Apsey Brook

But it’s not Monday!

Sunday mornings I usually get up and do my laundry, and of course today being Sunday, I did so today.  It was a little easier than using the old wringer washer though.  I just put it in, and turned it on, and then later threw it in the dryer.

But I can remember Mom using one very similar to this, putting the powdered detergent in, not  the fancy schmancy liquid stuff like today.  Also adding bleach, and using clothes blue in those little blue cubes.  Who remembers that?!

Back then the old folks for some reason had certain days to do things, and if you didn’t follow the routine, it was a source of something to talk about.  I guess gossip helped pass the time then as much as it still does now!  I remember Monday’s were laundry days, and if you did some on another day, why, that was big news!  I can recall even now my Aunt Mary saying to me when I went down for a visit “My garr, your mothers got clothes on the line again today, how much does she wash at all!”

I guess for the older folks, in some cases routine was necessary, and useful for planning, and the more modern times of the late 60’s and 70’s were a bit much to handle :). We all know that the level of cleanliness has continually improved over the years, as we understand more about our health and disease.  Back in earlier days a bath once a week was a lot, let alone the daily or more showers of today, so likely clothes were changed less too!

But laundry then was also a big production, wheeling out the machine, hooking the hose to the sink, filling it with water.  Prescrubbing the really dirty items with the old scrubbing board in the tin wash tub, then putting it in the machine and letting it agitate for however long, then taking the clothes out and running it through the wringer, being careful not to lose an arm in there! Those things were dangerous! Once all that was done, you still had to take it out and put it on the clothesline.

We had the advanced technology of having the clothesline on a pully, so we’d just go to one spot, and pin it and wheel it out, but lots and lots did, and maybe still do (because lets face it, clothes off the line is STILL so much fresher than from the dryer), just had one strung across the garden, propped up by a board with a notch to keep it from dragging.  For those had the extra work of mucking the basket across the garden with them as the pinned it out.

And then of course after all was said and done, everything, or pretty much everything had to be ironed.  Sheets, shirts, pants, towels, face cloths, even underwear! It was all ironed, I think the only thing Mom didn’t iron was socks!

The technology for washing has changed a lot over the years, and I’m sure more than I do it on other days than Monday, wonder if anyone has their line filled today?

July 21, 2013 by Uncategorized 1

If you can’t clean it…

Was reminded today of cleaning the old wood range, if cleaning is even the right word.  Unlike stoves of today, these old ranges had iron tops, not glass and plastic.

Of course that made them heavy as hell too, but a benefit was that you didn’t have to be gentle in the cleaning.

Rather than soft lotions and creams, we used to whack on the comet cleanser, and get a drop of water mixed with it and scrub it with the old waterproof sand paper, better known to us as waterpaper.  In the old store we ran in Apsey Brook, we used to sell this by the sheet for just this purpose.  Everyone had a wood range and everyone used this to clean it. I guess we weren’t really cleaning it as much as we were sanding it out, but it did the trick.  Just took some elbow grease.

Anyway, short post tonight, but while it was fresh in my mind, wanted to get my memories of water paper down.

July 9, 2013 by Uncategorized 0

If the lightning doesn’t get them!

The oldfolks would say, there’ll be lots of bakeapples if the lightning don’t get em!  July, whether there’s any truth to it or not, or just superstition or coincidence, is an important month in determining the yield of some berries.  Obviously a late frost is likely to kill the young forming berries, but we also used to say a lightning storm would kill the bakeapples (a topic for another post) before they could ripen.  Whether there’s any scientific basis for this, or why it seems to be true I don’t know.

One thing that did seem to be true though was that the yield of dewberries, also known as plumboys, seemed to be an indicator of how many bakeapples you’d get.

That was kind of irrelevant to the kid me, and possibly still would be to the adult me if I were anywhere to get some of these!  These wonderful little berries used to grow around our fence, and on the side of the old school garden path. While we never picked them to make a jam or jelly, I’ve spent many an hour hunting them out and staining my hands with their delicious red juice.  Looking similar to a raspberry, with a little seed in each nodule, they were more translucent in coloring, and would darken to a deep wine color with a ton of juice for their size.

Rubus arciicus - Dewberry

Rubus arciicus – Dewberry

They too seemed to have some sort of reverse affinity with lightning though.  If there happened to be a local lightning storm when they were ripening, the yield always seemed lower.  Again for whatever reason, even if it was just the power of suggestion in out minds, I can’t say.

In any event, I hope the lightning doesn’t get them, and someone mails me up a few hundred thousand!

July 8, 2013 by Uncategorized 2

They’d be Savage!

Its pissing down here now, has been all day, but earlier in the week, Keith mowed the lawn and got it in nice shape again, a never ending job.  But whenever I see the neat and well kept lawns nowadays, and even more so back home, I can’t help but hear Uncle Luther grumbling with me and all kids to keep out of the grass.  Not because it was neat and well tended, but because he didn’t want it trampled, and wanted it to grow to make hay for the horses.

