Grandmother's Kerosene Lamp

My earliest childhood memories are of growing up in Port Rexton and for as long as I can remember, we had electricity. Most homes had a back-up if we ever lost the power, usually a kerosene lamp. Power outages seemed to happen frequently back then, especially during a storm. 

It wasn't a long walk to her house from ours, and I was always glad to see my grandmother, wearing her long white bibbed apron and standing outside the back door waiting for me to come down the road when I went to visit. I remember how happy I was to see her, and the sense of comfort and security I felt when I walked through the white gate and closed it behind me. She would give me a big hug as I followed her into the house, first through the dimly lit back porch , and then into a cozy middle porch. There was a table there, under a window, and I often climbed onto a chair to watch my grandmother roll out pastries for buns and fruit-filled tarts. Of course, I always got a pinch of dough. To the right of the table, there was a rolled-back couch where my grandfather would sometimes nap, to get out of the heat of the kitchen. On the opposite side of the room, there was a small dark pantry under the stairs. 

The heat from the wood stove struck you when you opened the kitchen door. It felt so good and penetrated your very soul. To the left of the door immediately inside the kitchen there was an old brown wooden chair, which I now proudly display in my home. I think the only person I ever saw sit there back then was Uncle Ralph when he would drop in to see his brother, my grandfather. Uncle Ralph was a quiet, rather shy man, who was always well dressed. I knew it was him coming in by the way he gently opened the door. He would sit on that chair, remove his hat and hang it on his right knee for the duration of his visit. I don't know how he kept it from falling off his knee, but it never did. Above the chair there was a small framed mirror. My grandmother would turn it over during a thunder storm so lightening wouldn't bounce off it.

My grandfather loved trout fishing. I would stand by the small window in the corner of the kitchen when he was due back from the pond, watching for the tip of the bamboo fishing rod to bob over the top of the hill, just before he did. Then I would run outside, stand on the fence and wait for him to walk up the path around the corner of the house. He always stopped outside the white-washed picket fence and opened his fishing basket to show me the trout he had caught. He would count them, hold up the biggest one, and then I would run to open the gate. On one occasion, I saw the tip of the bamboo bob over the hill, before I saw my grandfather, and ran outside to meet him. I was so disappointed to find out it was my friend's grandmother coming back from her fishing trip, and not my grandfather, but he wasn't far behind.

Above the table, there was a very small shelf that held a radio, and near it, a beautiful kerosene lamp resting on a black ornate iron bracket that also supported a delicate reflector at the back. It was mounted on the wall and although cleaned regularly, it was mainly used during a power outage. My grandmother would sometimes turn off the kitchen light and we would just sit in the light from the lamp. It was magical and made the whole room feel warm and cozy.

On hockey night, my grandfather would stand with one foot on the floor and sit on the edge of the table under the lamp to listen to the game on the radio. He smoked a pipe, but not during the game. He first scraped out the old tobacco, and then knocked the remaining ash into the wood stove. I can still remember the distinct sound when he scraped out his pipe. He would stand in his favorite spot, half standing and half sitting, for the whole game.  He took a plug (block) of tobacco and shaved pieces off it with his pocket knife, then rubbed the tobacco between his hands for what seemed like an eternity before packing it tightly into his pipe. He sat there with the unlit pipe in his mouth, and prepared enough tobacco to fill a small leather pouch. Everyone was quiet during the game.

The kitchen was usually a busy place. It was filled with love and meant the world to me. In the afternoon, my grandmother would take a break and sit on the couch in the kitchen. I would stand on the couch beside her, with her hand on my back, to look out at the brook that flowed into a pond nearby and then on into the bay. Sometimes the neighbor would walk his horse down the narrow path to the brook. Every time she saw him, my grandmother would say he was walking his "hoss" down for a drink.

The old wooden rocking chair next to the couch was covered with a beautiful padded back and seat cushion with large floral print. There was a folded towel over top of the back cushion to prevent it from getting soiled. I liked to curl up in the rocking chair, but couldn't when there was a fire in the wood stove, in case hot ashes (flankers) would fly off the burning wood and shoot through the side vents. In the winter, my grandmother sometimes opened the oven door. It was without a doubt the best place to dry mittens.  When the dishes were washed and dried after each meal, the tea towels were hung to dry on a string stretched between two nails behind the stove.

When I stayed overnight, I would come downstairs in the morning and my grandmother would lift me up onto a chair at the end of the stove to wash my face and hands before breakfast. She had a comb that was about six inches long and two inches wide and would sometimes spend an hour trying to form ringlets in my waist-length hair, by very gently winding it around her fingers. She could never make the curls like my mom, but she always tried very hard to get them just right. In the evening, my grandfather would sit on that same chair to cut shavings on the end of wooden splits, to get them ready to start the fire in the morning.

