Lady Cove: Island Paradise
EXCERPT #5 TALES OF A RABBIT TOWN BOY
(Tales of a Rabbit Town Boy was written by my late father LeRoy Soper, born in 1935 in St. John’s Newfoundland. This is the 5th excerpt from the book.)
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During the years of the raging war in Europe, Hitler’s name was spoken with venomous disgust while Churchill was hailed as a conquering hero. Sailors and soldiers from the island were coming and going. Some arrived home seriously injured and unable to return. Their tales of the war were very few and I was told how they had no desire to relive the events by telling even the simplest stories. Most times these men sat quietly while some wasted away from serious wounds and incurable mental damage. It’s true, war is hell.
In stark contrast to the awful ravages of war was the deep and abiding pleasure of Random Island, where I spent most of my boyhood summers. For us, Lady Cove was our grandmother’s island paradise. Visiting Nanny, as we called her, was a special experience every year.
A former resident of Random Island and professor at Memorial University, Wilfred Martin and his wife Eileen have written several books about the people of this small island, whose exploits have had great impact on their province and beyond.
Travelling by the Newfie Bullet
Getting to Lady Cove was quite the experience. Leaving the St. John’s train station at 5:00 pm, the Newfie Bullet chugged its way to Clarenville, arriving about midnight.
Sometimes, if a boat was available, we boarded it right away, but other times we had to wait until the next morning, sleeping as best we could on hard benches in the cold and dirty train station. The boat, which took us about ten miles to the wharf at Lady Cove, was also small, smelly and noisy, since it was used both for carrying passengers and transporting fish.
The trip carried some hazards, because the waters of Random Sound at the end of Trinity Bay were not always calm and civil. Once when Dorothy came later than the rest of us, the boat was caught in a gale and got hung up on a rocky shoal near Foster’s Point. Thankfully helped by high tide, Dorothy and the other passengers were rescued by morning.
(After confederation with Canada, a bridge and causeway were constructed so we could drive across the bay.)
From the wharf we had a long walk to the house. As you face northeast across a stony meadow, a vista of unspoiled scenery greets you. To me, the sight approaches sacred proportions. A small river bubbles over the grass and carves its way through rocks and boulders. In the summer horses used this pristine lea to graze and exercise after a long winter of hauling logs through the woods to feed the mill.
We often saw these horses birth their foals and soon enjoyed befriending the colt and its mother as it grew up. Fences here are not built to keep horses confined, but to keep them out of the gardens and homes as they enjoyed the freedom to meander.
Bald Head Hill
To the left of this scene is a valley. Up through this thickly wooded crease, a pathway led to a small pond. Several more ponds like this have never seen the casting of a fishing line. To the right of the valley, rising high, is a hill quite visible from Nanny’s front porch.
To me this was not an ordinary hill. Imagine a man having a bald spot surrounded by a healthy crop of hair. That’s my rocky hill. The bald spot was solid rock and the birch and spruce trees encircled this outcropping and allowed me the pleasure of naming it Bald Head Hill.
Between the hill on one side, and these mystery ponds on the other, flowed a little brook. The water in this brook was so clean — being really a spring-fed water source — that many times we ambled up to it just to have a drink from its refreshing, bubbling, cool purity.
Nanny’s quaint little house stood on the side of the road between Lady Cove and Foster’s Point. In those days in Lady Cove, no modern technology existed — not even a telephone. There was no greed or pride present. Everyone shared what they had, with few accounts kept between neighbours. Trust reigned supreme because they all needed each other. The strong Christian faith that permeated these people made life as good as it could get.
When someone died, a village carpenter built a casket in a matter of hours. Nothing fancy, but adequate. All the ladies knew how to act as midwife to a young mother and her birthing experience. Hospital? What was that? Their knowledge of folk medicine, carpentry and plumbing, folksy wisdom and all that made up rich community living rendered life full and balanced.
It was a rich blending of tough, back-breaking work and deep, spiritually full family life. The wisdom of the aged was respected with attending awe. Children honoured adults in response to adults’ love and protection.
Nanny Hart
When Nanny spoke, we all listened. When she prayed, we were enveloped in a shroud of divine presence. Her high-pitched voice was comical to some people’s ears, but to us she was the very pinnacle of motherhood, and as a grandmother there were no peers.
Aunt Amy Hart, as she was known far and wide, drew a deep sigh from those who were asked about her. “She was some woman, by!” In Newfoundland, these words are the highest compliment. This was my Grandmother and from the very thought of her rise oceans of love.
Nanny’s husband, Theophilus, managed grocery stores on the island. He died before I ever had the joy of sitting on his lap and listening to his wisdom and soft voice.
In the barn behind her house Nanny kept accommodations for the animals. A dozen hens, fed the best of scraps from the table void of anything artificial and chemical, laid the best eggs. The cat kept the mice at bay. A goat supplied Nanny with milk while several sheep produced as much wool as she could handle to knit socks and mitts for the family. She had all the machinery and moved the wool along an assembly line from the back of the sheep to the finished product. Her natural talents had been honed by predecessors who evidently excelled at these trades and survival techniques.
