Thursday, January 7, 2021
Growing up, in Humbermouth, there was always family on “the hill”; the area on, and between, Clarence and Washington Streets, including Peddle’s Lane, the road named after Nan Carey’s side of the family.
A quick count tells me there were 17 different homes, all related to each other in some manner, on “the hill.” From the Foleys, to the Peddles, to the Hogans, to the Powers, and more, there was always family around. Mom and Dad's socializing was always with family. As a kid, you tended to take it for granted. You just assumed this was the way things always were and the way things would always be.
I have, for all intents and purposes, not lived in Corner Brook for over 30 years. As you get older, the steady march of time teaches you that you should never take things for granted. Over the years, we all have had friends and family members pass on. Each time, a little piece of you goes with that person. A piece of anyone who knew Uncle Jack has been lost to them with his passing.
As a boy, he always fascinated me.
My earliest memories of him go back to picking rocks at the Massey Drive Rock Cut to build the stone retaining wall on the lane down to Nan and Pop’s. I couldn’t have been much more than 5-you’d never been able to take a 5 year-old in the back of a pick-up on the highway these days. When at the cut I had to stay by his side so he could keep an eye on me as he, and others, collected for the wall. I remember finding rocks and asking him if that was a good one. “Oh yes,” he’d always say and dutifully ensure my rock made it to the truck while knowing full well that it was too small and would never be used. Really, looking through a many years later lens, I was in the way. Uncle Jack never made me feel that way though.
Dad and Jack purchased Chain Lake Outfitters from Uncle Jim in the early 70’s. I remember fall resupply trips with them, and John, to the Battle Pond camp. There would be the drive to Pinchgut, the flight on Angus Wentzel’s float plane, and, once there, fishing from an aluminum boat. Uncle Jack always wore a black, Jones style hat that was surrounded by a cloud of flies. I once asked him why he wore it-after all there was a cloud of black flies dancing around that hat. He’d say, “They don’t land on my face when I wear this.”
In 1996, when Nan passed, Jack and Theresa put Dad, Mom, Mike, and Me up at their place. There was book after book after book on topics ranging from First Nations Chiefs to ancient Rome to chess. The man had a sharp mind and a keen intellect.
When our son, Eric, was born in 2008 I got a card in the mailbox to go to a nearby postal outlet for a parcel. Unannounced, and unsolicited, you can guess what was there. A pair of beavertail snowshoes, for Eric, from the Snowshoe Man himself. These are a treasured heirloom for my family-ranking with the unworn trigger mitts my maternal grandmother knit for me before she passed away in 1992.
I grew up hearing about the bucket used to cross Sheffield Brook and boom bridge used to run across part of Birchy Lake. These were long gone by the time I came along. However, Uncle Jack had videotaped them and these images are a treasured part of our families’ history.
My visits to Corner Brook are fewer and farther in between. Each time I get home, there are less family members on “the hill.” With Uncle Jack’s passing, another chapter of family history has closed. A chapter that can never be regained. A piece of my rich childhood goes with him. Godspeed, Uncle Jack. You will be remembered and missed.