BASED ON A TRUE STORY
DANCING
IN A JAR
Adele Poynter
FOR
Alex, Patrick, and Kate
BREAKWATER
P.O. Box 2188, St. John’s, NL, Canada, A1C 6E6
WWW.BREAKWATERBOOKS.COM
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada.
Copyright © 2016 Adele Poynter
ISBN 978-1-55081-630-3
Map created by CeAnne Giovannini
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CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
1938
1933
1934
1935
1936
EPILOGUE
She is…
a woman pressed into the shape of a small jar, possibly attempting to dance in there. It shows in the way she places a seashell on a window sill, a red-painted chair in the corner: she is practiced in the art of creating a still life and taking up residence inside it.
BARBARA KINGSOLVER, THE LACUNA
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This story spun around in my head for several years before I felt brave enough to start writing. Then when my own life veered from my plan, I had extra motivation to pursue the project. Friends who were writing themselves—Susan, Margo, and Deanne—provided the added incentive. My brothers Tom, Don, and Rob were very anxious to see something done with the original letters, so they provided sweet but constant pressure not to give up. Dr. John Martin made a significant contribution to understanding the full story of the St. Lawrence mines. I was so fortunate to spend time with him during his research, which helped my own understanding of a complex situation. It also allowed me the delight of spending hours with a fascinating individual.
One of my reasons for writing was to help my children get to know their grandfather at a very special time in Newfoundland history. They paid me back by helping with the typing. It is my wish this book reminds Alex, Patrick, and Kate that much of who they are comes from the people who came before them. I trust this will be the same reaction of all my nieces and nephews who read this book. I particularly hope this rings true for my sister’s four sons—Don, Jack, Paul, and Jim—and will help them to better understand their complex and gifted mother.
My cousins Gemma and Betty, and my Uncle Gus all helped me to better understand St. Lawrence, then and now. My brother, Tom, years ago had dutifully audio taped some members of the Poynter and Crammond families. Those conversations helped fill in some gaps. My nephew, Don, found some more material in his mother’s things and sent them along. To everyone I am truly thankful.
Sister Charlotte Fitzpatrick was a great source of knowledge on the history of the Order of the Sisters of Mercy in Newfoundland. During the writing process, I was fortunate enough to share time with my friend Dorothy who exemplifies all that is good about rural Newfoundland. My friends Maureen and Becky were instrumental in helping me prepare the manuscript to send to publishers. Unfortunately when she closes her eyes at night, I know Becky sees extra spaces, capitals where they shouldn’t be, and other formatting gremlins. I’m sorry for that, but her help was instrumental. Gemma helped me sort through the final edits from the publisher who was mercifully gentle on me. I owe “you all” so much.
As always my mentor, Gretchen Bauta, inspired me in this project as in so many others.
A host of people—Mary, Tarie, Clare, Christina, Paida, and Espie as well as my doctor, Marie—all kept me comfortable and able to finish this process even as my physical abilities declined.
I’d also like to thank Rebecca Rose and James Langer for making this book a priority, and Rhonda Molloy for her beautiful design.
My husband, John, supported me as he does in everything I do. That’s the beauty of being loved in precisely the right way.
PROLOGUE
I WAS ELEVEN when I discovered that my father had been married before. It’s a sad reflection on the genius of us four children that it took so long to realize that our oldest sister, Barbara, was a child from a previous marriage.
Just as I tell it in this book, my father married Urla Crammond, his childhood sweetheart, in the fall of 1933 and they immediately left New York for St. Lawrence, Newfoundland. The story from my father’s family was always the same: Urla went to St. Lawrence against the good judgment of the Crammonds and the Poynters. She loved Dad and did not want to be away from him. She found St. Lawrence to be an impoverished, isolated place, and she was anxious to return to the United States. She particularly did not want Barbara to grow up there. Before too long she returned to the United States and died while receiving medical care. This version of the story presents it as a tragedy not to be spoken of.
Tragedies, of course, are always intriguing. I was interested in knowing more about the story, and about my father when he was younger. My father was forty-nine years old when I was born and sixty-nine when he died. I knew him barely twenty years. I only knew his older self, whom I loved dearly, but I also loved stories about his adventurous early life and there were plenty of those.
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 a
ll 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.
TELEGRAPH
US WIRELESS
TO DA POYNTER
SEPTEMBER 12 1933
C/O THE LORD NELSON
HALIFAX NOVA SCOTIA
PURCHASED SECOND HAND MACHINERY FROM SYDNEY
COAL MINE STOP WILL BE ON YOUR SHIP INTO ST
LAWRENCE STOP MEN WILL MEET YOU TO UNLOAD FULL
STOP WALTER
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.
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