I sat with John English an amateur historian. John has interviewed several residents of the Miramichi on historical events and people.
Part One https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6KQI6q_LA0
Part Two https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhfLUs1w8N4
Part Three https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p_Qm87m7tx8
On
Wednesday, November 17, 2010, the weather was chilly and cloudy, typical for
late fall in Miramichi. Historical websites reported that no notable events
occurred on this date. But at 4:20 p.m., my oldest brother, Norman and I
were present as history unfolded for our family. We sat on either side of our
father's bedside while Norman comforted him with quiet reassurances as I held
his hand. His breathing became ragged, eventually, the only sound in the room
was the clicking of the clock.
I
looked at the body that once was our dad, John Dolan. His bear paw hands were
still rough as sandpaper. I thought of him tossing me effortlessly as a young
child into the air. His face and arms held a tan from the previous summer
sitting on the veranda overlooking his beloved Miramichi River. We were in the
living room, which was renovated for a sleeping area. In its last role, it
held many warm memories. Dad's "modified" Christmas trees had stood,
tied to the wall to prevent them from falling. As youngsters, we held no notice
of the crooked tree and the fading decorations. Our imaginations conjured
images of extravagant gifts, including GI Joes and talking dolls. The reality
of simple presents on Christmas morning did not lessen our joy. As kids, we
knew nothing of Dad's sacrifices to buy even basic gifts. Seven children and
his mother had to be fed and clothed. Our house was over a century old and
showing its age. With few tools and less ability, Dad struggled to keep it
together. We may have complained about some of our clothes but knew we
were loved. As a small boy, I would sneak past my brothers and sisters after
supper to join Dad on the couch. I would snuggle into him as he read his paper,
and if I were lucky, we would fall asleep, me safe and secure in his arms.
Many
of us view our parents through a narrow lens, seeing them mainly as caregivers
and nurturers. We often overlook the individuals they were before we entered
their lives. They may have set aside their dreams and goals to ensure that we,
their children, could pursue ours. I occasionally asked Dad about his father
and life as a youngster, but his brief responses were not much help. My father
treated words like chocolates. He savoured and consumed them sparingly.
Dad's
father died of sepsis when my father was fourteen. His mother carved out a
living taking in boarders and raising a few farm animals. Despite the hardship,
she insisted he stay in school beyond the usual Grade eight level. Dad
went on to complete High School. In 1940 he joined the masses of young men and
women who took up arms against the Nazi repression. After the war, he returned
to Miramichi and met a young nurse. John struggled to overcome his shyness and eventually
won Rita Ramsay's love. The two married and settled into the Dolan Homestead in
Nelson. Dad spent most of his adult life working at the village lumber and
plywood mills as a wood scaler and then as a company bookkeeper. We didn't own
a car. I recall many evenings as a child sitting on our fence post, waiting
impatiently for my dad to walk up the road from work. Sometimes, I would sneak
away from Mom and run to meet him. This was our time together as I told him of
the day's event.
Dad's
own story to this point is not unique or exceptional. But it was meaningful to
many, including the citizens of Nelson. Residents heard the new gospel of
shared ownership and responsibility from Dad and other leaders. The results
were astounding. They included the establishment of Beaubear Credit Union and
Co-op as well as a Cooperative housing project. Dad's greatest gift to his
community was leading the construction of a regional high school. He and the
parish priest, Father Ryan, marshalled the required resources and support that
made education possible for Nelson kids and the surrounding communities.
Dad lived a quiet and humble life.
One summer evening, we sat on his veranda watching a spectacular sunset
perfectly mirrored on the great river. I asked him why he gave up so much of
his free time, often at the expense of his family; his response was typically
direct;
"It was expected of anybody fortunate
enough to be educated that they would give back to the community who supported
them."
I am immensely proud of and loved my
father. But our story was, at times, a lonely and frustrating one for me. The
little boy who fought for quiet times with his father struggled to find his
place in a world he was not sure wanted him. Sexual identity does not suddenly
appear. It is sewn into our genetic makeup and manifests from our first smile
or tear. I could not express the alienation I felt as a child, but I needed to
be comforted in my journey of self-discovery. I spent my youth and part of
adulthood in a circle of self-doubt and fear. My father could not support me in
my struggles. He wrestled with depression throughout his own life. The
education that was supposed to bring him freedom resulted in his self–gondage to a community that never acknowledged his contribution.
I took up my father's leadership
burden as a young man. One of the projects I worked on was in education. The
result was a community college campus built in the Miramichi region. I was
starting on Dad's well-worn path. Subconsciously, I was seeking his attention
and approval. I got neither. A truism I learned helps explain my response to
Dad's absence. "Those whose love we wanted but didn't get, we emulate
them. What we know of manhood is through our fathers."
Eventually,
I got off the hamster wheel of seeking approval from others. Learning to accept
and love me has taken a lifetime. Dad's lesson for me was, "Life is
neither bad nor good. What a person does with their life defines the richness
or poverty of our existence." He and I did our best with the tools we had
in our lives. I have experienced richness beyond what I anticipated, and I owe
Dad for much of that.
