by David Ward
— James McLeod, The St. John’s Telegram,
May 24, 2014
When Steve Kent says, “There’s certainly no pressure from government for [outport people to consider resettling elsewhere],” he is either lying or seriously lacking in smarts. No wonder my McCallum neighbours constantly question how often the former Mount Pearl mayor gets off the Avalon Peninsula, Newfoundland’s only real urban region. Perhaps Kent meant that government is applying no direct pressure, because it’s obvious around here that politicians are applying as much indirect pressure as they possibly can without alienating voters who are sympathetic to the outport person’s predicament. And that’s just a gutless way of going about your business. If government wants people out of the outports, they should shut those communities down instead of insisting on making it look like they had no role in the outcome.
Take a look at Little Bay Islands, another isolated outport in a situation similar to McCallum. Little Bay Islands’ resettlement vote is stuck at 89.47 percent in favour of going (.53 percent under the arbitrarily assigned requirement). I’ve been to Little Bay Islands. It’s a lovely little community, but it feels like a funeral home. I would walk around town every day and never see a soul. There is only one learner left in the Little Bay Islands school. Yet the municipal affairs minister has adamantly stated that Little Bay Islands does not qualify for resettlement money, leaving residents to further sort out their sad situation on their own.
Does anybody really believe that dangling a quarter of a million dollars, and insisting on ninety percent community approval before anyone can collect doesn’t create considerable “pressure” for the people the incentive program is aimed at? For the ones who can’t read or write — to find themselves in a position where they have to consider leaving their isolated ancestral home, talking to strangers (even signing on the dotted line with one of them should they wish to purchase a new house) — any hint at all that they’re going to have to go is incredibly difficult for them to deal with. And just because there are outsiders who don’t understand the relationship these outport people have with the land they grew up on doesn’t mean such an earthly connection doesn’t exist or isn’t important. Anyone who thinks these people haven’t experienced extreme pressure since March 26, 2013 — the day this generation’s resettlement offer was tendered — is hugely mistaken.
This is not urban Ontario. Speculators are not buying up homes in isolated outports in hope of one day acquiring some easy resettlement money. It just doesn’t work that way. Before you can collect, you have to have lived in your home for six months plus a day, per year, for the two years prior to accepting the province’s offer. And should that day come, when ninety percent of your people vote to go, the province has stated it would be at least two or three years after that before someone would receive any money. And we all know how government works — “two or three years” usually turns out to be a whole lot longer. So the value of homes around here has actually plummeted since the resettlement proposal was put forward. Outport people are now hard-pressed to get $500 for a home that, prior to the province’s resettlement offer, might have fetched them five thousand.
Government is not offering to purchase our homes — they’re trying to buy us out. It’s simple math. They no longer want to service us. If paying everyone resettlement money costs less than the price of servicing a town for twenty years, that community qualifies to collect. This ratio rationale is easy to achieve when you weigh in the replacement cost of a ferry. So grief is everywhere, as is all its associated anger, bargaining, and depression.
McCallum is not an easy place to be these days. After two years of trying to convince the crowd who wants to stay to see their way, the gang who wants to go is threatening to leave anyway — without the money. Some will go forever, others only for the winter. Some people are already managing their absences this way for lifestyle-related reasons, others out of anger. They’re sending a message to those who want to stay. They’re saying, “You want to stay? Okay. Then here is what it’s going to look like: There won’t be forty-five people here. So the ferry won’t come [as often]. And there won’t be anybody to play darts with, or shovel your snow, or fix your pipes when they freeze. No sir, you’ll have to feel lonely like I do.”
I can tell you that’s difficult. As capable and hardy as these outport people are, they do not want to be by themselves. When you travel rural Ontario, you see single homes sitting all alone almost everywhere, whereas in Newfoundland, you can drive miles without seeing any sign of civilization, but when you do come across development, you discover a cluster of homes, all of which sit surprisingly close to one another. That’s because a lot of Newfoundlanders like to live in rural environments, but in no way do they wish to be there alone. They even build their weekend wilderness cabins close to one another because they don’t want to be too far from the people they care about.