It warms me to this very day when I sit and think about those times. I still have the old pantry table and the kerosene lamp, along with many beautiful memories of growing up and spending precious moments with my grandparents.

　

Lobster Boil

I always look forward to lobster season, when I can buy fresh lobsters from fisherman who sell their catch right off the wharf. My quest for lobsters is about more than just food. It's a chance to meet people, and establish new friendships. I try to visit as many communities as I can each summer. It is humbling to talk to some of the older fishermen on those trips and hear their stories.

There is only one thing better than a boiler filled with lobsters cooking on the stove, and that's a boiler filled with lobsters cooking on an open fire on a beach by the ocean, and sharing them with friends. It was a good day for such an outing and with five fresh lobsters to cook, I headed to a friend's cottage. I will always remember what she said when they were building their new summer home. When things were not going well, while still under construction, it was referred to as the "friggin' cabin". When things went well, it was the "cottage". Well, it's definitely a cottage now, set back in a beautiful garden, overlooking the ocean.

It was a short walk down the path to the beach and after a couple of trips, my friend and I had carried down everything we needed. We found the perfect spot to build a fire pit with rocks. We gathered dry wood for the fire and when it was burning just right, we put on the pot. While the lobsters were cooking, I went for a walk.

There was a gentle breeze off the salt water and with the sun hitting it at just the right angle, it looked like the surface had been sprinkled with diamonds. It was positively hypnotic. The sky was clear and the scenery absolutely beautiful, all the way down the bay. If you take time to look down when walking on a beach, you can really appreciate the many beautiful colors in the sand and rocks, as well as a variety of shells and unique pieces of driftwood. I get some interesting shots by pointing the camera straight down, instead of just shooting across the beach.

The smell of the lobsters cooking drew me back to the fire. The wind had picked up by this time so we decided to head back to the cottage to relax and enjoy our meal. We ate our fill of lobster, potato salad and homemade bread, and shared a bottle of wine. A fitting end to a wonderful day.

That experience inspired me and I went back to the same beach on another occasion to cook a pot of mussels in the same fire pit we had built there before. A couple, out walking their dog on the beach, joined us. This time we stayed on the beach, shared some interesting stories, scooped out the delicious, steaming mussels and ate them straight from the shells.

I wonder if that fire pit is still there. I think I have a package of smoked kippers in the freezer....

Wild Iris

(a special tribute to my sister)

Of all the pictures of Irises I have taken over the years, this is my favorite. I was getting a series of shots to show photography students when I saw these flowers growing in the middle of the stream. There were just enough rocks surrounding them to protect them and the soil from erosion.

My sister, Ruby, loved wild Irises. She drew them, had a friend paint them, and displayed pictures of them in her home. I have photographed Irises on many occasions and have grown to love them too, not just because of their strength and beauty, but because they remind me of Ruby's love and passion. She used every occasion and available opportunity to celebrate life.

Ruby would gather family around her whenever possible and host amazing meals in her home. When our family grew, we eventually had to rent a room somewhere so we could all get together. Each family brought food to the pot luck dinner, and the children entertained the adults with a concert or performance of some sort. There was music and games and everyone was happy to set aside their busy daily routines and just spend that time together to catch up on news and have fun.

When my dad was diagnosed with ALS.  we all spent as much time as possible by his side and felt helpless knowing there was no cure for this dreadful condition. Before he passed, Ruby's granddaughter asked him how he would get to Heaven. He told her two angels would come down on a rainbow and go with him. On the day of his funeral, just as we were leaving the cemetery, we looked off in the distance at our house and there was the most beautiful rainbow you ever saw, arched over the roof. Since that day rainbows have had a special meaning for me. I remember Ruby saying she would one day write a book called Rebecca's Rainbow but sadly she did not get the chance.

We were shocked and completely devastated when Ruby passed suddenly a few years later. There are no words to explain the incredible pain and overwhelming sense of loss. It felt like a huge part of my life had been ripped away. There are so many days when I wish I could talk to her. Ruby had a way of putting things in perspective, and helped me get my priorities straight even when I thought they already were, and we would end up laughing about it.

I watched a program on TV since her passing, on Iris gardening, and found out more about these beautiful flowers. It is believed a Greek Goddess came back and forth to earth on a rainbow, and everywhere her foot touched, an Iris grew. They believe the Iris accompanies the soul of women into the afterlife. It is the symbol of monarchy, royalty, power and remembrance.

It's hard not to think about the past and family I have lost, but I draw strength from it. I am so very thankful for all the special people still in my life today, especially my children and grandchildren. I feel incredible joy as each little one comes along and I see their loving personalities, along with the strengths of my parents and Ruby in them.