The night my father died
there was a great wind. It came from the South West, unusual for November a
relief from the cold. I stood on the deck and watched a full moon play hide and
seek with big beautiful cumulus clouds. They flew by like musical notes in a
silent symphony. I felt Dad’s presence and could imagine him dancing like a
whirling dervish, throwing off all mortal trials and tribulations, truly alive.
In
November 1964, I was eleven years old, and my brother William was twelve. I
admired and saw him as my protector. He seldom lost wrestling matches with our
two older brothers or friends. But he also had mental toughness I didn’t have,
allowing him to endure situations others could not. And he never complained.
When we put the winter wood supply in the basement, he was the first to start
and the last of us to finish, seldom talking. At night before going to sleep,
we had discussions about our day or sometimes about what kids would view as
more significant issues. His views were often more adult than most adults we
knew. He reasoned things out.
The boys in our family were expected to
do a man's work; maintaining the property, cutting, splitting, storing the
winter wood, and tending to the family garden. We were strapping kids known for
our ruggedness.
While I could often be found amid the
household roughhousing, I generally preferred the company of a good book away
from the mayhem. Over the past year, what had been periodic sexual curiosity
was threatening to consume my thoughts, and they generally involved other boys.
I hadn't acted on my impulses, which increased my angst and guilt as a child of
strong Catholic parents. My small library now included a series where I could
use my imagination to create fantasies.
This was supplemented by a couple of pages
from the boy's underwear section of Eaton's catalogue. I kept my
"collection" under my bottom bunk in the bedroom William and I
shared.
One quiet Sunday morning, I came to
change my church clothes. William was already there. "Doug, what are you
doing with the catalogue pages stuck in a book? And why are the pictures of
guys in their underwear?" I had gotten sloppy in hiding them. I must have
been red-faced and couldn't think of anything to say. "Holy geez, Doug,
are you queer?" William asked, holding them up. The word seared its way
across my brain. Nobody had ever accused me before. I had worked so hard to
hide it; now it was there for everybody to know. I was on him in a second, with
fists flying, screaming and cursing. I was no match for William. He fought
back, and the racket soon got Mom's attention. She flew into the room and tore
us apart. He got in a punch on my nose. Blood was over my face and on my good
clothes. "What is wrong with you two? Douglas come with me to the
bathroom. William, pick up those books and paper." she ordered.
Mom got the bleeding stopped in a few
minutes. We were both relieved my nose wasn't broken. The cold compress on my
face and neck was slowing my hyperventilation. I kept pushing her away as she
tried to help. She had a firm grip and sat me down on the side of the bathtub.
I gulped for air and cried. She released her grip and rubbed my back gently. I
was spent and went limp.
"I don't know what started that
fight; you and William are good friends. Did he say something to make you that
angry? I know he doesn't have sense sometimes." Mom hadn't seen the
catalogue page. I was relieved, but at the same time, I just wanted to throw
off my burden and shout out that I was gay. I was silent. "It was my
fault. I thought he had worn my dress shoes to church. I just got worked up for
nothing. They were by my bed.
" Ok, take off that shirt; I will
soak it in Javex and hope the stain comes out." She hesitated before
getting up. "Douglas, is there something else bothering you that you want
to talk about? Reading is good, but it might be putting things in your mind
that aren't good." I responded quietly. " I am ok, Mom, don't worry
about me. I will take care of the shirt and patch it up with William."
"You are a good boy, Douglas; I can depend on you. I will put the shirt
beside the washer," she said as she left the bathroom.
My thoughts turned to William as I
wiped away the crusty blood beneath my nose. I was sick with fear; being outed
had been my worst fear since realizing I might be gay. He held my life as I
knew it in his hands. I shakily re-entered our room. William was lying in his
bunk looking at a comic book. He put it away as I came in and jumped down to
sit beside me. " How's your nose? he asked. I'm sorry I hit you there.
It’s a big target and hard to miss," he joked as he jostled me.
"I'm sorry, I started it," I
said as I felt the tears run down my cheeks again. " Doug, listen to me.
You are my brother, and we have always been best friends. Nothing is changed.
You know lots of shit about me. You didn't ask to be gay, and I had no idea you
were. But I know now, and if anybody in this hillbilly redneck village ever
says anything to hurt you, they will answer to me. It will be a hell of a lot
worse than a bloody nose."
The relief on my face must have been
undeniable. He said nothing but just held me. That moment over fifty years ago
remains a frozen scene. My brother's love for me far exceeded anything he may
have heard or thought about homosexuality. In those few moments, I learned a
most valuable lesson about trust. I realized its value when given and
especially when received.
Five years is a lifetime in your teen
years. William and I now had separate bedrooms with our older brothers at
university and working away. For me, whatever improvement in privacy was offset
by not having our nightly chats. I missed his presence. But things had altered
with William. His self-assured, focused character had become moody and cynical.
He was hanging out with guys I knew to
be troublemakers in the village. And weekends almost always involved him coming
home drunk, followed by loud arguments with our parents. The mood in our home
now was always tense. I never discovered the reason why he changed so much. But
his transformation included cutting me out of his life. With my mentor gone, I
gradually lost myself in my reading.
