A mystery??

My sister,hopefully a regular reader of my blog made a comment on my last installment of Memoir/backstory.Before I continue with my memoir,I wanted to make some reply to her comments,as indeed I already have privately.

My sister,in her comments notes that two of my nephews,her son Dorian and my other sisters son Zack have also been taken to visit both the barber shop and the candy store in Springhill.Firstly,I had no idea that the candy store in Springhill had actually been rebuilt,though I would be quite surprised if it had not.So I too am very glad that they got to experience that,and that my father got to take them there.I'm certain that it was a very meaningful thing for him to pass along to his grandchildren at a time when he was often inhibited by poor health.

As to the barber shop,I'm finding this a bit mysterious.What I mean is,who was this barber and what was so special about visiting his particular shop in Springhill when there are plenty of shops a lot closer to home?For my father there may just have been a lot of nostalgia involved in getting his hair cut in his own hometown.Who knows what kind of memories that holds for a person.It was certainly important enough for him to share with both children and grandchildren.Now this barber that I recall visiting and the one my nephews went to could surely not have been the same barber,though it may have been the same shop.The barber,as I recall was elderly when I visited and that would have been around 1965 or 1966.Again I get the sense that this was something more than a normal visit to the barber shop,but what its significance was I really have no idea.

It occurs to me that this is one of those incidents that would possibly make more sense if I had been able to make notes about it at the time of it happening.A perfect example of how I have to depend on memory that is in some way unreliable.In her comment,my sister made note of the fact that I seem to be able to recall things that she can't.Then she goes on to make mention of a memory which,to this point had escaped me.The certain fact is that we live separate lives complete with our own memories of things.In the 1960's for instance,a barber shop was almost the exclusive domain of men and boys,so she would have no reason to remember it in all likelihood. It's worth noting a one year age difference too,so some of the differences in recall are simply developmental in nature.A yer in early childhood will make a world of difference in how things are perceived

To that end,I have replied to my sisters comment by asking her to post a guest entry on my blog sometime in the future I'm still technologically challenged so it may take me some time to figure out how to do that But hopefully soon I can get it set up and she will agree to make a guest appearance.

But there is one burning question in my mind.WHO WAS THAT BARBER?

Some Notes On The Craft Of Memoir.

If you have been reading these blogs on a regular basis,you already know that,among other things I've been using my blog to begin writing a memoir,among other things.Not only will you get an inside look at my life,as ordinary as it is,but I think I will likely be providing commentary from time to time on what exactly is going into the process of creating memoir.So you will get a sort of insiders view,which in my mind seems rather unique.That process is not necessarily aimed at readers as much as it is done just to help me work out in my mind exactly what it is I'm trying to do.It's just an ongoing audit of the process.But you are more than welcome to look in on it.

So I began last week with entries called Memoir/Backstory.Some explanation as to what I'm doing here is in order.Mostly those entries,of which there is at least one more to come,are to set the context of the world,as I understand it in the years prior to my birth.That time is not about me,or my family in the sense of being an actual part of the memoir,but it is important to my understanding of things.

The entries I've made are not based on hard research.There is a time and a place for that,but my memoir isn't it.Just a note about research.It seems so in creditably odd to me that even though I've lived my entire life,I actually need to go back and research it from time to time.The mistake I'm most prone to is fixing some event in a particular year when,in fact it happened in some other year.For that I need research and I attempt to be diligent But I must note that the things I'm writing are"to the best of my recollection".I'm sure if some of my relatives were reading this blog,they might spot some inaccuracies.They are not intentional.

The Memoir/Backstory portion of this memoir is based on things I've been told and things I've witnessed,seen heard etc about the places and people involved.They are my way of  making sense out of these things.I do not claim that they are the actual objective truth.Nor is there any deliberate intention to deceive.Keep in mind that what is being written here involves two separate processes.First ,I experienced many things when I was very small.That was the actual living of things which happened a long time ago.Secondly,there is the recall of such things now,many years later.Lets be clear,these two things are not the same thing.It would have been invaluable to me now to have been keeping notes of my life when I was much younger,but I did not do that.Were such notes to exist I'm sure they would in the reading of them seem much different than how I recall things to be.But such is life.The memory is likely a second best source,but it's the only source available to me in many cases.

