This is a story I wrote in the year 2000. It is a biographical story about life in my little home on the island of Newfoundland.
QUIRPON
I grew up in Quirpon, a beautiful, scenic community on the tip of the Northern Peninsula.
In English its name sounds and spells Karpoon, but Quirpon was named by French settlers long before
I was born.
When I was a little girl I would sit on Dad's stagehead for long periods of time. I would squint my eyes against the sun's
glare and watch the tiny fish that flitted around the shores of the wharf. I would gaze across to Noble's Island, which stretched
Cape Bauld almost to the government wharf. I could see the top half of the yellowish orange depot. This is where bait and
other fish were kept in cold storage. A little farther out on this island was the fish plant. My dad and others carried their dried
salted fish there, where it was sold. A couple of families lived on this little island.
Sometimes schooners would tie up at the government wharf. There would be a long line of them tied side by side.
It was possible to step from one boat to another.
There are three parts to Quirpon. There is L'Anse au Bauld, Grassy Cove, and Little Quirpon.
I was born in L'Anse au Bauld in a little two-room house on a beach, and when we had high tieds and hurricane winds
the water would wash up around the house.
There were lots of places for us kids to explore. There was L'Anse au Bauld Point with its clifts and coves. Wildflowers
grew there in abundance. There were buttercups, dandelions or "piss-a-beds," as some called them. We had our bluebells,
forget-me-nots and little white bell-shaped flowers among others I can not name.
Among the trees that grew on the hillsides, we would find squashberries and red and black currents.
On L'Anse au Bauld Head and the marshes around the community, there were plenty of bakeapples.
There were lots of partridgeberries , blueberries and blackberries. There were also dogberries, and sometimes
people made dogberry wine.
Back then, there was no electricity, just kerosene lamps. Everyone burned wood and sometimes coal for heat.
There were no roads just foot paths. People traveled by boat in summer and dog teams in winter, to get from one
community to another. Sometimes people walked the distance between communities.
People would walk quite a distance to go to church. The first Salvation Army church was built on Quirpon
Island in a little place called the Grat. In winter people would walk about three miles across the frozen harbour
and the island to go to church. About ten or twelve families lived on that island.
Quirpon was a thriving community. There were lots of fish and wild game for food, such as seals, wild ducks, turrs,
rabbits and so on. Some families in our community raised cows, sheep, goats and chickens.
In summertime the CN boats docked at the government wharf to drop off passengers and freight. Nearly everyone
rushed to the wharf when one of those big boats came in. I remember visiting the Bonavista, the Springdale the old
Northern Ranger. The Northern Ranger had a tilt to her; she always looked like she was about to capsize.
Sometimes two of them would come at the same time. One would anchor offshore as she waited for the other one to
unload. Sometimes they stay overnight. At night when they were all lit up, I thought they looked like beautiful
fairy castles.
We moved from L'Anse au Bauld to Grassy Cove when I was ten. We needed a bigger house because by now there
ten children. We bought my Uncle Tom's house after he moved away. There was a tiny island off from our new home. When
the tide was out we could walk across to that little island. Sometimes Dad would let us have his punt, and one or two of my
sisters would go for a row with me. Dad always warned my brothers and sisters and me about the shoals. I believe he knew
where every shoal and rock, mussel, coo coo and berry were in Quirpon.
The Storyteller
Dad was a fisherman all his life and like many fishermen he had many stories to tell. He was a virtual
library of stories. I enjoyed them, partly because he was a great storyteller. Here are two of them.
All Hands Saved but One
"I was nine years old," Dad said, "and it was one of those stormy nights. I was trying to get a draw out
of me fathers old pipe." Dad's sky-blue eyes twinkled.
I leaned forward on the couch and asked, "Did grandfather catch you?"
He grinned: "no but mother did. She was sewing on her sewing machine and she looked up and
caught me me. 'Put that down,' she says, 'you'll turn green.' I put it down but when she wasn't looking
I took another puff.
"Me father looked up. He was mending dogs' harnesses before the winter set in. 'It's some stormy night.
It's not fit for dog nor man out tonight,' he says. The wind was whistling down the stove pipe and the house
shook. It was late fall, the snow was coming down thick and it was cold. Well, I was puffing at father's pipe
when I thought I heard someone bawlin out. Hark! What's that? I said.
"Mother looked up. "There's nothin out there,' she said. 'Now put down that pipe and go to bed.'
"But I heard someone bawlin out, I said.
"Then father spoke up. 'Hark!' he said, 'I hear it too.' He got up and went to the back door, with me tight
behind him. Sure enough, there was a small boat coming to the beach with about a dozen people on board."
My dad stopped telling his story for a second. He shook his head. "What a sight!" he said.
"Dad," I interrupted, "Was there any youngsters on board?"
It was kind of exciting to think there was someone as young as myself out on a night like that.
