Chair of the local Presbytery so he - and his wife - were expecting us. We stayed there for two nights.
On the intervening day Lowell and I drove around that quaint city sightseeing so Lowell could say that he had seen that capital. During the drive I went out to Portugal Cove so we could look across at Bell Island (unfortunately, Lowell had to fly back to Vancouver and never did see that place).
The next day I drove Lowell to the airport and he flew back to Vancouver
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