One of Bay de Verde’s most beloved people died the other day. Living in a small town, there has always been the town staples. Those who are involved in everything, who you see down the shop, sitting on the bank, hanging out on the wharf.
Mose was one of those people. He lived on Blundon’s Point, right out on the edge and he was one of the older guys who sit on a bench up there and look out at the harbor all day, talking and gossiping and sneaking sips of a flask every now and then. They are fishermen, plant workers, and husbands. They have kids now, who own their own houses in the harbor, have their own kids.
Growing up, these men have been a constant in my life. My Uncle June was one of them and I was always running up on the point, or down on the bank, to ask for a couple of dollars to go to the shop. When I was working at the Heritage House, me and TLB would go out to the bench, bring the men raisin buns and sit and have a chat with them. They are smart, although most of them barely have grade five. They love to have a chat with the young people. They know what everyone in the harbor is doing.
Those men are slowly going now, though. There’s none around to replace them, either. No other men who will sit on the bank on a summers day and watch boats come in, who will tell you how much crab the Noonan’s Pride had on her, what happened during last night’s hockey game or who won bingo. We lost two of them this summer, and one more this week. Uncle June died seven years ago, Leo is gone into a home in Victoria and Crissy is in one in CBS.
You don’t know these men, but if you live in a small town, you do. There are similar ones there. Men who you’ve looked up to your whole life. Who always have a kind word and who mess up your hair. Your uncles, grandfathers, neighbours.
It makes me sad to think that my younger cousins and, eventually, my kids, will grow up in a Bay de Verde totally different from the one I grew up in. The town I grew up in was perfect, filled with kids and kindly neighbours. Now, there’s hardly any kids around, they all prefer to stay inside, where we weren’t allowed in between breakfast and supper. The men stay in their sheds, or their homes, or their gone to Alberta. No one is sliding behind my house, no one is having their first beer down on the bank in the fog and no one is sitting on Blundon’s Point, watching the long liners come in.
Some Shockin' Good