What you have read so far is simply my impressions.They could well be wrong,based on some misreading of the things I've seen,or was told.Others might well come to a different conclusion as to the people and places mentioned herein.But again,these are just my impressions.

There is no attempt to defame anyone,or settle any scores either real or imagined in the mind of the reader.In my own mind I try to stay as open to different ideas and interpretations of things as I can.I simply find it necessary to allow my mind to make such inquiries as it demands to do.

As I embark on this project,I must note that much of what is there to write about causes me a fair bit of cognitive dissonance.Most people I believe want to think well of the people they encounter on life's road,especially friends and family members.I'm no exception.What I find somewhat unsettling,though is the fact that neither my parents or grandparents were story tellers.There could be many reasons for this but I simply accept that they simply chose not to tell their own life story.Again that leaves me with more to interpret than what I'm really comfortable with.Simply,I wish I had more of those people's stories in their own words.

We should tell the truth,as much as that is possible.From an early age we were taught that.But let me be clear,not all truth needs to be told,or even should be told.My memoir is not for the purpose of shining a light on anyone's nakedness.Having said that, I've become aware of stories in the past that have ethical implications and I want you to know,I've given careful,deliberate thought to whether those stories should ever see the light of day.Some of them will never pass from my lips and,for that I make no apology whatsoever.Other stories provide enough moral or historical edification that they must be told,though they may be hurtful to some people.Please know that being hurtful is the absolute last thing on my mind in the telling of any story.But I'm afraid it may not be altogether avoidable.

Currently I keep notes for this project in a small hard backed coil notebook that I got at the dollar store.I also have something like twenty years worth of journals I've been compiling.I've found those useful.But of my notebooks I was wondering something.Do any of you,my readers feel that you would be edified by having access to my notes?Should I keep the actual notebooks,which are a documentation of my though processes in regards to this memoir,though not necessarily something intended for readers?I'll try to post it as a pole on this blog.If you've taken the time to read,please help me out with your vote.

Belated Memorial Day Comments

It's Tuesday and I was remiss in not posting yesterday. Unfortunately I had some computer issues that could not be resolved,so my comments are a day late.

Yesterday was,of course Memorial Day in the United States,but my comments apply equally to Canadians and our fighting men.No,let me correct that,our fighting families.The truth is that those families make every bit as much sacrifice as that family member that finds himself posted in some far off combat zone.And so I salute you all.

I don't think I really have a lot to say about this.I'll keep it short and sweet.I was disturbed.A week or so ago someone posted to my facebook page a cartoon.It was a picture of two Germans talking and one was saying"I don't really agree with the Furher but I think we should support our fighting men anyway.I find this deeply disturbing for reasons I think will be obvious to most reasonable people.Do I really need to elaborate as to the differences between that regime and our current society?I'll just say that it's clearly comparing apples and bananas.

Now,having said that let me make this clear.We owe a debt of gratitude to each and every one of our fighting men.We owe equally to all their family members.

Is it ok to dissent with respect to any of our current military conflicts?Yes,of course,but that is a political issue and decent dissent is conducted as a political activity.We,in North America have the finest governments in the world.They allow us to disagree and encourage us to engage in informed participation.Are they perfect?Of Course not.Have they fought unjust wars?Most likely. Personally I support the war in Afghanistan far more than the war in Iraq.But lets clearly separate politics from what is simply respectful, honourable behaviour.It is because of our troops and the sacrifices they have made throughout history that give us the right to dissent and governments that we can,to a greater degree than any place else on earth,hold accountable.And if you hold the honest opinion that any particular conflict is unjust,just think long and hard about this:when a just war comes along,it will be those same soldiers that will be called upon to defend us then too.