The Iris will continue to grow, and may show up in the most unusual places. For me, it will always represent a beautiful and everlasting bond between loved ones who have passed and new beginnings.

I miss you.

Grandmother's Washstand, Jug and Bowl

At the top of the stairs and straight ahead, was the guest bedroom in my grandparent's home. It was a small, but cozy room that my mother shared with her sister when they were growing up. The bed was on the right when you walked into the room. It had a white iron decorative frame, and a flat spring which supported a thick feather mattress. The bed was covered with flannel sheets and several handmade quilts. It was topped with a beautiful white bedspread, with mauve, pink, blue and yellow flowers embroidered in the middle, and was trimmed with a light mauve cotton border. 

On the left, and in the far corner of the room, there was a washstand, with a tilting mirror, and side rails that held two guest towels. A small drawer held an assortment of soaps and other toiletries. I can still remember the bouquet of floral and lavender scents when I opened the drawer. A porcelain jug and bowl sat on top of the washstand. Beside it, there was a cream-colored covered soap dish, and a matching vase-shaped comb holder, with a pink floral design on it. The set also included a matching chamber pot which was kept in the shelf below, and covered by a crisp linen cloth. White lace curtains covered the window, and a room-darkening shade was pulled down at night, even when nobody slept there.

I didn't play in that room. I pretended it belonged to a princess who would someday come to visit and sleep in the big beautiful bed. Sometimes, I would go in just to sit on top of the bed for a few minutes (with my shoes off, of course). The room seemed magical with the scent of bath soaps and body powder lingering in the air, and the clean, outdoor smell of the fresh bedding surrounding me. In the hallway, outside the bedroom door, there was an old trunk where the linens were kept. My grandmother would tell me not to lift the cover of the trunk because it was heavy, it had very sharp edges, and could fall on my hands. A floral bath towel, used as a runner, covered the top. I thought the old trunk had to have secrets if I wasn't allowed to open it, but I never did find out.

My grandfather finished a beautiful bedroom for me. It was painted pale pink with white trim around the window and door. The brick chimney extended up the wall of my room from the kitchen and, it too, was painted white. But, when I was old enough to invite a friend over, we were allowed to sleep in the guest bedroom. There were so many handmade quilts on the bed, we couldn't move. If you have ever slept on a feather bed, you know when you make your dent in it, you're there for the night. We soon found out it was very important to determine which side you wanted to sleep on when you first climbed into the bed. Before drifting off into a very comfortable and snug sleep, we would pretend we were the visiting guests and would lie awake telling stories about our imaginary lives. In the morning, I would climb out of bed and open the blind to let warm sunlight fill the room, and then crawl back in and snuggle down under the covers for awhile longer to stay warm. In the stillness, I waited until I could hear the fire crackling in the stove downstairs to know when it was time to get up and dressed for breakfast.

I loved the decorative white spindle railing and bannister on the stairs leading to my room. I found all sorts of interesting ways to climb them, like climbing up as far as I could on the edge of the steps, outside the handrail. It didn't take long to learn a fast way to get down again. The stairs were covered in a rather slippery, canvas runner, held in place at the back of each step by a brass rod. If I sat on the top step, lifted both feet and arched my back just right, I found, with a good fright the first time, that I could slide all the way to the bottom. My grandparents were not impressed, but held me in their arms and explained the dangers.

At night, whenever I visited alone, I would fall asleep on the kitchen couch, facing the back of it, and hugging a doll my grandmother had made from nylon stockings. The pattern on the back of the rolled-back couch consisted of a collage of tiny, brightly colored houses on a yellow background, and in my dreams they would float around. My grandfather would wait until they were ready to go to bed and carry me in his arms up the stairs. On very cold nights, my grandmother climbed into bed with me, to wait until it warmed up and I had settled comfortably to sleep, before going to her own room.

The house is no longer there, but I will always treasure those memories, and the old washstand which now stands in the corner of my bedroom.

　
　

Pitcher Plant

It was a two hour drive and whenever I headed out on the highway to go to the city, I would take my camera. The landscape in Newfoundland is beautiful any time of the year and I didn't want to miss a thing. A friend, who is also a photography buff, came along on the trip. I could always count on her, when I was focused on driving, to make me "stop and smell the roses" along the way.

The first half of the trip we spent catching up on old news and sharing photo ideas, and then all of a sudden she said "stop the car". Off to the left, there was a marsh covered with brilliantly colored pitcher plants, Newfoundland and Labrador's provincial flower. We had time to spare and couldn't resist an opportunity to capture them at their best. It was a warm, slightly overcast day, and the bright red flowers stood out brilliantly against the mossy green and yellow marsh, in perfect contrast. I am amazed at how these plants survive so beautifully in such conditions. We decided to take a closer look and got out to stretch our legs and breathe the delicious fresh air.