"Yes," said Dad, "I remember there was a fifteen-year-old boy."
Oh well, I thought, he was only four or five years older than myself.
"Well," said Dad, "when that boy saw me father, he jumped straight into his arms. "Thank God I am saved,"
he said. After we got everyone inside, Mother gave them some dry clothes. The women had on just their petticoats,
and some people had just one stocking on. After they had hot cups of tea and something to eat, they told
us what happened.
'Captain Gushue's schooner ran ashore,'
they said. We found out later that the schooner had run ashore on L'Anse au Bauld Point. The captain was
the last one on the schooner. No one never knew what happened to him until years later. He had gotten lost in
the dirty weather and strayed in over L'Anse au Bauld Head. He ended up at Lower Room' and that's where he perished.
Years later me friend Jake and meself found the remains and I carried the bones down in a sack on me back."
My eyes were fairly popping. "Dad! You carried a dead man's bones on your back? That must have been
spooky!"
"Go on maid." he said, "nothing scary about that. A dead man is not going to harm you."
Almost Lost On Grand Galley Head
My dad had some narrow escapes himself.
I was about nine years-old myself when he told me this one. I found it both scary and exciting.
His eyes twinkled as he began to tell it.
"It was in the late fall," he said. "Meself and friend Walt was walking along Grand Galley Head.
It was blowing a storm and drifting a bit. There was ice along the clift, when down I goes sliding towards
the edge of the clift. I lost me old muzzle loader and me powder horn right on over. I figures I was going
over too, when I stopped. One leg was buckled under me and the other one was hanging over the clift."
Dad paused and took a gulp of his tea, while I squirmed in my seat, anxious to hear more.
I leaned forward, eyes wide. "What happened then, Dad, was you afraid?" I asked.
"Well maid, I didn't have time to be afraid," he said, "but poor Walt was above me crying like a baby.
He say to me, 'I am coming down,' I says no Walt my son, don't try to come down here, cause the two of us
will go over. If I go over there'll be only me to worry about. But I says to meself, Ches you're going to
get up out of this.
"I pulls me cuffs off with me teeth. Then I starts hitting the top of the icy snow, with one fist at a time.
I digs handholds, one over the other, and begins pulling meself up slow like. Me knuckles was bleeding
where I had cut them from pounding the icy snow."
Dad paused for another sip of tea, causing me to
squirm again as I waited for him to go on.
"Well," he finally said, "I was almost to the top and Walt was just going to grab me when I started
sliding backwards again. Oh my! I am going over this time for sure, I says to meself. I scrabbled, trying
to dig my toes and fingers in the the handholds.
Then my toes caught. I was almost to the edge of the clift again. I waited to catch my breath. Then I
started to crawl back up again very slow. I finally got to poor old Walt. He grabbed ahold of me, hugging
me and crying."
" My, Dad," I said, "you was some smart, digging holes like that for your hands and feet. And what
about your gun, did you ever find it?"
"Yes maid," he said, "we got it that same day, but it was all buckled up though. It was smashed
lock, stock and barrel. If I went over, I would have been smashed up to."
I shook my head, "Dad, you was some lucky!"
"Luck had nothing to do with it," he said. "My time just wasn't come yet,
my time just wasn't come."
The Fiddler
My dad had a way with stories. He was also a great one for music.
There is a little community about three miles outside of Quirpon, called Straitsview. When I was a little girl,
it was known as Spillard's Cove. Every year the Orangemen had a parade there. After the parade, a supper and
games and a dance would be held at the Orange Lodge. My dad and I would walk the whole three miles to this "time."
As soon as dad walked into one of those times, someone would shout, "Here comes the fiddler!"
Some man would clap Dad on the back and give him an accordion. "Here, Chesley b'y," he'd say, "play us a
tune for the square dance." Dad would beam from ear to ear, sit down and squeeze out a tune. His feet would tap
in time to the music while his fingers danced over the keys. I watched fascinated, as the dancers twirled around
keeping time to each reel Dad played.
Many dancers dropped into nearby chairs, fanning themselves and panting, too tired to go on.
But there were always other dancers to take their places. My dad just played tirelessly on until
it began to get light outside.
I have added a poem to this book because I thought it was appropriate for the story.
It is called.
SONG OF THE SEA
Where are the fishermen in from the sea,
Dancing their jigs in the old schoolhouse
Eating fish-n-brewis before dawn
Where are the children
tasting the salt tails of the fish
as they spread them on the flakes,
Wives hanging clothes on lines
in the warm sunshine
Where are the fishing boats
with groove worn gunnels
from jigger lines
Nets just taken from the ocean
kelp still clinging to the mesh
lying on the wharf
Where have the codfish gone?
Oh lonely village, weatherbeaten,
gray, ghostly,
No more laughter or old-fashioned times
Old man telling his stories no more.