The day after William's high school
graduation, I heard the telephone ring downstairs in the kitchen. I looked at
the alarm clock on my bureau. It was 4:30 am. I went downstairs to see what was
happening. Dad answered the phone. The anxiety in his voice matched the worried
look on his face. When he hung up, he sat heavily on a nearby chair, shaking
his head. I knew it was about William. I tried to prepare for the worst.
" That was your uncle Earl. He saw
somebody floating down the river on some raft. He thinks it might be William.
He used binoculars but couldn't see any movement."
Earl worked as a forest ranger and was
coming off a night shift. "He called the RCMP, but getting a boat out
there will take time. He says the raft is coming apart."
I sat on the step leading to the porch
and pulled on my sneakers. " What are you doing?" asked Dad. You
can't go out there by yourself." "I have no choice," I
responded, pulling on a light jacket. It was late June, and the wind would be
chilled. " The doctor said you can't lift anything for a month." Dad
had injured his shoulder, cutting firewood. " Another person in the
rowboat is a weight that will slow me down. I responded. " Douglas, you
don't know what condition he is in. He might already be......" His words
trailed off. "Dad, I can't leave him out there alone. He would never
abandon me." I looked into my father's eyes for approval. He nodded and
turned his head away.
A few minutes later, I was in my small
rowboat, headed in the direction Earl had indicated. It was a cloudy morning,
so the sun would not be in my eyes as I rowed from shore.
I tossed my jacket to the bottom of the
boat as I was sweating, partly from the effort but also from fear of what I
might find. I heard the wails of a police car and ambulance as they made their
way up our street. The wind was light, and the tide was coming up the river,
making the rowing easier.
It took me less than fifteen minutes to
get to the area. I swung the boat around and spotted the raft about a hundred
metres away. I recognized William's jacket. I couldn't see if he was conscious
as his head was turned away. I started to row slowly backward, calling out
quietly but then yelling to wake him or assure myself he was alive. There was
no response. I filled my bailing can and threw the water on his face. He
sputtered and lifted his head as I pulled alongside. He was talking
incoherently.
I was determined to keep him awake and kept up
a chatter. He was in no shape to transfer him to my boat. Neither of us was a
good swimmer, so I couldn't risk us going into the water. The raft was just
three pieces of pulpwood held together by a light rope. A square of plywood sat
loosely on top. Using the strong nylon rope in my boat, I tied the pulp logs
firmly together, then tied the raft to my line. I looked across to the opposite
shore. The tide that was in my favour earlier was now working against me. Added
to the wood's weight and my brother's, it would be rough going. The wind had
not come up, so that was a break. I set out.
I kept up my banter to keep him awake.
His sporadic responses kept my spirits up while putting every effort into
rowing. I was very comfortable on the river in all types of weather. I’m sure
my adrenalin level was in full gear, but every muscle in my arms, back and legs
ached like never before.
It took over thirty minutes to reach
our shore. When I hit the beach, Dad helped William off the raft together with
the police officer. The ambulance attendant evaluated William and said he was
still very drunk but didn't appear hurt. They wanted to take him to the
hospital to be sure. Dad agreed, and William said nothing. Dad and the officer
talked for a few minutes, then came over to me. " Where did you learn to
row like that?" the policeman asked. It was like you had a motor."
"I had lots of motivation," I replied sheepishly. " You know you
saved your brother's life." his tone becoming serious. "That thing he
was on wouldn't have held together if he got into open water. Mr. Dolan, you
must be very proud of this young man." " Yes, I have always been
proud of Douglas.
I haven't told him enough; if things
had gone differently out there, I would never have been able to say it. Thank
you, Douglas." The policeman and Dad spoke briefly. I heard him say there
would be no follow-up needed. And he was gone.
I landed a few hundred feet up from
home and was pushing my boat out to bring it back. I didn't see Dad, but
suddenly he was helping me push off. "Your mother and I are lucky to have
you as our son Douglas. You never give us trouble like that fool brother of
yours." I was in the boat and rowing back when tears broke through. It may
have been the release of tension or exhaustion. It may also have been me
realizing I could never live up to their view of me.
Later that day, William was back home.
I was reading when he came quietly to my room for the first time in months. He
sat on the side of the bed as I swung my legs over to join him. "I guess
you are the hero now, Doug." There was no sarcasm or bitterness in his
voice. He spoke so low that I strained to hear him. The scene mirrored the one
we were in five years ago. I wasn't going to let him go without saying what I
felt. " William, you stood by me when you learned I am gay. You didn't break
the trust we had. I was so afraid of losing you then and today. I don't know
how I could go on without knowing you would be there. I am your brother, I
trust you with my life, and you must know you can trust me with yours. I don't
know what happened to change you when you were fifteen. But if you ever want to
talk like we used to, I am here for you.
I want to say that my brother William
came back to me. But that is the stuff of television and movies. After
graduation, he broke our mother's string of having all the children with
university degrees.
He did go to college and worked as he
wanted. He got married and had excellent and accomplished kids in various
professional fields. But he never returned to me, and I am the lesser person
for it.
