Dancing In a Jar (2 page)

It was a true gift, then, to come across letters from my father and Urla about their early days in St. Lawrence.

When I read them I was struck by the difference from the story we had always understood. Here were letters describing Newfoundland in a way that was not only different from the “New Jersey” perspective, but provided a fresh and surprising view of being in Newfoundland at that time. Naturally, there was poverty, tragedy, and sadness, but there was also much hope, laughter, and enterprise. Their description of the place and the landscape is a love story onto itself. Their own love story is evident on every page of each letter.

Unfortunately, there were only about fifteen letters but enough to dispel any of the notions that had come from my father’s family about his Newfoundland experience. In this book, I have used direct excerpts from some of the actual letters. In other cases, I have retold their stories in my own voice. However, most of the book is a product of my own imagination. I love stories where things are not what they seem. I love that I could weave a real part of my father’s life into a story I always wanted to write.

More than my father’s story, however, this book tells of significant events in the development of our little country. It also includes stories of people I have known or heard about all my life and I am happy to extend the storytelling here. I mean no offense to anyone or their descendants.

As important as the story I tell is the one I didn’t tell. Of all the books I thought I would write, I assumed it would be about
my father’s second wife, not his first. My mother was adored by everyone who knew her. In many ways, however, her story has been told in several novels set in Newfoundland. She was raised in a typical, hard-working, Catholic family without luxury. She was industrious and fun-loving, with no trouble finding joy in her life. Since I had so few letters to help me understand Urla fully, I imbued her with many of my mother’s qualities. This was easy to do since they appear to be much alike, despite their very different upbringing. So my mother’s story is told here too. She is also directly in the book as Florence Etchegary, a part of Urla’s reading circle and an active participant in St. Lawrence life. She and my father went on to have a love story of their very own, marrying in 1947. To celebrate their wedding, my grandfather presented them with their own dairy cow, Bess.

1938

Hudson Valley Sanitarium
Montclair, New Jersey

September 20, 1938

Dear Mr. Poynter:

This is our second letter of correspondence to you concerning your late wife’s affairs. We understand the post is not that reliable in your country.

Once again please accept our condolences on the passing of Mrs. Poynter.

We have assembled her personal belongings and they have been collected by your wife’s sister, Mrs.William Mutch. However, in preparing a room for a new guest, the housekeeper found a large sheath of papers wedged between the mattress and bed springs. They appear to be notes of some importance to Mrs. Poynter and we thought you might like to keep them as a memento for her daughter.

We are sending you these and our heartfelt condolences on your loss.

Warm regards,
Matron Isabel Forrester

1933

The
Rosalind
Off the coast of Eastern Canada

September 10, 1933

Dear Mom, Pop, Edith, and Howard,

Well, here it is Monday and we are still at sea after a very hectic trip. Halifax is four hours off. We didn’t go up Long Island Sound as expected but put right out to sea and then north.

As I write, it is glorious out, seas are calm, and the coast of Nova Scotia is on our port. Even from here I can see the leaves have started to change, and to be sure the air has a cool nip. When the wind blows through my clothes on deck, I get some curious glances from other passengers as there are still bits of rice and confetti that fall from things I’m wearing. I am sure none of them would believe this voyage constitutes a honeymoon.

Unfortunately, we hit some poor weather around Maine. Urla took to bed yesterday at breakfast and I’ve yet to see her today and it’s almost noon. In truth, I had totally forgotten that Urla’s only experience on the water was sailing with us last year up the Hudson from Englewood. I suspect she had carried an image of us five on the
Scout
’s foredeck—enjoying the breeze with our gallant little King, his snout high on the wind, leading us on. In this case, we wouldn’t
be on the foredeck without being tied down, and King would be the first airborne spaniel in history.

This tub of bolts is not exactly as billed and there has been no hot water since the day we left New York. I have yet to tell Urla the
Portia
that will take us from Halifax to St. Lawrence is only half this size! But my bride is being a sport, and before this patch of rough weather, she and I played some handsome bridge with another couple on board.

George McManus is also a passenger and I have really enjoyed chatting with him. You may remember he is the creator of
Bringing up Father
.

In chats with other passengers who have been to Newfoundland, we have discovered that you may be able to bring in Christmas presents without duty and that things might not be as primitive as you might imagine.

I guess this will be all for now. More letters will follow along our rocky route.

As ever,
Donald

The Lord Nelson
Halifax, Nova Scotia

September 12, 1933

My Dear Ivah,

Not in all my life could I imagine being this sick. I prayed to God to toss me over into that furious sea—anything to get me away from the rolling and heaving of that ship. The only thing that kept me from slipping over the edge was holding to my wedding vows. Thank God I was able to keep that front and center and not let my mind run to the smell of diesel and the sharp panes of ice coming in on the wind.
I am not sure Don and I were on the same ship, as he swears the winds were balmy.

I have no idea how I will ever tell Mother that the beautiful scarf she gave me when we left Brooklyn went overboard as I heaved and the deck heaved. And I saw it go—those soft colors dropping painfully slowly in horrible contrast to the hardness all around me. I swear, I would have gone over with it if Don didn’t find me and encourage me back inside. I hate for him to see me this way. I am determined to be as much an adventurer as he is and I will not let my side down. Someone pressed a cup of sweet milky tea on me and I couldn’t possibly tell him, I can’t abide the stuff, but somehow it did help set me right.

Don, of course, seems just fine if not positively relishing the voyage. I love watching him with his big broad smile and I can’t believe he is now my husband. I have been practicing those words for five days now and I am slowly getting used to saying them without feeling churlish. No one on board the ship knows us as anything else and that is, at once, a little frightening and a little freeing. So I have been sprinkling my comments liberally with “my husband” this and “my husband” that, trying to get used to it. I think it’s starting to sit better on my tongue and I hope, dear Ivah, that I haven’t been boring you with the silly thoughts of a new bride. I so missed the chance to have spent some time with you after the ceremony. This all seems so brusque and unfair to you to have me marry and go away in the same breath. But I promise to write often and so must you.

