More TALES FROM THE PAST. Wilbur Dean
And now it appears that after 50 long years,
I’m resigned to always do things her way.
For I know that tonight she’ll treat me just right,
And all the heartache and pain goes away.
Now that I’ve figured it out, no more she will shout.
After 50 long years I surrender.
And if I do things her way each and every day,
At night I’m the dominant gender.
So I’ve got some advice if you’re seeking a wife:
“Go always with whatever she says.”
Just listen to my song and you can’t go wrong.
You’ll be happy the rest of your days….
Respect
In this literary undertaking, I will try to illustrate the relationship I enjoyed with the seniors that were such an important part of my preteen years. Uncle or Aunt were to be used when referencing many of the older people back in my early childhood days. I couldn’t think, for the life of me, what criteria were used to elevate people to the Uncle or Aunt status, but this I do know: I’d better get it right if I were to escape the lectures that were sure to come because of neglect or ignorance. Neither of which was a good excuse for breaking the rules as laid down by mother and father.
Some of the memories are a bit dulled by the passage of time, so please forgive me if you read something here that you don’t agree with, or if I have omitted someone that you think should be included. But just remember that this is my story, and I did not associate with all the elders that resided in the harbour, although I think they all knew who I was, that’s fer sure.
~
Living on the West Side, Hickman’s Harbour in my early years, we always referred to the oldest people in our neighourhood as uncle and aunt. And if you dared address them in any other way you would be chastised by your parents: “UNCLE and AUNT to you,” admonishment. There was Uncle Heber and Aunt Bess, Uncle Fred and Aunt May, Uncle Joe and Aunt Evelyn, Uncle Ab and Aunt Pearl, Uncle Jim and Aunt Ethel, and Uncle Phil and Aunt May. Not that they were actually our uncle or aunt, although some of them were, but it was our way of showing respect to the oldest amongst us, be they related or not. For the most part, they had earned it, even though sometimes I thought differently. But that moment soon passed, and I looked at my elders in awe and wonderment. But how could anybody be so old? Sure they were so wrinkled and grey I thought they should have perished long ago. Some of them had to be a couple hundred years old, at least in the eyes of this young hangashore. And in my ‘age of innocence,’ I’m sure they forgave me for having such an elaborate imagination.
I guess it was the lifestyle back then. Blood, sweat, and tears as they worked their fingers to the bone to provide the necessities of life for their families. No, they did not age gracefully, as most people do nowadays. I guess a bit of the Botox or Mary Kay would have helped, like it do today, but it was not an option for them at that time. It’s not like they lived in London, New York, or Paris, where a trip to the beauty salon could have rejuvenated them to an earlier time. They lived on the edge of the wild atlantic, and had to expose their skin to the elements in the worst of times in order to fill the cellars and the pantry with the bare necessities to sustain themselves and their families from season to season. So they showed their age, like a work of art that’s been hanging in a museum for the past five hundred years or more. Oh yes, they were beautiful people alright, in an ancient kind of way, and they just kept getting better with age. Like a bottle of good wine. Maybe not a good analogy though, considering the people I am referring to here. I don’t think Aunt Evelyn or Aunt Ethel would appreciate being compared to a Chardonnay or Pinot Noir.
I don’t know what made me different from other youngsters back then, but I often found myself wanting to be in the company of these older and peculiar people. Especially the aunts. The uncles were usually out and about, doing the daily chores when I would walk into their homes unannounced at any moment, and usually was received by a kind word, a cookie and a glass of Purity Syrup or Rose’s Lime Juice Cordial. “But don’t walk on the wet floor that I just mopped.” If I were really lucky, I’d get a glass of fresh scalded milk, teased from the cow or goat earlier in the morning.
Sometimes I got a special treat at Aunt Bess’ house. Her son John had a general store, and she would sometimes sneak a jawbreaker or tootsie roll for me. But I had to be quiet about it and not tell the other youngsters. Too many missing condiments and John might get in a tizzy. Other than that, my memory of Uncle Heber and Aunt Bess is a bit cloudy. I wasn’t all that old when Uncle Heber bit the dust, and Aunt Bess moved out of the ‘West Side’ enclave to reside with Willie George and Lillie, in ‘The Bottom’ precinct.
At the risk of being revoked by the others, I must say that Aunt Evelyn was my favourite. I would sit on the end of the daybed or in the old rocker and thumb through ‘The War Cry’ as she busied herself with a batch of bread before bringing me my treats. She often passed me along a sprig of red currants when she was harvesting them. Passed them out through the wire fence as I strolled in the drong to get me dinner. I graciously accepted, as I watched Uncle Joe grab the old goat and wrestle her to the barn to fill the bucket with fresh milk.
Aunt Evelyn was also known for her midwifery and remedies for consumption and other life threatening illnesses. She saved sister Mary from certain death when I was about five years old. “Run out and get Aunt Evelyn,” mom instructed me. “I think Mary is dying.” Several hours later, after ingesting a concoction prepared by this life-saving Aunt, the fever left Mary’s body and she made a full recovery.
Aunt Evelyn gave me a christmas present one year, a pull-along bobblehead of sorts, and I treasured it more than any other toy that I possessed, the numbers of which were few and far between. I was watching Pawn Stars a couple of years ago and this guy walked into the pawn shop carrying an exact replica of that toy. After consulting with an expert on such nostalgic memorabilia I was shocked to hear the value. $16,000. Oh my God.
Aunt Evelyn sometimes presented me with a box of ‘promises’ from which I would pick one out and she would read it to me after wiping the sweat from her brow with the tail of her apron.
“Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord. Colossians 3: 20”
Aunt May and Uncle Fred lived in the same house as did Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Joe. But they had their own section, separated by the stairway to the second floor. The very first duplex, I dare say.
Before Alma and Clouston and their children moved in with Aunt May and Uncle Fred, I would occasionally visit that section of the house, access granted by a latched gate and a walkway covered in beachrock, as was common in those days. My visits here were not lengthy, just long enough to gobble down a gingerbread cookie and quench my thirst with the ‘Purity,’ as I had an uneasy feeling about Uncle Fred, and I was kinda scared he might pop in fer a cup of tea at any moment. He was a bit strange to my eye. He wouldn’t even let brother George use his barrow to transport some capelin from Billy’s wharf to our potato garden so dad could trench the spuds. “Go build yer own barrow,” he said. So I usually tried to time my visits there to when I knew he would be absent for an extended period. I could usually tell by the sound of his old Hubbard chugging out the harbour to the fishing grounds that he’d be gone for an hour or two. Then I could stay a little longer and listen to Aunt May raise her voice in song. And could she ever sing. “Oh Boundless Salvation. Sweet Ocean Of Love.”
Now on the other hand, I scheduled my visits to Aunt Pearl and Uncle Ab’s abode to coincide with both of them being there. I watched Aunt Pearl sitting in the old rocker and knitting up a few balls of yarn as she filled the dresser drawers with mittens, socks, and guernseys. I was sometimes enlisted to hold the skein on my wrists while Aunt Pearl transformed it into a ball that would roll around the floor every time she pulled off a fathom or so as she counted the stitches. Purl three, knit seven. I was fascinated by how fast