This is a love story, a real love story, with all of life's challenges and successes.It features my grandparents who shaped the lives and values of their children and grandchildren
This is a
brief memoir of my Acadian grandparents, Ben and Clara Ramsay. It followed their
lives as young adults when they struggled independently to survive, and then as parents, where the challenges were different but no less difficult. Despite the
obstacles, they provided a powerful legacy and a safe and loving environment
for their large family.
I knew her
as Momma Ramsay. Some remembered her as a grandmère, others as a
great-grandmother, and even fewer remembered her as a mother. A vivid image I
have is of her sitting on the big wooden rocker in the kitchen. Her left hand drumming on the arm of the chair, worn from her wedding band, tapping out
animated conversations for decades. At 5 feet 4 inches, the tiny feet didn't
quite reach the floor. Her impact on her immediate and extended family of some
300 members contrasted sharply with her petit stature.
As a
child, visiting my mother's parents on a Sunday afternoon, I curiously watched
as Momma adjusted her glasses with a practiced hand, brushing stray hairs while
ensuring the mock hair bun remained in place. She wore comfortable dresses,
loose fitting with bright floral designs. And, of course, the outfits were only
complete with a pocket apron.
Papa
Ramsay was less known to some of the grandchildren. His commitment and constant
love ensured that his children would continue to improve the lot of his family.
He could usually be found sitting in his worn red recliner.
It was
beside a window, providing a vista of passing freight and passenger trains and
occasionally mischievous children, waving as they passed through the yard. The
chair's side was stained from striking matches for his pipe that he was rarely
without. Even into his latter years, his grey hair remained thick on the sides
with a tuft fighting for survival topside. Momma kept it in check with a soft
comb. This was in the event company appeared unexpectedly.
His frame
was medium, but somehow, he looked smaller in the chair. She ensured his shirt,
with glasses in the pocket, was kept clean and tidy. It was neatly tucked into
the heavy dark trousers. Bulky wool socks were snuggled against Stanfield
underwear, whatever the season. Thick insulated slippers completed his cozy
wardrobe.
Momma
Ramsay reminded me of a small bird, moving with a swiftness and agility that
defied her age. She had an outgoing, engaging personality, receiving everyone
equally. Many a grandchild sought out her warm, generous hugs, providing
reassurance that they were loved.
Papa was
content to have his wife steal the show. He was always a quiet, gentle man,
content to watch folks and events as they passed his way.
Their
shared space was the kitchen. It was a welcoming place, especially on cold
winter days. The clock ticked in rhythm with the woodstove's crackle. Momma
kept the stove well-fired with a few large pieces of hardwood she carried from
the adjoining shed. The warmth spread gently to all corners of the room. Her
family often encouraged her to get a new and much safer electric range. Still,
she resisted despite the occasional scorched arm.
The stove,
like everything in the house, was spotless. The white enamel sides and the
upper warming tray gleamed. She cleaned and polished it once a week, applying a
"stove black polish" coating to the cooking surface. Her vantage
point on the rocker beside the stove allowed her to see visitors coming to the
back door, and there were many, even after several generations.
One or
more of her daughters would often drop by while they were "in town."
Ovilda, who lived steps away, regularly joined her parents for tea and a chat
while ensuring everything was safe and comfortable for them.
As devout Catholics, an
occasional visit from Father McGrath, the parish priest, was a welcomed event
for Momma and Papa. He would call beforehand, giving her time to have a fresh
batch of his favourite treat (molasses cookies) ready with hot tea (King Cole,
black).
In their eighties, when they
could no longer get to Sunday Mass, his visit would include a quick Confession
followed by Communion.
For the caring and gentle
priest, it was a call to which he looked forward.
Over the
many years in this predominantly English-speaking parish, he came to know and
respect these two humble Acadian parishioners and their families. "Mrs.
Ramsay," and he would catch up on current events in the community. At the
same time, Ben sat quietly in his chair, occasionally joining in the
conversation.
He found
time passed too quickly in the company of the kind couple. Before leaving, he
always blessed them, which they accepted gratefully.
The description of my
grandparents could be of many older couples fortunate to remain in their home
well into their eighties. There was, however, something distinctive about this
pair for me. As a child and eventually a young man, they always personified love.
To proceed, we need to disavow ourselves of today's media-based definition,
which tends toward the frivolous and superficial. The love of these two persons
was deep, built on commitment and trust, patience and kindness, particularly in
the challenging times which defined much of their lives.
Over
thirty years after Momma and Papa passed, I wanted to get a mature
understanding of them and their relationship. Maybe I had created some youthful
romantic image which would not stand up to the scrutiny of impartial
observation.
I arranged
to meet with two of the couple's remaining three children.
Gerald
(Tinker) Ramsay is the son of Ben and Marie-Claire (Clara) Ramsay. At the time
of this writing, Tinker was ninety-two years old. Appearance and character gave
little indication of his age. The frame was slight but solid, with a fresh face
and clear eyes. He inherited Papa's calm and quiet personality, not comfortable
drawing attention to himself.
Iona
(Noonie) was born on May 24, 1938. She is the youngest of the Ramsay children,
seventeen years apart from her oldest family member. Noonie's effervescent
personality and enthusiasm are her hallmarks. At 85, she seemed ready to leap
up and dance at the slightest provocation.
