Random Island

I visited home this past summer, and while our old house has changed with new occupants over the years, many things remained the same.

One being Uncle Hay’s property. It was like stepping back in time for me, and on this Father’s day, I am maudlin thinking about those old times and how close him and dad were.

Both of them spent much of their time in their respective workshops, and while dad’s is gone, visiting Uncle Hay’s, I could almost see him there, wearing his old denim coveralls, and I could imagine I was there on one of my multitude of “Run down and see if Hay has a <insert tool here>” missions.

I’ve gotten countless chisels, replaced broken drill bits, borrowed sharpening stones, and often had to make a return trip as Uncle Hay would ask me to bring down a tool of dad’s.

I can smell the old smells, and did when I visited there in September. The smell of sawdust, mixed with three in one oil, melded with the smell of rough lumber and planks, baked for years through the big multi-paned window that the sun seemed to beam through constantly.

I know I’ve been there on cloudy days, and in rain and snow, but somehow, in my memory its always sunny, motes of dust drifting in the beams, and I can’t tell you how much I miss it, and them.

Rest in peace. Greater, more loving men I have never known.

If you’re familiar with Apsey Brook, you know that Roy Smith operated a sawmill business for many years. What you may not know is that Uncle Luther, Dad and Uncle Hay used to operate one too.

It was mostly for personal use, but I do remember trucks coming occasionally and buying some lumber.

You’d be hard pressed to believe it now, but if you drive down the wharf road, behind Roy’s old place, where the road kinda curves towards the wharf, it also used to go straight, and there was a bridge across the brook, similar to the old wooden one on the main road.

When I was a kid, it was our wading pool too, underneath the bridge in the cool, a decently deep pool formed. And just up the brook, this little point, where you could catch a pasty white trout, that while edible, weren’t very good, but we caught and ate them anyway. Plus we’d usually get one in the same spot for the well. Do people still put trout in their wells?

But you could and we did drive a truck across it. And if you went further, Ross had a big wide gate there that you could also drive a truck, or horse and slide through, and could loop right around by the old house and the new and come out on the road by the old school.

The mill itself though was very much alike a lot of the old mills. Roy also had one down by the beach, on the left hand side of whats now the breakwater road. And they were all similar.

A push mill, with rollers, and a table. I big heavy material of some sort of thing hanging over the blade, to stop the sawdust. Big belt drive to an old diesel engine. (I assume it was diesel anyway).

Off to one side a planer to dress the lumber, would have to change the belt from the motor to power it when needed. A wide door/opening on one side to roll the logs in, I think we had a sliding door on it. All in all, it was pretty much just a slap dash of planks, with big chinks in the “walls”

The picture above will be familiar, though not mine.

Was only used in summer mostly, wasn’t made for comfort, nor were any of them, and many had them. Every community had one or two, maybe more.

Before my time, but the Smith family originally had a watermill. I remember stories told of the young boys having to hike in the brook to dam pond to open the dam to get water to run to drive it.

I wish I had pictures of it now, many a summer day was spent down there, playing with turpentine boats made from mill strips. And of course lugging up slabs as part of the winters wood and for splits.

In our ever lasting search for a water supply that would last the summer, dad tried many things.

In the summer of 1983, the year Keith had his accident, he and I dug a pipeline 660 feet through the woods, in the heat of summer, to a small brook that we somehow managed to get a huge concrete culvert pipe into. I remember the distance based on the amount of plastic pipe dad bought to lay down. When I was home this summer, I saw someone has a smaller culvert pipe in the same location.

Another thing he had done, tho I really don’t remember when, was he had a bulldozer dig out a big reservoir up behind the house on the hill. The water wasn’t very good, but sometimes in summer we’d lay a pipe across the ground and use gravity flow for water to flush the toilet at least.

To me it was always called the reservoir, but to many others it became known as the duck pond, cause sometime thereafter, dad also got 3 ducks, 1 male and a female, with the intent I guess of raising them for sale? give away? hobby? Not really sure anymore. But let me tell you, the eggs were amazing. So much better than chicken eggs!

We eventually got rid of them, mostly I think cause when we’d let them out, they’d often go down across Alice’s yard to the beach, and she complained about them and the duck crap.

But before we did, I remember they had at least one brood of young ducks. I can still remember them waddling across the yard following their mother.

One of the young ones was a little … slow. He had trouble keeping up, was unbalanced and un-coordinated. Hmmm….. No I am talking about the duck, not me!

I never realized how protective the mother ducks could be, and for some reason this one never seemed to like me much. The others would let me pet them, but she’d just hiss at me.

Well, if you know our old house, there was a rock wall dad made holding the hill back surrounding it. One day this slower duck, who’s name was not Peter, fell over the wall, and his mother was in a tizzy.

I went outside to pick him up and put him back up, but his mother didn’t like that either.

It was like a missile launched from a battle ship. All I remember was feathers and hissing as I was bombarded!

Incoming!!!!

