Growing into Canada
Warm memories of a childhood spent in her own little corner of the country
Ihave lived in many different places across this country and have loved various aspects of all of them, but the place that holds the fondest memories for me is Riverhead, St. Mary’s Bay, N.L.
I grew up there during the late 1940s, ‘50s and early ‘60s, when Canada was still referred to as “the mainland.” I was almost a teenager before I realized that I lived in Canada.
My first memories are of starting school in 1952 at six years of age. On these mornings, I would crawl out from my heavily quilt-covered bed that I shared with my sister, and dash downstairs to dress behind the wood stove. As I pulled on the long-leg drawers and dreaded cotton stockings, then pulled my suspenders over my
underwear, I could see the pot of porridge bubbling away on the stove. After a lovely bowl of porridge and a cup of tea watered down with Carnation evaporated milk, we children (I had four siblings) lined up for the obligatory teaspoonful of cod-liver oil. And then it was off to school in the dory with all the other youngsters, being ferried across the “arm,” (a section of the ocean that came into Riverhead before the river began) with Tom Ryan manning the oars. HOLIDAYS AND TRADITIONS
Fall brought Halloween when we spent hours scooping out our turnips. We’d dress in old clothes, put a candle in our turnip and head out to get our treat, which was usually an apple. Before we made it to the first house, the wind would have blown the candle out and we would have to re-light it at each house.
Eaton’s and Simpson’s catalogues came in the mail before Christmas and were a highlight of our lives. We’d pore over the pages for hours and were always amazed at the pictures of the men and women wearing only their underwear! We’d longingly wish for the things we couldn’t have and the things we hoped to get from Santa. When the catalogues became outdated, they were put in the outhouse to be used as toilet paper.
The days leading up to Christmas were a flurry of activity, with my father killing a sheep for a mutton roast on Christmas Day, and the blood being saved for my mother to make her wonderful black pudding, which we all loved. We children helped make the pudding as well as the dark and light fruitcakes, or at least we thought we were helping.
On Christmas Eve, the tree was decorated. We’d hang our long cotton socks, eat a fish supper, get dressed in our Sunday best and open our gifts. Later in the evening, the men of the community went from house to house sipping rum and singing songs. This was always a highlight for us, as they sang the old songs a cappella. My older sister Margie and I, strongly encouraged by our mother, would sing the Irish ballad “Eileen Mcmanus.”
With five children in the family, Christmas morning was always exciting. What a treat to find an orange in the toe of our stocking! Where did Santa find them? There would be candy, and once, I received a doll, a beautiful black doll. What a favourite she was!
On December 26, Saint Stephen’s Day, an old Irish tradition was continued when the “Wren Boys” came to visit. The local boys would go from house to house, carrying a little fir tree that had an ornament of a wren on its top. At each house, they sang, “The wren, the wren, the king of all birds, Saint Stephen’s Day got caught in the furze, so it’s up with the kettle and down with the pan, give us a penny to bury the wren.”
The boys would then come into the homes and receive some coins, a piece of cake and a glass of Newfoundland Purity syrup.
As winter wore on, our family would gather in the cozy lamp-lit kitchen in the evenings, with Dad lying on the daybed reading, the children doing homework at the table and mother clicking her steel knitting needles, as she knit very large, white mittens for dad. These mittens, worn while fishing, would become saturated with salt water and would eventually shrink, becoming thicker and almost waterproof.
March 17, Saint Patrick’s Day, was a day when all the Lenten restrictions imposed on our Catholic community could be forgotten. Many of the men who, at the beginning of Lent, had taken a pledge in front of the parish priest not to drink, felt free to imbibe for 24 hours. There was dancing and merriment and we children ate all the candy we had been saving since the first day of Lent. The next day we would start over again and save until Easter Sunday. Remember, there was not a heck of a lot of candy to save in those days.
May 24, Victoria Day, was an exciting day at school, as all the pupils received caramel candy in a tin with a picture of the Queen on it. I’m not sure when we stopped getting these. Maybe when Britain realized we had joined Canada! Some years, cans of malt were given out at school. It was thick and sweet like honey—and we loved it! There was a lot of tuberculosis in the area during those years and, with poor access to medical care, the public health system may have been attempting to boost our immune systems with malt and cod-liver oil.
A SIMPLER TIME
At the end of each school year, we’d have a big concert, which opened with the singing of “God Save the King” (this became “God Save the Queen” in 1953), followed by the “Ode to Newfoundland.” No wonder I didn’t know I lived in Canada!
Yes, growing up in my little part of Canada provided me with a sheltered and idyllic world. Children and adults alike could walk in and out of one another’s homes at will. As children, we would go into a house, say “Hello”, then just sit there and speak only if asked a question but always replied “Yes” if we were offered a piece of cake!
After supper, if you went into a home, you would probably end up having to kneel down and join in their rosary, even though you may have already finished your own at home. Timing was everything in this community of Irish Catholic ancestry.
Our chores at home depended on age and ability. There was dish washing, bringing in wood and coal, feeding the hens, making hay, and, on Saturdays, scrubbing and waxing the kitchen floor as we listened and sang to the Irish music show, The Big Six on CBC radio. I can still hear my sisters and I as we sang our favourites, such as “Hello Patsy Fagan” and “The Stone Outside Dan Murphy’s Door.” As there was no electricity, our only news and music came from CBC radio. My father had built a windmill on the hill at the top of the meadow to keep the radio battery charged.
This is one child’s story of our Canada in the early years. I am sure that if one or both of my parents had written of that time, it might not have been so idyllic, as I know times were hard and there was little money. We were poor, but I didn’t know it, as we were never cold or hungry.
Although there may be some in Newfoundland who rue the day that Joey Smallwood “dragged us, kicking and screaming into Confederation,” I for one am happy to show my Canadian passport, display my Canadian flag on my backpack and proudly say, “Yes, I am Canadian!”