Tinker
begins with a bit of history about his parents. "Momma and Papa were born
'downriver,' near the small Acadian community of Neguac. Poverty and hard
physical labour were their shared experiences growing up. It was common for
families struggling to keep everybody fed to have a child live with a relative
or someone who could provide lodging in return for employment.
So it was
that Clara, at age 13, found herself indentured to Miss Francis Fish, the first
female graduate of Dalhousie University Law School and a prominent Miramichi
lawyer.
"She didn't mention it
much to us growing up except to say she was treated well, and Miss Fish helped
her learn to read. She also helped sharpen Momma's inquiring mind. Being so far
away from her family at that age must have been frightening.
"Later,
she was a housekeeper for a prominent family in Newcastle. Their kids
especially loved her, and for many years after, they would come to visit. They
spoke of her kindness and gentle manner while she guided their young lives.
"When
life at home improved slightly, and she was a bit older, Momma returned to live
with her family. Millie, our oldest sister, often told the story that Momma was
invited to a community dance by an aspiring suitor. She enjoyed the outing. On
leaving the hall, she spotted a second suitor, young Ben Ramsay. He had been
too shy to ask her to the dance. Now, he sat waiting with his old horse and
buggy. Clara thanked her escort and climbed in beside Ben.
Asked
about that years later, she replied, 'Now, would I want to marry some fool who
will dance all night or someone like Papa?' She and Ben were married on
November 27, 1917. She was 24, and Ben was 23."
Noonie
offered her perspective. "Momma and Papa never experienced a real
childhood, which probably affected how they raised us. Their parenting styles
differed. His was the authority that was seldom questioned. She respected his
wishes."
"From
spring to late fall, we didn't see much of our father," adds Tinker.
"He worked on a dredge around the mouth of the bay (Miramichi) until
'Freeze Up' in November. Then he would be home till spring. Being a bit distant
with the older children, Papa had more patience with Noonie as she was the
youngest."
Noonie
readily agreed. "I would wait until Papa was in his chair, reading the
paper after supper. I would climb up on his lap and snuggle into him. I can
almost smell his pipe tobacco now".
After several years on the
dredge, Ben was hired at CN (Canadian National Railway). It meant more
financial security for his family.
"He
was on a crew that carried the creosoted rail ties where the line was being
built or repaired," Tinker recalls. "He was probably in his late
forties. I remember him coming home with his shoulders, arms and hands raw from
creosote burns. Momma would put some ointment and strands of gauze on him to
help with the pain. He would never complain.
His last
job with CN was as a Fireman. The locomotives were coal-fired. At the end of
the shift, they would come into the yard. The clinkers (burnt coal pieces)
would be dumped into a pit. His job was to keep it shovelled out. The space was
tiny, with choking fumes and heat.
"One
day, when I was about five or six, somebody came to the door to tell Momma that
Papa had been injured and taken to the hospital. While he was in the pit, a
locomotive pulled in and accidentally dumped a load of clinkers, nearly burying
him. They got him out fast, but he was badly hurt. He stayed in the hospital
for about a week and returned to work. There was some sick leave, but he was
proud and wanted to keep his family fed and safe. He was independent as well as
tough."
Despite
the many challenges of raising a family of twelve children (one child, Ramona,
died in infancy), Clara and Ben seldom exchanged a cross word. This was
confirmed in conversations with many of their adult children. Doubtless, they
were preoccupied with surviving, but something more substantial was holding
them together. Tinker and Noonie agreed.
"Where
our father was the provider, Momma was the heart of our family," Noonie
said. "She maintained the order that he set. There weren't many times any
of us would challenge her."
"I
don't recall being physically punished," Tinker said. "I think it was
because she was also the person, we all went to when we had a problem or needed
someone to talk with. I never felt alone as a kid. We were busy with our
chores, from feeding and caring for the pig, hens and chickens to helping with
the housework. One of my jobs as a small lad was to keep the kindling bin
filled beside the stove. I can still smell the cedar and the snap it made when
split."
There was a comforting
routine to the Ramsay family household machine, and their mother was the
refined oil that kept it working smoothly.
Clara (Robichaud) Ramsay was
of Acadian descent, coming from a long line of resilient peace-seeking people.
Her parents' history dates back to the earliest Acadian settlement in the
1600s.
It was then the French
territory of Acadie.
One of her ancestors was
Prudent Robichaud.
Prudent
was an accomplished individual. He taught himself to read and write French and
English and spoke Micmac fluently. He also learned to calculate and could
conduct trade in all three languages.
Over time,
Prudent would become a leader within the community, which thrived through his
efforts. For years, he skillfully navigated a way for the Acadians through the
treacherous divide involving three players: the Mig'maw, the authorities
representing the British Crown and the French representatives.
With the three parties'
conflicting interests, the thin line of trust Prudent and others had
established could not be sustained.
The
Acadian Expulsion (Le Grand Dérangement) of 1755 was brutal, and the
motivations were no less than actual genocide. The intention was to wipe out
the Acadian people.
While
being transported from his home, Prudent led a revolt that resulted in the ship
carrying them being burnt.
