Judy P's Tickle Trunk

Many of my childhood memories are a combination of reality and imaginings. They are sometimes of events which actually happened to my siblings but which were told so many times when I was young that I can actually visualize them as having happened to me. Many are distorted by childish illusions and by the passage of time.

Uncle Edwin and Mom on her wedding day.

My first living memory is of my Uncle Edwin. I was less than two years old. We were in the kitchen of our house in Pilley’s Island and he lifted me over his head to sit me on the radio shelf. (My mother says he sat me on top of an old kerosene powered fridge but in my mind it was distinctly a painted wooden shelf). I recall being ecstatic and feeling fearless in the safety of his strong hands.

At risk of offending any other Uncles I may have had (any others would be uncles by marriage as my mother only had one brother and my father, only a step-brother) Uncle Edwin was by far my favourite. I demonstrated this is in very small ways; by writing a few extra lines in a Christmas card or including a photograph of my newest boat, not to show off but in hopes that he would take some pride in my accomplishments. I think that more than one of us, in our adult lives, has tried to recreate that feeling of magic we used to experience when we visited him and Salome and Granny on the point. It was a fertile place for the imagination and when there we felt truly free and, again, fearless.

Granny's and Edwin's houses at Beaumont, Long Island. Affectionately known as "The Point".

 You know, it’s a real pity that we have to wait until our family members are dead to realize just how little we know about their past lives. For instance, I didn’t know that Edwin’s middle name was Cole (my Grandmother’s maiden name) or that his birthday was the day after mine. Or that the rock where he was shipwrecked with Norm Heath while sealing was called League Rock. I always thought it was Legge Rock; though we pronounced it ‘leg’ I thought it must be Legge after a person’s name because they surely wouldn’t name a rock after a body part. This makes no sense of course because I had no difficulty accepting place names such as Joe Batts Arm or Nicks Nose Cove. I digress.

In the day’s after Uncle Edwin’s death I strove to record my memories of him. I was surprised at how few there were. Is this because he was always absent or because he was overshadowed by the hoopla of family gatherings? I recall his slow steady step on the steep wooden steps to his kitchen door and how he always had something in his hands; wood for the stove or a pail of lobster to be boiled for supper. I remember once coming in from outside and seeing him leaning against he counter smiling while my mother exclaimed “Look what Edwin brought!”. I imagined a toy or some rare object from days gone by. It was, in fact, a very large grey fish in a a shallow pan. I must have shown my disappointment as I wondered how a halibut could possibly be such a treasure that it made my mother’s blue eyes sparkle.

Edwin’s hands were rarely empty or idle; cleaving splits with an axe, hauling on rope to pull his trapskiff out to its mooring, building a shed or handling firewood. When not otherwise engaged, his hands would be busy rolling a cigarette. Late in the evening when Paul and Sidonie, the smaller cousins, were gone to bed, Derek and I would sit at the kitchen chrome set, making tiny trapskiffs from rolled out plasticine. Uncle Edwin would lean back in his chair, smoking and drinking tea from a china teacup and saucer (he despised the thick lips of mugs), and smile at our childish banter. Sometimes he would utter his soft low laugh and we would feel happy that our stories were chuckle worthy. It was there at that table I first learned to name the parts of a boat and engine; transom, cuddy, bilge, gunnel (gunwale), and tot (thwart), magneto, flywheel, and points.

My cousin Derek, Peter and I fishing tomcods from Uncle Edwin's trapskiff.

When I think of Edwin he is not so much of an image but a conglomeration of other senses. I smell fresh air and salt fish and the sap of freshly chopped spruce. I hear the sound of the slap of rubber boot against shin, the slow lope of his footsteps on a wooden bridge, the whack of an axe against a junk of wood, or the metallic scrape, scrape of an axe-blade against the grinding wheel. And all of the above well seasoned by cigarette smoke.

When I was little Uncle Edwin was an inshore fisherman. He would be out of bed long before daylight and heading out the harbour long before we unclosed our eyes in the morning. I recall seeing the motorboat come back later through the tickle, sunk almost to the gunnels with her full load of shiny wet cod. It was said that Aunt Salome could tell how much fish he was carrying without even looking; that she knew how heavily laden the boat was by the sound of the putt-putt as the make-and-break engine pushed her through the water. Later when the inshore cod fishery failed he built a bigger boat and moved offshore. I am still amazed at how he could pick up tools and build himself a long-liner (the Mayflower I think he called her) from the keel up from scratch.  He was surely both an artist and a craftsman.

The artist became evident in later years after he was retired from fishing. One day on a whim, he collected up the cans of left-over paint in his shed and decided to paint a picture. As far as I know he only ever produced the one painting. I can still hear him chuckle as he told how he was too shy to allow anyone actually see him paint so he would dart out to the rocks by the church, take a mental snapshot of the scenery, and then run back to the shed to lay down the paint. He very much captured the colour and the depth of the landscape.

The view looking out towards Seal Island; Uncle Edwin' first painting.

Uncle Edwin’s movements were careful and deliberate, his world orderly. He found humour, not in poking fun at people or in cruel jokes, but in the absurdities of everyday life. Had he been born in another time or place he could easily have been a zen priest. His life was not about the accumulation of possessions, he saw beauty in everyday things, and he consistently practiced kindness and compassion. In my heart and in my imagination, I will carry Uncle Edwin with me whenever I am on the water. He can join my father on the stern tot of my humble rowboat, to give me energy and encouragement when the seas get rough. Uncle Edwin always ‘got’ me and I loved him for it. His passing will be a great loss to his wife Salome and to his children Derek, Paul and Sidonie.

Uncle Edwin 1937 - 2011

(c) Judy Parsons 2011