Me? I like my own company and can withstand being alone for longer than most, but, by saying that, I don’t intend to underestimate the importance of community. If you insisted I live a couple kilometres outside of McCallum’s infrastructure, I would die. Not only because the absence of physical support and protection would quickly cost me my life — I need others around me as well.
I’ve been eating supper at Lloyd and Linda Durnford’s home every Sunday for five years. They’re my best friends east of Ontario. I drop in after men’s darts, and one or two other nights per week. Maybe more. Clyde and Flora Feaver feed me almost as often, and several other families fill in around that committed crew. When I travel the eastern part of this province, I use Glen Cook and Daphne Fudge’s St. John’s home as my base. I love their young girl and their old dog, and I really do enjoy St. John’s. Daphne is a former McCallum resident, and Glen’s a great guy from Markland, one of Newfoundland’s rare inland communities that started as an experimental agriculture project.
But even with all these wonderful people in my Newfoundland life, I still ache for my Ontario friends and family. When my young nieces in Waterloo attend karate class, I wish I was there to watch. Or if my Ontario buddies go to a movie, it hurts that I can’t tag along. One of the loneliest nights of my life occurred when my youngest sister — a musician — accompanied Northern Pikes frontman Jay Semko in a Kitchener concert that I couldn’t attend because I was in McCallum.
Mostly, however, I wish I had a significant other to share all this with. It’s possible I’d be content anywhere in Canada if I had someone special by my side who wanted to be there with me. I can go it alone if I have to, but I don’t want to. Never is this more obvious than when I hike Newfoundland high country, because I believe beautiful scenery is better when it’s shared. I’m hardwired to love the long view, and, oh my god, Newfoundland has some luscious scenery I want to continue to indulge in. Just not alone.
I’m going to Grips Nest, a respected McCallum climb that is most challenging after a heavy snowfall like the one we just had. I tell Lloyd and Linda, “If I’m not back for supper at Matt and Sarah’s, you know where to start looking for me.” I am travelling light, and alone. I am sporting good footwear but no snowshoes or crampons to keep me from falling through or slipping back.
It’s not long before I realize that I don’t know where I am. Not that I haven’t hiked Grips Nest by myself before, but I haven’t gone in the snow. I can see that, in the past, I’ve simply followed a well-worn trail, walking in the footsteps of those who came before me. Today I have to decide for myself the best path to the summit. This trip, my self-confidence and decision-making talents will be tested as much as my climbing judgement and physical fitness. I’ll have to create my own stairway to heaven, driving the toe of my boot into terrain in such a way that allows me to inch my way up — a process easier said than done when, every three or four steps, my boot breaks through the crust cover into a leg-swallowing snowdrift. I learn to avoid areas where stunted fir trees grow, because they serve to collect considerable snow. Fo
rtunately, for parts of this climb, there is the occasional alder to hang onto when I need to catch my breath or pull myself to safety.
As I reach higher heights, the reflected sun on my face becomes a primary source of pleasure. As does the increasingly expanding view. Even seeing twenty sickly salmon cages can’t discourage my day when I reach the top and look out at the spectacular 360-degree views such elevation provides — several pretty peninsulas, an enormous assortment of high hills, the France-owned islands of St. Pierre et Miquelon, and my little house a long way away. It’s moments exactly like these that I wish I had a woman with me. A view like this is 250,000 times better when you share it. Especially if you bring along a big blanket, because it’s a gift to be able to make love someplace like Grips Nest, where nobody can hear the rapture — a serious consideration when you live in an outport where no one is more than a kilometre from everyone else and sound carries across water the way it does.