He later died, leading his
family and others to freedom on a mid-winter trek from Fredericton to
Quebec.
Eventually, the Acadians were
allowed to return to their homeland.
Some of Prudent's children
and descendants finally settled in Neguac, including his son Otho. He was
appointed local Justice and proved himself a strong community leader. His
residence has been restored and remains a historic site today. Clara (Robichaud)
Ramsay was a descendant of Otho.
While her
ancestors' survival characteristics and pride were intrinsic to Clara's
personality, she attempted unsuccessfully to pass along the love of her
language and culture to all of her children.
"That
failure was a real disappointment to Momma," Tinker said. "She tried
teaching the older kids first. You need to remember our town was mainly
English-speaking, and as teens, if you wanted to fit in, you wouldn't do it
talking French. By the time it came to the younger kids, she had given
up."
Early in
their marriage, Momma Ramsay felt she was losing the connection with her
Acadian family and culture. She and Ben often spoke French, but she wanted
more. Her sisters occasionally visited, but that only increased her sense of
isolation.
The story
was told by their daughter Julia that early in Clara's life as wife and mother,
the burden became too much.
She retreated
to her parent's home, looking to her mother for solace. Still, Marie Evangeline
Robichaud insisted her young daughter return to her own family and bear the
consequences of her decision.
Clara
returned to Newcastle chastened but resolved to make the best of her situation.
If she ever doubted Ben's love, that was erased as she shuffled up the street
to their home; the man who struggled to express his emotions had spread a sheet
across the door where he had painted in his cryptic handwriting, "Welcome
Home Momma"!
The death of a family member
is always a tragedy. It often shakes the foundation of the unit to its core.
Norman
Joseph Ramsay was the first-born son of Clara and Ben. He came into the world
on a bright, sunny June 1921. In February 1936, fourteen-year-old Norman
marched to the local recruitment officer for the North Shore Regiment Militia
(Reserves). The minimum age to join the Militia (Reserves) was 16. Norman
listed his date of birth as June 16, 1919, whereas he was born June 16, 1921.
The
assertive youngster impressed the officer, and he signed him up on the spot. He
served as a reservist for four years. In 1939, when Canada declared war on
Germany, Norman was ready and, at 18, was said to be one of the first men in
uniform from the Miramichi region.
The
handsome young Acadian soldier gained a reputation in the primarily English
North Shore regiment (he would later be transferred to the Carleton and York)
as a courageous, quick-witted fellow who made friends quickly. He wrote often
to his parents and his older sister, Rita (my mom), with whom he was very
close. In his final letter home, he could not tell his parents that he was part
of a unit breaking through Nazi lines in Italy.
Clara was
unable to sleep the night of May 22, 1944. Earlier, she had been thinking of
her son overseas in Europe. Awake now, she turned to lie on her side. In doing
so, she saw what appeared to be a figure at the foot of the bed. She put on her
glasses and partially sat up. An image of her son was sitting beside her.
His
tear-stained face was visible in the moonlight through the window. Speaking in
a voice that she could barely hear, she was told of his death in battle. But
she was not to worry. Now, he was at peace. The figure disappeared as his words
drained away. Her shock at the apparition's appearance was total and left her
unable to move until the morning light.
She didn't
wake Ben, fearing he would not believe her. In the morning, she shared the
news. Try as he might, Ben could not convince her it was simply a bad dream.
Three days later, the comfort of their home was shattered by a knock on the
back door.
A young
boy produced a telegram advising them that their son Norman Joseph died bravely
in battle at Pontecorvo, Italy, on May 23, 1944. Her children shared this
account over the decades. The factualness is not as significant as the love the
parents felt for their child and the intense suffering it caused them and the
rest of the family.
Post-war
Canada saw rapid industrialization and economic growth. The ripple effect was
felt even in the sleepy town of Newcastle. Plans for employment and families
that had been put on hold now began in earnest.
The Ramsay
clan saw several marriages in the following years and the beginning of new
career paths. The large home, once a hive of activity, grew increasingly
silent. But even when they left the nest, the children maintained close contact
with their parents.
Several of
the daughters remained on the Miramichi to raise their families. They often
gathered at their parents' home on weekends to catch up with current events and
local activities.
One of the
lasting and precious memories of my grandparents happened on a late Sunday
afternoon visit. There had been the usual bustle as their children and
grandchildren visited. My mother and I were the last of the company as Mom
(forever the nurse) finished checking her father's blood pressure and recording
it in her notebook.
Momma
looked over to Papa. He was nodding off but sat upright at the sound of the
train whistle. It was the "Ocean Limited," leaving the station bound
for Montreal. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. Confident the
train was on schedule, he looked over to Mama and smiled shyly. She returned
the silent greeting by responding, "You are a good man Ben Ramsay, eh
bien, eh bien, eh bien."
"Love is patient,
love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does
not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it
keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the
truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always
perseveres."
—Corinthians 13 vs. 4–7
The
mill where my dad was a bookkeeper shut down for a few months in late spring,
and start-up was uncertain. My parents were not ones to let an opportunity for
worry slip by.