So lets keep the political arguments in the political arena and support our fighting men.Lets be thankful for the fact that they stand up for us,even to the extent of giving the ultimate sacrifice.Lets help out their families at home in any way we can.If you see a soldier in uniform,go and shake his hand and thank him for what he has done.Above all,lets keep our military families in prayer.Only God knows the justness and necessary brutality of any given war.I believe war grieves God, as it should us.But that should never lead us to turn our hearts against our soldiers.So let me say publicly to each and every one,THANK YOU!

Memoir-backstory

We lived about two hundred miles east of where my mother grew up.two hundred miles on the old highway that is.It's a bit closer now.My father was born and raised in the town of Springhill Nova Scotia,about fifty miles from our home in Moncton.

Many will know Springhill as the hometown of singer Anne Murray.But the primary reason for Springhill's existence is coal mining.Like many towns of its sort,it is filled with tough people who work long hours at a very dangerous job and who can often appear as though the world has worn them thin.My fathers parents certainly fit that description.Life could not have been easy for either of them.at some point my grandmother and grandfather were separated but not before having four children,the third of which was my father.William Davis was said to be a bootlegger in the 1920's before my father came along.He was also a carpenter-a ships carpenter he once told me.He was missing one finger which he said he lost in a mine accident.The history of Springhill is filled with mining accidents including at least three major mine disasters.The mines at Springhill became a thing of the past after the last disaster in 1958.My father was adamant that he did not want to be a miner,and so he left Springhill before he had his family.He often told me that he did not want his children to be raised in Springhill.Over the years I came to realize that he had somewhat of a love hate relationship with his hometown.

My own first memories of Springhill are of sitting in a barber shop and having my hair cut while my father talked to the barber.This was unusual because we always got our hair cut at the barber school in Moncton.They cut children's hair for free.It occurs to me now that there must have been some point to this visit aside from getting my hair cut.Surely my father knew the barber.I do remember that there was a building across the street from the barbershop that was being torn down while I sat in the chair.Later that day we visited the Sears catalog store.I don't recall why, as we never shopped there ourselves.I think we were just picking up something for whoever we were going to visit-maybe Aunt Roseanna.we visited the candy store too.The candy store was run by Jimmy,who was Greek and who treated everyone who came into his store as though they were a kid.My father loved to visit with Jimmy and when we left he would always say"be sure to come back soon,Walter".I'm sure he had been saying that to my father the same way for thirty years or more.

Usually when we were in Springhill we went to visit my Aunt Roseanna.I never especially liked visiting there.Her house was always old and falling down, it seemed and was full of dirty kids who would run around outside in bare feet in the coal.Aunt Roseanna's house burned coal.At least every house they lived in that I can remember did.I hated,still loath the smell of burning coal to this day.It was a smell you could not escape in Springhill.Out in the flats away from downtown there was a huge heap of coal slag which had caught fire and burned for many years,often blanketing the whole town with smoke.In the day you could see the smoke while driving by and at night there was sometimes an eerie glow.I once asked my grandfather when we driving by at night if that was Hell.I don't recall what his answer was,but looking back I can see how a kid might come to that conclusion.I came to view Springhill as being poor and dirty and rundown,and I guess it was compared to our modern house in Moncton.My father worked hard to get out of Springhill and buy a house.For a while I came to view the town as being not as good as us.I don't believe my father intended for us to take an attitude like that though.

One of my first very early memories of Deadwater Creek is being in the barnyard at the house where Paul Hamilton and his mother used to live and watching birds.Bluejays,as I recall,sitting on a fencepost.Paul Hamilton had sheep on his farm and big piles of stones in the pasture.Because he chopped trees and drove them to the mill,I always thought of hiom as Paul Bunyon.He seemed like a very large,strong man,though years later,when I last saw him he hardly seemed bigger than average.His mother,whose name I can never remember was a small frail looking old woman with a bit of a hunched back.She reminded me of Granny in the Sylvester and Tweety cartoons,perhaps because my first memory of her was watching the bluejays.I was very young then and I'm thinking that my parents and grandparents must have been attending a wedding or a funeral at the time.It was very unusual for me to have been left alone with the Hamiltons.