I wasn’t all that old when he passed away, nor did people tend to keep horses much beyond my early teens as ski-doos and atv’s became more practical, but back then it was a summer chore of mine to turn the hay, and rake it in the evenings. Many days of back breaking labor were involved in cutting it down with a scythe.  Those things were a chore in and of themselves as dad always had to keep a stone in his back pocket to keep it sharp.  Dad may have been a bit of a perfectionist with it anyway, as he kept his sharp enough to shave the hair on his arm.  Was always a worry when in the barn to not accidentally touch it.

Old Hay Prong (Eric Cooper Picture)

Joe Baker with an old Hay Prong (Eric Cooper Picture)

On sunny days we’d spread the hay on the field to dry, and then turn it with the old prong  (still seems funny to me how something with two large tines so far spread was used on something so slight as hay)about half way through the afternoon.  Then rake it again into a stack in the evening and cover it with a bren (essentially bren bags taken apart and sewed into a larger tarp) weighted at the corners by rocks.  Once it was dry, I can see dad in my minds eye now loading up a huge bren with hay and walking across the garden, and up the ramp to the loft over the stable.  I can’t even begin to tell you how big it was, but it dwarfed him.  I know hay didn’t weigh a lot, but holy god so much had to.

The hay was used to feed the horses in the winter of course, and I can still remember the smell of hay all over me as we played in the stable loft, heedless of the millions of sneezes that it caused to erupt from me.

With all the need we had for hay back in those days, I can hear them grumbling about lawn mowing now… they’d be savage!

June 29, 2013 by Uncategorized 2

Rolling on the beach

Caplin-1280Its not the Adele song, its the caplin spawn! About this time of year we start to see caplin coming ashore on the beaches to spawn.  Back when I was younger they’d come further up the sound than now, and we’d see tons of them up in Apsey Brook.  Didn’t see that as often at least up until I moved away.

I think that’s mainly because when I was a lad, there was really no commercial use for them.  People caught them for food and that was about it, but later on, their roe became popular with the Japanese market, and a large commercial fishery took off.

These small smelt like fish would teem near shore and we’d go down and pick them up in dip nets, five gallon buckets, and cast nets, getting tons and tons.

Cast Net

 

Some we’d eat fresh, though I was never fond of them this way, but the majority we’d salt and sun dry or smoke.  A common site was to see caplin racks like those pictured all over the island, caplin hung on them, pierced through the eye, to dry. For me, one of my favorite things to eat is a dried smoked caplin, its almost like fish jerky!  Or dare I say it, fish bacon! So delicious!

Commercially, they were also a good way for us younger folks to make a few extra dollars, as the plants would pay us to pick the males from the females. Males were used for fish meal, food, or what have you, while the females were milked for the roe.

Not sure the caplin racks are very common anymore now, or how many we see rolling on the beach, but I’m sure people still call the damp foggy days in late June caplin weather.

I think now I’m going to have to head out and find some caplin, still see some smoked ones from Golden Shell fisheries in the stores here sometimes!

June 22, 2013 by Uncategorized 6

Happy Father’s Day

This was tough to write…

Dad was a bear of a man, him, Uncle Hay and Uncle Lindo all were. Possibly uncle Herven and Lawrence too, but they lived away for most of my memory. (Well St. John’s is not so far away in Uncle Lawrence’s case, but what I mean was I never saw them in their Random Island living days). By bear I mean they were strong as bears, I remember stories told to me by third parties of feats of strength by both Uncle Hay and Dad. I’m sure they probably got exaggerated over the years, but I know from my own memory they were strong as hell.

But they grew up in a time of manual labour, working in the lumber woods, cutting cords of wood a day with a bucksaw.  Living away for months in rough camps to earn a living.  And then coming back to work the land and sea for their own food, as well as maintain their own houses.  Everyone was a plumber, a carpenter, an electrician.

But as strong as Dad was, he was a gentle soul, with a huge soft spot.  I remember when squirrels were new to Newfoundland, Dad had found one injured and brought it home to care for it.  He was also the devil incarnate at times, mischievous as all get out, and quick with a quip.  He taught us pride and humility, respect, and most of all love and joy.

Dad was taken in 1998, and while I can’t claim to be very religious, I do feel him, hear him, and most of all see him in the eyes and love of my little niece.  He would have doted on her just like he doted on my sister.  She’d be Poppy’s girl for sure.  Of course I can’t say I’m immune to that doting either.  And there is no jealousy in what I say of my sister, I doted on her too, and still do.

Dad was loved by many, known by more than seems possible, and missed terribly by us.  The memories are great ones, and will cherish them.  Miss you Dad, I see you now in my minds eye in by Fox Pond when I towed you in there on the ATV. We spoke then that it was likely your last time, and last trip, gout having made getting around difficult. We had many good times before and after that, but that was a special day to me, we shared a quiet time, words weren’t necessary.

Happy Father’s Day everyone.

June 16, 2013 by Uncategorized 1

Magna Berries

Yesterday’s post reminded me of berries and the many different kinds we had growing up back home.  One of the lesser known, were what we, at least, called magna berries.  I’ve mentioned them to others over the years, but I don’t recall most having a different or in fact any name for them.