They
furrowed their collective brows in anticipation of a lean winter. Despite
having little debt, Dad always maintained a big garden where he spent hours
coaxing young plants from the warm soil while inflicting maximum damage to
errant weeds. I didn't shower the plants with the same enthusiasm.
The
only redeeming feature of the job was working on my tan. My outlook for summer
also included polishing my metallic green '69 Chevy Beaumont while ignoring the
ribbing of my neighbouring uncles about me waxing the paint off.
High
school was finally over. In my liberated mind, I was a racehorse restless for
the greener fields, anywhere but here. My folks believed hard work and
education were the mantras to follow. Like most of my generation, I sought new
and exciting challenges. While my vision was of a thoroughbred, my dad's view
of me was slightly different; he saw something closer to a Clydesdale—able,
solid and ready for the harness.
During
supper one evening, Dad announced the grand scheme in his usual taciturn
fashion. He planned to cut pilings that once supported a long-abandoned
shipping wharf near our home. Hindsight would suggest that it would have been
the time for me to bolt. It became clear he was fitting me for the harness. But
with few paying jobs available in the village and not wanting a guilt trip, I
agreed to help.
In
the early '40s, sawmills and wharves were strung like confetti along the
Miramichi river banks. They often ended their good years by collapsing or
burning.
In the case of the
ruins at the end of Rodney Green Lane, near our home, all that remained was the
skeleton of the wharf. Dad planned to cut timber from it to supplement our
winter firewood.
Before
I go further, I want to tell you about my dad. He was a man with some
"book learning," as the locals would say. A whiz with a pen, he
lacked the calloused hands of his older brothers and the practical knowledge
that went with it. Dad was also a thoughtful but stubborn fellow. Once his mind
was set, there was little room for course correction.
He
was a leader in our village, not by choice. It was because he had a high school
diploma. The collective thought was that if you were fortunate enough to get an
education, you were expected to "pay it back" to the community with
what skill set you had.
Dad could write
and speak well, so he was chosen to represent the community on several
committees and organizations. The arrangement generally worked until his views
clashed with other folks.
The
same summer of his grand-cutting scheme, a group of like-minded persons
announced they wanted to see a volunteer fire department in our small village.
They argued that it would provide more safety and security for property owners.
It would also allow opportunities for the group to socialize, but that was
conveniently left out of their promotional campaign.
Dad
studied the idea, consulted other communities and governing bodies, and then
spoke against the proposal. He reasoned it was too expensive for our hamlet,
served by a community fire department two miles away.
His position was a
cause for some lively and not-so-friendly public debate. He lost the argument
and the first municipal election was won by the fire chief.
The fire
department became a fixture in the community shortly after.
Dad was
not disappointed or bitter. He saw his job as presenting facts as they were. My
dad loved politics and was active in the back rooms but was no politician;
principles and honesty mattered greatly to him.
Now,
let me connect the parts of this story. Father and I spent a week in the summer
of 1971 struggling with the remains of hundred-year-old sun-blanched pilings
semi-submerged in sludge. It wasn't a pretty picture, and the smell was worse.
Every
day of that long, sweltering week, he teetered on a rickety platform of his
construction. He reminded me of a stork, standing on one leg with his tongue
hanging out the corner of his mouth, for balance, maybe?
Each
morning at 8 sharp, Dad would yank the starter cord of his old power saw,
followed by a few choice curses when it refused to start. After some carburetor
adjustments, the motor would gasp and cough into action with a plume of blue
smoke announcing we were in business.
My
job was, wheelbarrow operator. A relic from Dad's father it was falling apart.
It featured a steel wheel forged by a sadistic blacksmith. The weld, joining
the two metal bands that held the spokes together, left a lump, just enough to
constantly throw me off balance. The wheel fought to slip out of its bracket.
I
would load several fossilized pieces onto the shaky carrier and stagger down
the street like the village drunk, trying to prevent the load from spilling. I
looked a greater fool than I felt.
We
kept a steady pace of cutting and hauling from sunrise to sunset for six solid
days. The only respite was to devour Mom's tasty meals.
At
week's end, a massive load of firewood sat like bleached dinosaur bones in the
backyard. We split the works with a sledgehammer and a wedge. Safety glasses
were deemed an unnecessary luxury.
Fast
forward to a brutally cold night in mid-December. I was at the local community
hall, where the village fire department hosted a family Christmas party. The
volunteer firemen were dressed as Christmas characters. At one point, Santa and
the elves (chief and crew) were called out to a fire.
I
felt badly for them as the fire truck pulled from the station beneath the
Center into the frigid winter night. Afterwards, as I drove into my parents'
driveway, I was met by a small crowd watching tongues of flame shooting from
the chimney of my parents' hundred-year-old house. My father was in the middle
of the crowd, gazing up as though lost in some profound thought.
The fire chief,
dressed as Santa, stood beside him. Other firemen dressed in elfin costumes
professionally went about their work extinguishing the chimney fire.
Dad hadn't
considered that while the pilings were old and dry, they had also been treated
with creosote to extend their use. That made them highly flammable. I wondered
if he was contemplating the fact as the remnants burned like Roman candles from
the chimney top.