Across the field from the Hamiltons was the Smith farm.My grandmother was a Smith.As long as I can recall the Smith farm was abandoned.Some of the Smiths lived in Ontario,some in Fredricton and some in Portland,Maine where they operated a restaurant called Smith Farm.We would always go pick strawberries on the Smith land and once I was stung by a bee there.You needed to watch for old wells when walking around there too.

All the farms near my grandfathers were abandoned by the mid sixties.Uncle Clifford had moved to Fredricton and worked for the University Of New Brunswick.Fred and Anna English had moved into the town of Canterbury and I can never recall visiting them in Dead Creek.Anna English had tuberculosis and we would visit her at the sanatorium near Moncton for a while.I can recall visiting my uncle Ernies place across the road from my grandparents farm.Ernie Derrick was married to my mothers sister Ruby,and they moved into Canterbury too around this time where they operated a store and gas station at the top of the hill going out of town toward Skiff Lake.They had a bunch of children,most of whom moved to Ontario for a while.Their youngest was my cousin Carolyn,maybe five years older than me.The only reason that I can ever remember visiting the Derricks at the farm is that I remember Carolyn had a toy dump truck,an orange one that she used to play with and allowed me to play with too.Carolyn was very much like her farher,one of the kindest and gentlest souls I've ever met.

In later years we would pick apples on the Derrick farm.Apples were plentiful there but were often wormy and covered with warts.

Often we would drive out to Skiff Lake and come back through Upper Skiff Lake,past Mud Lake which was overgrown and said to be full of suckers and eels.When my grandmother lived on the farm,she would eat eels and they must have got them from Mud Lake.Occasionally she would speak fondly of eating eels,and I thought her a crazy old woman when she did.There wasn't much reason to go back to Canterbury via the old road as there were very few people living there.The only people I can recall visiting were the Wylies who lived on my grandfathers old farm.Pauline Wylie was a short but emense woman and people said she was so big because there was something wrong with her glands.Once we got a kitten from the Wylies and it hads a conniption in the car when we tried to take it home.It took to running laps across the cars dashboard and around the doors and back window deck.While we were away to swimming lessons in Moncton,that cat was struck and killed by a car.

The reason I'm writing all this about Dead Creek is that it is an ancient part of me,even though I didn't live there.The Smiths,Grahams,Englishes and Derricks were all my mothers people and so I am who I am because of the people who lived in and did the things they did in Dead Creek.Someday I hope to research more of the regions history,so that I might know myself better.The fire,in particular fascinates me.

Dead Creek brought forth my mother.She lived there,went to school and church there and in Canterbury and moved away like most of the others.She was a very bright girl by all accounts and ended up working for a number of people as a secretary,including the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and The Canadian Imperial Bank Of Commerce.She was dedicated to her family until she went to be with the Lord in 2006.She rests now,just a few miles from Dead Creek,in the cemetary at Canterbury,with her parents,brother and Husband.

Dead creek is a mystery to me.There is so much to know that I don't know now.Maybe someday I will be able to write more about it,when I know more.But,whatever,I am deeply connected to that place.

Now before I go on here,it seems as good a place as any to give some thought to this dream.

Many writers I know keep a dream journal or notebook by their bed.I've never became anything nearly as obsessive about writing as to do that.Neither am I anywhere near as obsessive about dreams.I could be very wrong about this,but I don't view dreams as having special meaning,at least most of the time.But dreams in the Bible certainly had meaning,which is what leads me to say I may be wrong.The only trouble is,you can go to a book of dream interpretations and find as many different ideas as there are authors,so I have no idea which ones to believe.The best theory I can come up with on my own as to what dreams mean is that they have their meaning largely in whatever connotative meaning the dreamer assigns to their various symbols.And I admit,that is a completely unscientific theory.As for science I'm not convinced that it can interpret dreams,though it may well be able to suggest what the purpose of dreams are.But in terms of the ultimate meaning of a particular dream,I believe that is beyond science.