That’s likely because the creeping snowberry as its truly known are not harvested much.  And that’s likely because the berries are tiny, so small we often called them ant’s eggs, because they resembled, well ant’s eggs.  They also usually were underneath their vines and hard to see at all.

There was an old slide path near my house, what we called the school garden path, that joined on to the “old road” forming a fork encircling the old garden.  On the slide path, hugging the tops of the bank were many of these vines.

They have a distinct wintergreen smell and flavor, and I once tried to pick some hoping to persuade mom to make some jelly or jam from them.  But, after what felt like forever, I only had a teacup full, and I gave it up for a bad job.  Just too tiny and not abundant enough.

That said, it was always a tasty treat when walking out from trouting to try and get a few of these little mints!

June 9, 2013 by Uncategorized 8

A Perfect Moment – A Poem

I’m no poet I know, but something I wrote a while back has been brewing this, and while I’m not sure it captures the feeling, not sure I have words that can, its my best attempt.  This is me, 10 years old.  This is Apsey Brook, this is Random Island.  This is why, to me, my little piece of the rock is perfect, and this was a perfect moment in time.

It is the summer of my childhood
rod in hand, I stroll to the wharf
an osprey circles overhead
the world breathes in time with his wings

The waves slap the wharf pilings lightly
an unbaited hook drifts to bottom
jiggling, luring a flatfish
snapping sharply, missing

flatfish abandoned, following the shore
flat rocks skipping, skipping
round ones thrown high
attempting a dead mans bubble

driftwood boats ply their trade
seagulls cry, sterrins chirrup
stranded jelly fish decorate the beach
twillicks chase the tide

up the brook, dark pools beckon
beams of sunlight through sun dappled leaves
catch trout swirling, dancing
ignoring the unbaited hook

rocks make a dam, circling the pool
smaller, smaller,  trout contained
hands grab, miss, grab again, fish squirts free,
youth splashes, suddenly soaked

The drops fall in slow motion
sunbeams dry me
walking back, boots slosh
the world breathes with me

 

May 16, 2013 by Uncategorized 2

Cocks and Hens

Growing up, one of my favorite things to do was to go cod fishing.  Its funny, but we never called it that, a trip to the fishing grounds was usually just called going out in boat.  I guess the two just naturally went together, I mean why else go out in boat?

Usually cod fishing was done by the old standard hit and miss method of using a cod jigger.  You’d lower the jigger to bottom, and then pull it up a fathom or so and stroke the line back and forth, hoping to hook into a cod.

But other times we’d use a feathered hook, or a baited hook with some orange cloth on it.  Well I’m not sure the orange mattered as much as something to attract the fishes curiosity.  For bait we’d use squid, caplin, herring, or often, cocks and hens.

They are properly a soft shelled clam, but we always knew them by the name cocks and hens, I really have no idea why, maybe someone can enlighten me.  These clam live in the soft muddy tidal flats around the shore line.  For us. we’d usually go to Southwest Brook, near Snook’s Harbour at low tide and walk out on the mud.

The clams themselves live 6-8 inches deep in the mud, you could see where by the little round tube they left in the mud to let water and food in and waste out.  Finding these, we’d dig down with a shovel, generally a little ways away from the hole so as not to smash them.  The shells on these are very soft and easily broken.  Generally we’d dig up a 5 gallon bucket full of them along with some sand and ocean water to keep them moist, and leave them in the cool fishing stage.

On our next trip out in boat, we’d take the bucket, and open a cocks and hen, and put it on our hook as bait to try and catch a nice growler (Dad’s term for a big one that would make the old corded jigging line growl)!

Nothing I loved more than an early morning trip out in boat, spending a few hours on the water.

May 15, 2013 by Uncategorized 1

Bud Fights!

Spring is here finally (knocks on wood to not jinx it) and greenery is springing up everywhere.  I really can”t recall what time of year wild Irises grew or bloomed, but am reminded of them now as the weather gets warmer.  I kind of think it was closer to the end of the school year, but I may be wrong.

A couple spots on the old school garden in Apsey Brook, and more around Mac Bailey’s and Randall’s garden in Snook’s Harbour had some huge wild Iris plants.  Back then, the somewhat impressive blue flowers really didn’t faze us much.  What was neat was taking the flat blades and holding them between your thumbs just so, and blowing through, making it a reed in our own human wind instrument.

What was maybe less neat, and somewhat painful, but hours of fun were the thick green (well till they dried out) seed pods (buds) that formed underneath the flowers.  We’d gather up tons of these in our hands, pockets, what ever containers we could find, and chase each other throwing them at each other as hard as we could.  Those things stung like mad, but we’d throw them at each other till we either ran out, or were too exhausted to keep it up any longer.

Always curious, we’d also peel them open, and spread the seeds everywhere, throw them in the harbour, carve them out into little boats.  A somewhat wistful memory of the hours of amusement something so simple can give you.

 

May 13, 2013 by Uncategorized 1

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