Lesson learned
Christmas week, 1963, had been a
combination of brisk sunny days and freezing nights. Dad was up before the
family to rekindle the heart of the furnace. Lucky and Ash slept on opposite
sides.
The dog, Lucky, was cautious when the man appeared. Ash was indifferent as she stretched and yawned. Sensing no danger, the collie watched him fill the strange, breathing beast that frightened the dog yet brought warmth. He gazed uneasily when the metal door was opened, revealing that most frightening of things: fire. He retreated to a corner of the basement.
Father acknowledged the dog and heaved another piece of firewood into the furnace. Then he reached down and stiffly patted his head. Instinctively, Lucky pulled away, not used to this man's kindness, but he sensed a change in him lately. The man and Lucky were not companions, but the previous week's events helped instill some trust in Lucky. For Dad, there was a new recognition of the dog's value. He was a beautiful collie with long black fur and a broad white patch on his chest. Lucky had come to us as a pup three years before. He was a gift from a local farmer Dad knew. He and I bonded immediately and were seldom apart.
It was a Friday, our final school day before Christmas break. David, my cousin and best friend sat atop a snow bank in our shared backyard with Lucky between us. We had just finished building our fort. A mild spell the previous week brought a snowstorm perfect for making a fortification. The snow was easy to dig out, and it packed well as we made a central area with a tunnel leading into and out of it in case rival groups attacked us.
We were both ten years old and more like brothers, sharing the same space and, often, homes. Our imaginations and energy were boundless. We were having a "King of the Castle" game, knocking and pushing each other from the top of the snowbank. It was late in the day, and we were more tired than we realized. Our play started to turn rough. Suddenly, we were wildly punching each other.
Lucky was used to our play-fighting, but he sensed something different and that I might be in trouble. He growled several warnings before deciding that wasn't enough. The dog latched onto David's wrist to pull him away. His strong jaws made my cousin realize he had crossed a line. David shrieked in pain, causing Lucky to release his grip. My cousin retreated to his home, howling. Lucky and I were left alone atop the snowbank in the gathering cold. He had protected me, yet I sensed this would end poorly for us.
Dad came home early from his work, looking angry. Things were worse than I feared. I heard him and Mom arguing. Lucky and I huddled on the concrete steps leading to the basement. I held on to him tightly. My Father approached. He pulled the dog from my grip and kicked him down the stairs. After sixty years, I can still hear my friend crying in pain as he limped into the wood room. I looked at my father with anger I didn't recognize as mine. I saw his confusion mixed with sorrow. In a moment, we both had crossed into a dark place.
My Dad was not a violent man. He had never
struck any of us in anger. I ran down the stairs after Lucky. He had curled
himself up beside the warmth of the furnace. I pulled off my jacket and slipped
it under him. We lay in silence until we both fell into a troubled sleep.
Sometime later, Mom came down with my supper and food for Lucky. I got up and brought his water dish over. "Your Father is sorry, Douglas. He has been under a lot of stress with the mill not going well. He would not intentionally hurt you or anybody you loved." But he had. She said it was time for bed now. "Lucky will be okay." But she didn't argue when I showed no intention of leaving.
Dad came down later to put some wood in the furnace. I ignored him. He started to go but turned back."I am sorry, Douglas. It was wrong of me to hurt your dog. We will bring him to the vet if he is not better in the morning." "Okay," I responded sullenly. I was stunned by his apology. The man I revered and sometimes feared was showing me his humanness. He took off his heavy jacket and covered us.
The following morning, Lucky whimpered quietly. It was his way of saying he needed to go out for a pee. He raised himself and walked a short distance, favouring his right paw. I picked him up and lovingly carried my companion upstairs into the cold December morning. He seemed to get his energy back as he sniffed around his territory. The limp was less noticeable now. Lucky licked my hand, and I scratched behind his ear. We were good. After he had done his business, we went inside to the kitchen. Father had just come up from tending the furnace. His face was clouded with concern, but now that I knew my friend would be okay, I reverted to a petulant ten-year-old boy, saying nothing.
Dad was making my favourite breakfast, corned beef hash. He gathered the ingredients, deftly peeled a few potatoes chopped onion and tossed them into the warming frying pan. Immediately, the rich aroma of the golden-brown potatoes combined with the corned beef and seasoning put us at ease. "How is Lucky feeling?" he asked cautiously. "He isn't limping as much," I offered."Good," he replied.
I willingly inherited my father’s quiet nature; neither of us was given to idle chatter. I pulled a chair over to the cupboard, climbed up and got two plates. Dad stirred the meal a few more times and declared it was ready. He reached into the cupboard and brought out a bowl. He filled it with the tasty mixture and put it in front of Lucky, who hesitated a moment before diving in. The three of us ate in comfortable silence.
After that experience of hurting the one I loved, my father seemed to pay more attention to my feelings. I never knew why Dad responded so violently to Lucky. But as I got older and became a father, I gained an appreciation for the demands of parenthood and ensuring family security. Sadly, I also repeated my father’s mistake of not sharing my burden with my spouse. It does the soul no good.
I had a chat with Host Jonna Brewer about the book, the Burchills and workers