I went around the back of the car to get my camera and called out to Wanda to ask what she was wearing on her feet. We were dressed for city shopping, not a walk in a bog, but never knew where we would end up on a road trip. From off in the distance, she replied "sandals". She was already out on the marsh, and didn't mind at all that her feet were soaked. Not to be outdone of course, I had to follow.

If you want to get a good shot of a pitcher plant, you need to get down to it's level, which is about a foot off the ground, to truly appreciate the shape of the flower, and the sturdiness of the leaves and stem. It didn't take long to realize it wasn't easy to maintain your balance on the wet, uneven surface, while squatting and trying to steady a camera at the same time, in order to get eye-level with a pitcher plant. Needless to say we took a few spills but had a great laugh trying to capture the moment. It was, without a doubt, the highlight of my day.

The pitcher plant is a great choice for Newfoundland and Labrador's provincial flower. In spite of our changing climate, the sturdy plant endures whatever nature throws at it, and still stands tall in striking color. It is illegal to cut them, but we can capture them through photography and enjoy them forever. It is their strength and beauty that reminds me of the courage, and a relentless will to survive, that is our heritage.

The Root Cellar

"Don't walk across the top of the cellar".  My dad's words still echo in my head whenever I think about the old root cellar in the side of the hill behind our house. When I was growing up, I thought it was just something we were not allowed to do, but never really thought about the fact that it was for our own safety. As a child, I was afraid to go inside. The very thought conjured up images of a dark, damp place, that was probably haunted and crawling with spiders. Dad had nothing to worry about if he thought I might get too close to a cellar.  Some of the old structures were ready to collaspse, and he was simply protecting us.

Root cellars were dug out of the side of a hill, and were supported inside with wood beams. Rocks and sods were used to frame a wooden door. Sods were then laid across the top outside to provide extra insulation during the cold weather in winter, and the heat of summer. This underground storage facility naturally provided an ideal temperature, and humidity control. Saw dust was often used to cover and protect the crops. The cellar was used mainly to store vegetables, such as potatoes, carrots and turnip,  and at times, for storage of preserves and meats as well.

Looking back, I can appreciate how important cellars were to the families who built them. I remember how hard my grandparents worked, cutting up potatoes for seed, and the many long days they spent in the garden planting and weeding. My grandfather would walk for miles pushing a wheelbarrow filled with caplin to use as fertilizer,  and then spread them neatly between the rows in the garden. We grew many varieties of vegetables, and everyone took part in the harvest. The produce was kept in cold storage in the cellar, or cold-packed in mason jars, and provided food for the family year round. Nothing quite compares to the taste of vegetables from your own garden. It was as if you could taste the love and committment in every mouthful.

A few years ago I was taking a shortcut through the community where I grew up, and spotted an old root cellar. Ordinarily, I would never have taken my camera out in the rain, but that day, I jumped out of my car and took two shots. That picture will always remind me of the life I enjoyed so much growing up in rural Newfoundland. The photo is a way to pass on to my children the true meaning of perserverance and preservation. Root cellars are still very much an integral part of a way of life in some areas of Newfoundland and Labrador, to this very day.

Rattle Falls

The path was a little slippery after the rain but I knew there would be more water on Rattle Falls that day. I took my camera and walked until I found a good location to get a few shots. It was so peaceful with bright sunlight trickling through the trees overhanging the river and the sound of water rushing over the rocks.

I always feel sheltered here, comfortable and protected. There is a stillness so profound, broken only by a bird chirping from time to time, or a squirrel flitting through the bushes. I am surrounded by nature and can hear myself breathe. What an awesome place!

"Wow, this is amazing" I said out loud, and my own voice agreed with me as it echoed back. Water cascaded down over the steep, craggy cliff and settled in a swirling pool at the bottom, sending a mist in the air before overflowing softly into the river. You wonder sometimes why it never runs out of water or changes course like everything else in life. This is a place where I can put the rest of my life in perspective.

Over the years, I have come back here and it has never changed it's meaning for me. In the Fall, the leaves turn color and put on a real show for the camera. The trail into the woods is covered with a carpet of red, gold and orange. In the winter, the scene is always spectacular. Little mounds of snow cap the rocks and are trimmed neatly by water flowing past in the river. Long icicles hang off the cliff, and the branches of the trees are heavy with snow but still remain strong enough to carry the load. The space seems bigger and more open as some trees have shed their leaves. Water still finds it's way down through the ice and snow. In Spring, after enduring the cold winter climate, trees are relieved of their burden by the warmth of the sun, and once again burst into new growth, forming a lush green canopy over the path leading to the river.

Of all the places I have gone, Rattle Falls is one of my favorites. It is absolutely beautiful at any time of the year, and is a never-ending story that will be there for me, while the rest of the world changes around it.