We have this impossible treat of a night in a hotel here in Canada before we take our final ship to Newfoundland. Of course any bolthole would delight me as long as it wasn’t heaving in the North Atlantic, but this place is almost regal in its feel. I’m just about to get ready for dinner. Don met some people on the ship and we will all dine together. He says Nova Scotia is famous for lobster although I’m not sure my stomach could handle anything other than consommé.

Please tell Mother and Daddy that everything is just fine and I will write to them from St. Lawrence.

I send you all my love, my darling sister,
Urla

P.S. Don’t tell Mother about my misfortune with the scarf.
P.P.S. Give Sturdy a proper hug from me. I miss him so.

The
Portia
Grand Bank, Newfoundland

September 15, 1933

Dear Mom and Pop,

We are almost to St. Lawrence and I thought I would send you a note from here to let you know how we are doing. I will send a more coherent affair once we settle into our boarding house.

We have had terrific storms from the time we left Halifax, waves breaking over this little ship. But the
Portia
has proven itself and we have an excellent captain at the helm. Once we reached the south coast of Newfoundland, he would heave to for periods, running into little harbors with their hidden towns. It’s the most beautiful country you could ever want to see, with huge granite hills rising up from the sea, and villages tucked into little coves.

The town of Gaultois was our first stop. Urla said it looked like a fairy kingdom from one of the picture books she had as a child. The entrance is marked by a tiny lighthouse, which according to the captain is the smallest operating lighthouse in the world. The town has about fifty houses and two churches, and a curious little road made of birch logs that winds around the mountainside. This fairy kingdom even has a king. A man named Garland seems to rule the whole place and the men under him fish and cut lumber for a living. This King Garland has a beautiful three-masted schooner, which was at anchor while the King was away in his merchant boat. What a fiefdom he has! By the way, the Masonic emblem was everywhere throughout that town. The next town was Catholic, the one after that Anglican, and on it goes along the coast like a checker board.

We came upon places named Francois, Hermitage, Belloram, often making a forced landing to get out of the gale. Most of these places only have about fifty houses, but always one or two churches, and each house is painted smartly so they show up beautifully against the pines. In Hermitage, the women came down to the boat with fresh bread and raisin tea buns. The captain told me that a Mrs. Simms started it years ago and the tradition holds.

We are now in the town of Grand Bank, one of our bigger stops. Most towns have one or two schooners at anchor, but Grand Bank has six. We are coming down the coast now to flatter land and there are only two stops until St. Lawrence.

Today’s sunlight has been the first we’ve seen since leaving home. The only cloudiness is coming from the people of this town who are very sad over the loss of two boys from the pierhead in a storm. Otherwise, everyone has been very friendly. When a boat comes in the harbor, the whole town comes down on the pier to greet it. I have learned that I must not use the word pier as that is reserved for gentlemen on sailboats! Around here everyone uses the term wharf.

Our captain has been very friendly and often comes to join mealtimes. Meals are a curious affair. The chief dish for breakfast is stew, usually with a choice of meat or veal (and meat here means beef). Of course fish is on offer three times a day and then a little before you go to bed! And fish here always means cod. Everyone holds their forks upside down. They keep both hands going all the time and it’s hard not to stare as the food gets stuffed in. The coffee tastes like it was brewed for weeks at a time and the tea will pick you up and set you down with a bang. Teatime is called “mug up” and they ask you if you would like to “mug up.” Urla is already filling her notebook with local expressions.

We were only ten passengers on the way up to Grand Bank, but we picked up a number of people this morning going to St. John’s. We shared a good part of the south coast with a Captain Petit, known as a great “Banker,” a curious term that means he owns a big fleet of fishing vessels that go to the Grand Banks. He is well traveled and is now on his way home from New York, leaving our ship at Harbour Breton. At every stop everyone seemed to know him and admire him. He was full of stories and I enjoyed time in his company, including taking a good game of cribbage from him.

The people have been welcoming and very accommodating. We have already been invited to the homes of everyone we have met. A large crowd meets every boat and there is laughter and good cheer all around even though it’s clear that every community is suffering. I have never seen so many children and they come wearing clothes that look to be passed down through generations. The men all wear heavy woollen sweaters and rubber boots.

We are about to leave soon so I will give this to a steward to have mailed in Grand Bank. I hope you don’t receive it before we get to St. Lawrence.

More anon,
As ever,
Donald

St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

September 16, 1933

Dear Mom and Pop,

It has taken a few days for me to settle in and put pen to paper. Hopefully this will allay any fears you may have had that Urla and I would not make it to Newfoundland. Believe me, we have arrived.

I am not sure if you have received a letter I left to be mailed from Grand Bank so I won’t repeat myself too much here. The trip up was fairly smooth sailing until the final leg crossing the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the south coast of Newfoundland. It felt like my first crossing of the Atlantic to England. For Urla, it felt like a trip to the belly of the earth, but she was a good sport about it all. I am not certain she will look back on her honeymoon in the same way other gals will. But the beauty of the south coast and the kindness of the people more than made up for the waves and gales.

St. Lawrence was shrouded in fog when we rounded the cape into the harbor. For now, there is only one wharf used by some fishermen and a few government vessels, so offloading was a bit of an adventure to say the least. It appears that Siebert is behind on paying the men who have been working for him and now they refuse to work until there is some compensation. So I had to reach into my own pocket to get a few locals on the wharf to help offload the mine equipment. An invidious start.