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　A Canadian Family Story

　　My story begins in Newfoundland where my brother and I were born during the Second World War. The island of Newfoundland, which was originally a British colony, became the newest province of Canada in 1949, the same year that the Peoples Republic of China was born.

　　Our mother was born and raised in Newfoundland. During the War , she worked in St. Johns, the capital city, where she met a young Canadian sailor from Ontario. He was a member of the crew of a Royal Canadian Navy ship that was part of one of the convoys that escorted supply ships across the Atlantic Ocean to Europe during the war. They fell in love and subsequently, got married. The rest is history, so to speak. Our family moved to Ontario in late 1945, just after the war ended.

　　In 1999, acting on impulse, my brother and I decided to take our mother to Newfoundland for a visit. It had been almost fifty years since we had last visited our mothers outport where she grew up. It was also the 50th anniversary of Newfoundlands becoming part of Canada.

　　In 1950, I was six and my brother was five when we last visited our mothers childhood home. At that time, Irelands Eye was a vibrant, quaint fishing village hugging the rocky shore of a small, enclosed harbour. There was no electricity. There were no roads, no automobiles, and few signs of automation of any type. There were oil lamps and wood stoves in the homes and mere footpaths between the aggregate of small communities on the hilly island, also named Irelands Eye. We can still see and hear the inboard motorboats, putt putting into the harbour, hauling their days catch of fish. The image of hardy fishermen with pitchforks hoisting and tossing the codfish up to the stilted platforms from the bowels of the boats is still quite vivid. The aroma of salted, drying codfish, lingers still.

　　What I remember best, of almost half a century ago, was going out with my Uncle Fred in his boat to fish. That particular day, we were huddled together and lashed to other boats, just outside of the harbour. I can still hear the lively gossip between my uncle and the other fishermen, above the rippling and splashing of the waves against the hulls of the boats. I remember the boats heaving periodically, on the huge gently rolling waves. My Uncle Fred had only one arm, but amazingly, he could do everything as if he had two hands. He could even roll a cigarette and light it.

　　These are my memories of the quaint Newfoundland glory days gone by. It was a very hard life in those out ports, but a life romantically cherished by most of those who lived it. Our mother was not feeling up to the trip at the time we were ready to leave, but insisted that my brother and I go on this odyssey. We would later provide her with pictures, a written account, and videotape of the trip. Although we toured other parts of Newfoundland, including an overnight stay on the French Islands of St. Pierre and Miquilon, just off the south coast of Newfoundland, our main objective was to visit Irelands Eye. This necessitated finding water transportation. We managed to arrange for a boat to take us on the half hour trip to the island. As it turned out, the married couple who ferried us over to the island was actually a couple of our distant cousins, whom we had never met.

　　We had intended to have our cousins drop us off on the island and pick us up a few hours later. However, either because we were newly found cousins, or they were typically hospitable Newfoundlanders, or they thought that my brother and I would get lost, they wanted to stay with us. Probably all three factors influenced their decision. They were absolutely fabulous.

　　They got caught up in what my brother and I were trying to do. They were very knowledgeable about the island and the people who had once lived there. Clutching a narrative of the island, written by another of our cousins, the forgotten history of that special place became more coherent to the four of us.

　　As we entered Irelands Eyes small harbour, which was guarded, by a family of hawks in a nest high on a rocky point, a weird sensation came over us. There, in front of us, was the place we visited fifty years before, and about which we had heard and read so much throughout our adult lives. We thought, what an aesthetically breathtaking sight! The glittering sun, on that day, gave everything a picture-postcard image. This was indeed a slice of paradise. The ruins of a few remaining buildings that dotted the hillsides and shoreline and the once dominant St. Georges Church on the hill at the end of the harbour, aroused in us an exciting sense of history and of our heritage. Looking out over the harbour from the hill by the church at the extinct community, revived memories of fifty years before.

　　With a greater clarity of the knowledge of the area, we walked from the church a little farther inland to what used to be the post office and the school that our mother attended, the skeletal shells of which were still standing precariously. From there, stopping periodically to eat some edible berries, we struggled behind our cousins through the heavily brush and shrub covered footpaths to Black Duck Cove to visit the cemetery where our grandmother, whom we never knew, was buried. This sacred ground was in very bad condition, with many badly corroded gravestones buried under brush and long grass. After searching for a few minutes in the midst of tangled vegetation, we found our grandmothers resting place beside which we paid our respects. It was a good thing that our cousins stayed with us, as the footpaths that traversed the island, were overgrown with brush. It would have been virtually impossible for my brother and me, to walk to the other communities on the island.

　　We made our way back to the church on the hill and descended to the boat for a half hour boat ride to the other side of the island. Sailing through a number of islets, we arrived at what remains of the small village of Traytown, where our grandparents had lived. There, we met some more long lost relatives at a small cottage. One, a bit of an eccentric, who now lives in Toronto but takes summer refuge in Traytown, showed us the remnants of what had once been our grandparents house. Beside these ruins, was the still flourishing cluster of wild rose bushes, planted there many years ago by our step grandmother. A lot of people, many whom were more lost cousins, continually dropped in or gathered on the porch outside.

　　After a cup of tea and some more chitchat and some comic relief, we made our departure for the mainland. On the way, we passed other inlets with ghost communities on Irelands Eye. To add to the excitement of that special day, my brother spotted a humpback whale quite close, between the boat and the island.

　　Our visit to Irelands Eye was a bittersweet experience for us. On the one hand, there was a sense of being at the very place where our relatives and ancestors had lived, worked and played. On the other hand, there was a sense of agonizing loss of what were once thriving communities on the island. It was difficult to reconcile the past with the present, after a gap of fifty years of chronic degeneration of the communities. Today, the area is notorious for smuggling. However, our mission was invaluable in that we were able to find out more about ourselves. The entire expedition to Newfoundland was a major highlight in each of our lives. It tugged at our emotions at every turn. The people of Newfoundland, especially those of genetic connection, couldnt do enough for us. It was really like coming home, but then, that has always been the nature of Newfoundland courtesy, even to non-Newfoundlanders. It was reassuring to see that the Newfoundland charm has transcended time. It has endured so many changes since Confederation in 1949. My brother and I, eternally, will be Newfoundlanders and hope to go down home more often in the years to come.