But right now, there is no room for sorrowful feelings or sexy thoughts. Today, the top of Grips Nest is icy, making travel tricky. So after paying a brief tribute to the profound spirits that can be found at lofty levels — Grips Nest is as good a place as any to say hello to my deceased sister — I start down, a journey that at first consideration should be easier than my upward climb, but instead requires some serious attention. A slight slip can easily result in a rocky ride, an abrupt stop, or dramatic drop. Or, worse yet, maybe even a missed supper at Matt and Sarah’s.
Matt and Sarah have also suffered. The loss of their son Reguel, who died in his sleep of diabetes-related illnesses at the age of forty-three, was a catastrophe for the Fudge family. I never knew Reguel, but around here, I hear his name all the time. So whenever I visit his sister Daphne’s family in St. John’s, I ask for more detail regarding Reguel’s life.
A diligent worker, Daphne’s efforts to communicate are no less conscientious. “Michael, Sandra, and Reguel were all delivered by midwife in McCallum,” she’ll tell me. “But the rest — Alvin, Tracy, my twin brother, Danny, and I — were born in the Harbour Breton hospital. Reguel was the second oldest.
“While Reguel had to go to Port aux Basques for one year of high school, it’s fair to say McCallum had always been his home, and that he’d never really left. Because immediately after finishing school, Reguel came home to fish. He loved everything about the outdoors — fishing, hunting, trouting, going to the cabin for two or three nights with the boys . . . Reguel had lots he liked to do. But he did it all very quietly. He loved to read. And he minded his own business in a genuinely friendly way.
“I remember one of the first times I took Glen to McCallum. We were allowed to catch our fifteen fish [quota]. I went out on the boat with my dad, and Reguel and Glen went out in Reguel’s boat. I guess I’m competitive, but Dad and I were trying to get our fish before Glen and Reguel did. So I fought off some seasickness while Dad and I went as fast as we could. Yet there was Reguel and Glen waiting for us when we got back. And not only did they catch their fifteen fish faster than we did, their fish were bigger than ours.”
The same age now as her brother was when he died, Daphne is well aware of the pain that Reguel’s death inflicted on her family. “My best memories of Reguel are from when I was a small child. Because, eight years younger than he was, I became quite attached to him. When I look back at old pictures, I was always in his arms. I remember one day, when I was six, Reguel was taking me, Tracy, and Danny to school. This was before McCallum had boardwalks, and I fell down right in front of Hartland and Lillian’s house. I was more scared than hurt, but Reguel still took the time to take me home. After I stopped crying, he walked me back.
“He was a gentle guy who would faint at the sight of blood if he cut himself. Obviously, he overcame that sensitivity when he had to start sticking needles in himself [for his diabetes]. And it felt like he overcame it for me, too. Because I remember a time when I scalded my arm, and another day when I cut my head open. When things like that would happen, I would sleep beside him so he could keep an eye on me. And it’s this way we became attached to each other that I like to remember him. I like to remember Reguel as my big brother.” A sibling connection I can easily comprehend.
Twenty
“We knows we have to go,” said one woman, who admitted she had never lived anywhere else.
I asked how old she was.
“Eighty-two this year.”
“Where will you go?”
She laughed. “I haven’t got a clue.”
— Michael Crummey, Special to the Globe and Mail, August 15, 2014
In his little book Journeys of Simplicity, Philip Harnden pays attention to the travel plans of the Arctic tern, an annual visitor to my McCallum home and, because of its elegant form and erratic flight pattern, my favourite seabird:
During summer these birds nest in Greenland, Alaska, Canada, and islands of the Arctic. In autumn some migrate south along the Pacific coast of the Americas. Others fly east over the Atlantic, then south past Europe and Africa to the Antarctic Circle. In the spring they retrace their route, for an annual round trip of more than 22,000 miles.
In 1970 an Arctic tern trapped alive in Maine had a leg band showing it to be thirty-four years old. In its lifetime it had probably flown some 750,000 miles, much of that over open seas. It weighed 4½ ounces. It was rebanded and released.
