disclaimer:I usually try to clean up my writing before broadcasting... but this is about 6 months old and I'm kind of mad at my own lazy lack of productivity, so I'm just lettin' 'er go*.
Michael and Ba
We tramp down the hill in search of a coffee shop. A man comes out of a nearby house waving emphatically. "You turists?" he asks. We explain that we'd been hiking the East Coast Trail and that we were in town for the night. He slams the porch rail enthusiastically and invites us in. "Ba!" he calls into the house. "We got guests! They're turists!"
Inside the house, a toothless man sits at the table in a simple kitchen. A few slabs of unidentifiable grey meat are sizzling in a pan next to a pot of boiled potatoes, and a half-drained bottle of rum sits on the table. The waver's name is Michael. He greets us with a combination of cheek kisses, hand-holding and fist pumps. The toothless man is Michael's uncle, whom he calls "Ba" but isn't actually related to him at all. Michael keeps apologizing because Ba is drunk... even though Michael is clearly drunk too. He chastises Ba with stern little speeches. "You can't be drunk, Ba. We got turists here. You're lucky to have turists in yer home like this. No more drinkin', ok? Tomorrow we stop drinkin'"
"Weeengshmaaaa," gurgles Ba.
Ba has the unfortunate disposition of being entirely incomprehensible. Three main factors contribute to this:
1. He's drunk
2. He's toothless
3. He's a Newfie
"Alright, I love you Ba" Michael says with a kiss to the forehead. Michael offers us some tea and sits down to give us a snapshot of his life. Like so many other Maritimers, Michael'd moved to Fort McMurray to make a living. Stayed there for 8 years and made a mint, but got into the crack. Got married, had a daughter, got divorced and made his way back to Witless Bay. No real family left here, but there're some friendly neighbours and good folk. And Ba.
"We's like family," Michael says as he sits the somewhat confused Ba on his knee. "Ain't we? I love yeh, Ba"
"Ngmrrawww," bubbles Ba.
We finish our tea and stand up for the goodbyes. Ba teeters towards me, arms outstretched. I lean in for a hug but he doesn't seem satisfied with this. I offer a cheek but he doesn't bite. So I stand dumbly, facing him, holding both his hands as he stares at me, glassy-eyed with drink.
"Ngashweeem," he gurgles.
"I love you too, Ba" I say.
Mr. and Mrs. MarilynThe first thing that strikes us about Bay Bulls is that it's expanding. Houses are going up everywhere. About 1500 people in town now... they had a couple of thousand in the 1950s but everyone left in search of jobs, bigger houses, bigger lives. But now there's oil in the Maritimes and people are starting to come back.
The O'Dea house sat appropriately enough on O'Dea Lane, facing the open harbour. The house had belonged to Mr. Marilyn's grandfather and had kept all the pages of its history in its walls. "I counted 24 layers," Mrs. Marilyn says. "When we were doing the renovations. Twenty-four layers of wallpaper."
Mr.and Mrs. Marilyn were sitting on their front porch watching the freight ships come in. They see all sorts of people without ever having to leave their front stoop. After a polite chat, they invited us up for afternoon tea, which ended up being a second lunch... substantially bigger than our first, incidentally.
She had been retired for a week and, to my eyes, wasn't taking it well. She strikes me as someone who was used to being much busier, who thrived when she bit off more than she could chew. She is as I imagine my own workhorse mother to be when she finally retires- bored, fidgety, itching to do more than there was to do. She speaks a mile a minute, not accustomed to having the time to finish a thought. He, on the other hand, hardly speaks at all, not accustomed to not being interrupted.
When I ask to used the washroom, she hastily apologizes for not being home to clean all day, and races on up the stairs ahead of me. In a flurry, she picks a few towels off the floor, wipes down the counter and puts the toilet seat down, all the while apologizing for her messy boys. As she bustles by me, she adds "And lock the door. I've got an autistic son and he don't knock" before slamming the door shut behind her.
High Time at the Harvest House
30 some years ago, the area around North Sydney was booming with industry. Over the years, the steel plant shut down, then the fishery and finally the mines. There's little left in Cape Breton, many of the older folks are drawing EI while the younger generation look to the wild West for work. Maritime couples are becoming accustomed to living apart, as the men spend half the year in Fort McMurray clogging their lungs to support their families.
Politicians and government seem a million miles away from the day-to-day reality here. "They say they're gonna do this or that, they ain't doin' nothin'. Just pocketing money, that's all their doin'".
I'm sitting outside Harvest House with Hector, who's got straggly long hair, a wild beard and a hearing problem. He's also got a wonky leg, and he's taking the time to show off his new walker. It's got 4 wheels, a basket and hand brakes. He squeezes them to show me how tight they are. "Don't know what I'm going to do in the winter, though," he says as his eyes crinkle. "I ain't got no snow tires!"
We'd spent the night camping on an amused townie's front lawn while he sat inside and watched True Blood. In th morning, we'd stumbled into town for breakfast and were enticed by the provocative sign outside Harvest House that read: "FREE COFFEE".
Inside, a round man with a bushy stache greeted us warmly and invited us to take anything we saw. His name was Paul Coady, and he was a kind, earnest man with a great, hearty laugh. Kind of like Santa with a Maritimes accent. Paul was a natural conversationalist and a rare kind of Christian- the non-dogmatic kind. The kind that recognized that what motivated people to be good didn't matter... so long as they did good.
Paul lets us leave our bags at Harvest House as we split up on our errands. I come back early and divide the fresh blueberry pie we'd bought amongst our new friends. "Hey," says Paul. "Do you know what kind of pie people like to eat at Halloween?" his eyes crinkle. "Boooooo-berry pie!" Paul breaks out into a huffing throaty, knee-slapping laugh and I decide I like him even more, because easily-amused people are, to me, instantly trustworthy.
There's a couple from Newfoundland there as well; they're engaged and after the wedding, he is heading out to Fort McMurray for 6 months. "I speak four languages," she boasts to me. "English, French, Micmaq and Newfienese." And so it was that I got my first lesson in Newfie:
Ya dern say! Yes, bye How ya doin' daday? Where you to?
The sun is setting behind the stores on main street as the row of us enjoy the last bites of our pie. "Here comes Tim," Paul says. "Hey Tim! You know what kind of pie people like to eat at Halloween..."
*There's also supposed to be a chapter on Benjamin Jordan, this guy who'd paraglided across Canada and how Tim and I hitched a ride back with him from Newfoundland in his school bus.... but I'm sure everyone's already heard me tell that story...