By Barbara Smith

Barbara wrote the following for a heritage site I was trying to get going.  Unfortunately wasn’t getting interest, so I shuttered it. The post is still useful and insightful though!

Back in the “really” old days, when dad (Hay Smith) was school age, the school in Aspen Brook had a full time teacher, but then for a number of years there were no, or not enough children to warrant one and the school was completely closed.

When I reached school age, mom (Cecelia Smith) and others started advocating for a teacher to get the school opened. However, because the number of children was too few, the Department of Education said it did not warrant a teacher. I was home schooled from kindergarten (if there was kindergarten then) until grade 2 (before official home schooling was even known in our area). I had a desk (borrowed from the old school) in the kitchen and each morning there was a specific time period when I had to do my work.

Aunt Rose (Bowring, nee Adey) who was teaching grade two in Corner Brook at the time, would send mom the curriculum and materials her school was using, I would complete all the work and tests and mom would send the tests back to her for grading.

Snooks Harbour School

By the time I reached grade three we were given funding for a half time teacher for the community. For grades 3-5 I attended the school in Aspen Brook for half the year and then went to Snook’s Harbour for the second half. Throughout all this time Snook’s Harbour school was open all year round as I recall. The building has been gone for many years now, but was located next door to the church and in front of the cemetery. One room of course and like all public buildings then, only one door (so much for fire escapes). As in all the communities, it was the centre for education and “times” and all community functions.

I do have some vivid memories of Snook’s Harbour School: the teacher had a table at the front as the desk and one particular teacher would get so mad he’d overturn the desk in his anger, on a regular basis!! But playing baseball on the field out by the water at recess and after lunch was always fun. I’d walk to Aunt Vic’s for lunch and occasionally if the weather was bad would stay there overnight.

For my grades 6, 7 and 8 we had a full time teacher in Aspen Brook and then for high school (9-11) I went to board in Clarenville, going up Monday morning with whoever was going up to work, sometimes getting to come home overnight on Wednesday night, but always getting home on Friday.

By Eric Cooper

Today marks the beginning of a new baseball season as the Chicago Cubs get set to defend their World Series title. It brings back many fond memories of playing baseball here in Snooks Harbour, “over on the garden” by Mack Baileys. Most all the young people would play, boys and girls together and regardless of age.

The bats were usually homemade, although there may have been a couple of bought ones too over the years. I made my own bat and I remember that Dennis would always have a nice homemade bat. Baseball gloves were rare. I had a glove but most did not. I loved that first glove and looking back on it I must have caught a million balls with that thing. Randy bought a catcher’s mitt and that one seemed huge to me at the time. He probably still has it.  As for balls we always played with a sponge one. The red, white and blue balls were popular. I would pick a ball out of the bin at the Chain Store or the old drug store, or Dad would get one for me.

In many ways our style of play was quite different from the Major League game. There was no such thing as having too many players as everyone would take to the field. When it came to hitting, every player on the team would bat during each inning and every player had to get out before the other team batted! Like i said not many had gloves, so an out could be made by letting the ball bounce once as well as catching it in the air. But the most popular way of getting an out was to pick up the ball and throw it at the runner! If you could hit him with the ball before he reached base he was out. This proved to be a little painful for the runner at times, lol. Of course you could also chase down the base runner and tag him with the ball in hand. Since everyone had to get out, the last remaining batter had a decision to make. If he went past first base he would have to try to get all the way around. The other thing he could do was just touch first base and run back to home plate. Needless to say it was hard to stay alive on a slow dribbler back to the pitcher! By the way we always pitched the ball underhand.

The ball would quite often end up in the salt water and we would throw rocks in a frantic attempt to splash the ball back to shore. If unsuccessful we would have to get another ball or wait and hope that the ball would drift in to the nearby mead, which it often did if the wind was right. Many balls were also lost in and around the brook as there was lots of alders, weeds, tall grass and foamy water. Usually these balls were lost by a right handed hitter making what we referred to as a “cross bat” in which the ball was hit well out of play into extremely foul territory. Craig Baker was famous for this and Dennis Baker and Glenys Baker also hit their share of cross bats.

As far as i know there was never a window broken out of Macks house, although hit on several occasions. One time I remember hitting a high fly ball and Gerald George was pulling into the driveway at the exact same time. Just as Gerald was getting out of the car the ball landed on his roof with such a resounding thump, then bounced off and hit the kitchen window. I dont know who got the biggest fright, me or Gerald!

Another memory is of Vick Smith singing out to Scott, Derek & Rod to come home for supper. It was quite a distance but somehow her voice carried in such a way that we could hear her. I also remember the time that Rodney Ivany and Sheldon Berkshire got into a fight on the field, but I dont recall why. Then there was the time that Rodney walloped Peter Smith across the knees with the baseball bat. Peter was flicking Rodneys ears and Rodney hit him with a swing that even Babe Ruth would be proud of! But these kind of altercations were rare. We had so much fun playing baseball and it was such a wonderful and rewarding part of growing up.