Harnden closes his account of this intriguing enigma by noting that, for the tern’s entire thirty-five-thousand-kilometre migration, it brings along no baggage, a feature I find inspiring. Because if the day ever arrives where I need to depart my McCallum home permanently, I plan on leaving with as little as I can. I’ll bring one or two bags containing clothing that can help me withstand the weather, and a nice shirt and jeans that will allow me to feel comfortable in most social environments.
None of the other attachments I’ve carried around this world will be welcome on the voyage. None of the hundreds of books I’ll no longer read, the building materials I accumulated in the event I might need them, or the coffee mugs no one ever drinks from. I’m mostly through with personal possessions. I’m going to sell my car and plan to never own another. I want to find a way to walk. I’ve discovered a lot about nature in this outport because I’m not enclosed in an automobile as I come and go. I’ve learned how to hear a porpoise in the harbour long before I see it. I recognize the blast from its blowhole before I even lift my head to look. After years of living in urban areas, or on a large piece of property previously ruled by the plough, I never would have guessed that, in coastal Newfoundland, on a simple spring stroll, one can see an enormous number of migrating warblers.
Even if I settle in another city, I can’t imagine needing more than a tiny apartment containing a comfortable bed and a table that can double as a desk. I’ve discovered that home ownership can cost you the freedom to turn down work that only sustains you in economic ways. I’ll no longer have any part of that. I will never again take on a load, financial or otherwise, without careful consideration.
My intent to refuse to continuously consume feels right in other ways as well. I’m sick of buying things that I thought would bring me some kind of sustainable happiness. They didn’t, and never will. Plus, as long as I insist on following the artist’s path, I’ll probably always have cash-flow concerns. So I need to find other ways to acquire joy.
I jump out of bed in anticipation of a day of writing, or hiking. Even when we go lobster fishing or in search of moose in the wee hours of the morning, I don’t need an alarm. Not that I haven’t occasionally set one, but I’ve never needed it. I’m always too excited to sleep and have consistently been up when my wake-up call came. Living with this kind of anticipation can be exhausting, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
How does a person arrive at a point where they’ll choose potential poverty over what Edward Abbey called “syphilization”? For me, it has come with realizing that much of what I know
is not true, and that if I have any hope of recovering from the socioeconomic lies I’ve been told since childhood, I need to look at what my heart is trying to tell me, and why.
My life has been driven by a huge, hungry, angry ego that insisted on being kept safe. I bagged adventures and experiences like they were trophies, and I insatiably sought attention. I chased employment that facilitated my need to feed my self-image. I naively believed that formal education and a professional position meant I was smart and successful, and that any recognition I received supported such thoughts. “Follow me,” I said in so many ways, “I’ve got it all figured out.” But that was bullshit. So as I continue to recalibrate my midcourse correction, I wonder what it all needs to look like.
Perhaps I could fill my days demonstrating day-to-day compassion. I want to love, and be loved. The more I give, the more I get. I don’t just mean as it applies to others — it is time I am kinder to myself. I only want to do work that permits me to steer clear of the man. People only motivated by power and/or money are miserable. I don’t just mean the people who rule the private sector — some of the most ruthless, power-hungry men and women I know run our public institutions. I want as much distance between me and those egomaniacs as I can manage. I want control over my workday.
I’m pleased that my publisher is indie, and that I don’t have an agent. I’m following the recording artists who don’t sell out to the thieves at Ticketmaster. But that’s only about my business plan, and that hardly seems important anymore. It’s my friends and family that matter most.
Janet’s mom, Joyce, once told me a person can go around the world a million times in his or her heart. She wanted me to understand how rich a life can be, even when experienced in the narrowest of physical confines. And, while I trusted her enough to remember such wisdom, it has taken me twenty years to see a pathway to Joyce’s profoundness. So, while world travel is enlightening, it’s not hockey card collecting — I no longer need to keep a checklist.
