Old City Memories

I was raised in a ghetto in the oldest city of North America.

I grew up in a small complex of Lego-constructed homes connected together in myriad groups and units of three-sometimes-four-or-five rows. It was a small and private community kept under watchful eye by its residents. We knew our own kind. It was not a place to be at any time of the day, evening or night, unless you were with someone who lived there. Unannounced strangers quickly regretted entering our comfort space.

Up the hill from that ghetto was an orphanage. I say was because it is now torn down and only an empty field remains where it once stood. This orphanage was infamous in the memory of my homeland. Evil once dwelled within its walls and preyed upon the young and innocent under the deceitful veil of the name of the Lord. This notorious orphanage even had a movie produced about it called The Boys of St. Vincent. I ran away from home one rainy night when I was eight years old and made it as far as that building: it loomed in the chill misty night air and served a haunting vision to me. The thought of living there scared me straight. Unfortunately, many decades ago, before I was even born, that dreadful abomination was reality for my uncles. They lost childhood in darkened corners and unspeakable nightmares that remain silent to this day.

Down the hill from the ghetto and the empty field is a pond that annually hosts North America's oldest sporting event. I almost drowned in that pond during that same tender age of eight years old. I can still feel the icy grasp of water dragging me out to darker depths of inevitable death. I fought against the current that day and won…unlike a childhood friend who fell in that same pond only years before I had. He had been in a wheelchair. He never had a chance to fight the current. I think what saddens me more than both these memories is the fact that my best friend actually did die on the small narrow road that borders Quidi Vidi pond. She was sitting in the backseat of a vehicle that lost control and collided with an unmoving telephone pole. That is all I will say about her for now. It would be impossible to capture her spirit in a random collection of sentences. You will know who she is when my book is published.

Behind this pond sits an age-old fishing village affectionately called the Gut by locals. It houses the oldest cottage in North America called the Mallard Cottage. This area is full of history and the smell of fish which I was never really fond of. As children we walked along the shores of Quidi Vidi and fed mallard ducks pieces of stale bread. It was a very surreal experience growing up in that element of history.

If you followed the bay surrounding the gut up, down, and around the corner, you would find the historical monument Cabot Tower situated on the historical Signal Hill. You may recall an earlier attention to the history of this area from Salt of the Earth. At the base of Signal Hill is a small pond that city resident’s refer to as Dead Man’s Pond. Rumour has it that during the days of war, dead soldiers were stuffed in barrels and thrown off the side of Signal Hill. The barrels and the bodies inside bounced and careened down the hill and landed with a splash into the pond. Apparently, the pond is bottomless, and so the barrels eventually found a way out to the harbour surrounding St. John’s. Scary to think of all the souls locked in barrels. Makes you wonder what would have happened if a soldier was only wounded and unconscious instead of actually dead. I shudder to think. Cabot Tower and Signal Hill are iconic in St. John’s because both are lit up at night and can be seen from so many directions. It is such a beautiful sight but then again, I may be a tad bit biased.

Follow the waterfront down from Signal Hill until you go far, up, and beyond a long winding hill that swoops past a small anachronous town known as Shea Heights. Shea Heights is a smattering of small houses with junked cars and old kitchen sinks littering the front yard. But, whatever you do, just don’t stop to take pictures. As tough as my ghetto was, anyone from Shea Heights was always tougher. They don’t make people of that mentality anymore. Tough, rugged, ocean people. My kind of people.

Up the road from Shea Heights is the area known as Cape Spear and the most North Easterly point in North America. It is the spot where this continent first sees the sunset rise over the Atlantic Ocean and such a beautiful scene it is. It is littered with old army bunkers and remnants from the war years gone past.

I returned home to St. John’s two summers ago for the first time in over 12 years. I stood on a cliff bluff in Cape Spear as the rain pounded down all around me. It was surreal. The day was chill and foggy as most days can be in Newfoundland. But I didn’t care. I was home again. I could breathe the fresh air with certainty that it flew on the wings of the salt of the earth. But I also knew something else with certainty: I had outgrown my homeland. I was a stranger in the town I was born and raised. I may never be able to live there again…and that saddens me more than anything else in this world. To be from a place that is so welcoming but yet I don’t feel welcomed. I sit back and think about it now, and I wonder if St. John’s had outgrown me; or if I had outgrown St. John’s.

St. John’s is full of nooks and crannies and ghosts that walk the city streets. It is full of culture to tantalize the eye and a community of old generous souls. For those who are from Newfoundland, I say it will always be there waiting for your return. For those who have visited it will always be a drunken memory and an unforgettable hangover. For those who have never been…well, what the heck are you waiting for? Get out there m’ son and see the oldest rock in North America. Meet strangers that become best friends. Drink, eat, and be merry. Then drink again. Enjoy the fruit of my people as they enjoy your company. When you get there…tell them you were sent by one of their own.

Until we meet again, my friends, until we meet again.

“You’ll have to excuse me...I’m not at my best;
I’ve been gone for a month...I’ve been drunk since I left;
And these so-called vacations will soon be my death;
I’m so sick from the drink...I need home for a rest;
Take me home” – Spirit of the West