So what is this dream of the Deadwater Creek about?I don't want to dismiss it so quickly as I might be tempted to do.Why does it recur,though infrequently?First it is connected to a place I know,a place that in some sense is me,a part of my deep history,most of which predates my actual life.Secondly,it shows me that place in a way that is surreal,not at all grounded in what the place is really like.another mystery.I ve come to think of as the way my mind reveals ancient and deep reality to me,though in a way I can't understand intellectually.

The dream:I am walking in the creekbed of that place I know of as Dead Creek.Only it is not the same place as the real Dead Creek.Sometimes I am walking upstream and sometimes downstream.I've always believed the moon to be full though I never see the moon.The night is always bright though.There is never another person in the dream.Sometimes there are foxes and owls.The creek is full of fish.I am looking for my grandfathers old house,or sometimes the place where the creel enters into Eel River Lake.But I never get there before waking up.

The interpretation:Dead Creek is familiar but in so many ways a mystery.So is the dream.The creek is a sort of cleaned up version of the real one with clear water and banks that are not overgrown.Traveling either in it or beside it is not difficult.Rivers I tend to associate with journeys,and water with sustenance or life.That it is well lit is surprising to me,but the moon is all about light.It's not the light of day though.But the light is sufficient to see me through the journey,but doesn't always provide as much light as I might like.Owls are a night sound,though I'm not sure what they could symbolize.Wisdom perhaps,though they could also be interpreted as a predator.They swoop down silently and kill effectively.Though this dream never causes me fear at all,so I tend to see the owl as being a benevolent figure,almost paternal,in a transcendent sense of the word.Foxes are another creature I don't understand in terms of the dream.Foxes in the real world I tend to associate with pleasure,in the sense of  their being a pleasure to encounter and observe.They,in reality, often appear in unexpected places including most of the large cities I've lived in.They belong to the night.Many think them to be quite shy,though in fact they are very inquisitive and will approach very closely.It takes some time to get to know them and you never seem to get to know them completely,which seems to be consistent with the way the dream ends.I should note that of the few recurring dreams I've had,foxes occur in at least two of the others as well.So I suppose I could ask if this has some function to unite or harmonize two or more dreams.

So what does it all mean?I really don't know.Only the idea of looking for my grandfathers house makes much sense to me.In my waking life I've often thought that it might be interesting to do a sort of an archeological expedition of the site,should I ever be able to find it.In fact I've no idea if his house could be found or not.Only that,in the dream it never is,and perhaps that is the whole point.

I only know that from time to time I dream of the Deadwater creek.I'll likely stay fairly contented to not understand this dream in any deep sort of way.I can wonder about it without any real need to know.And maybe someone will read it and be able to gain some insight into what was going on in the dreamers mind.

Memoir-Backstory

For years I've kept journals,so,if you ever get a chance to view them,none of this will seem all that new to you.Keep in  mind that I first wrote this story down in one form or another some twenty years ago,so I'm not sure why I'm putting it inside a computer.Safe keeping perhaps as I've already managed to lose at least one copy of it.Remember too that the details of this story are likely to have changed somewhat since my first telling of it.I'm not intentionally telling lies,but my memory has changed over the years and I make no apology for it as I am working primarily from memory.I don't use my past writing as reference when relating todays recall.That's just the way it is.Others may recall certain things in a different light and thats fine too.For the most part they are not lying either.For the most part.But my history is mine and the only defense I have against it being told wrongly is to write it myself.So here it is.

My mother was Elva Mae Graham-Davis,though she never hyphenated it.Her parents were Thomas and Alta Graham,from Dead Creek New Brunswick.And of the people before them I have very little idea,though I suppose it is very unlikely that they were much different from my grandparents.

My father was Walter Bruce Davis.He was born and raised in Springhill, Nova Scotia,a rather hard scrabble coal mining town in the county of Cumberland,near the New Brunswick border.His parents were William Davis and Rose Davis,formerly a Ryan.Before william came Samuel Davis and Robert Davis,though again,those are no more than names to me.I'm told that they landed in Cumberland county at a place called Blue Sac road.You still pass that road today on the drive from Parrsboro to Truro and my father would always point it out and say "thats where your people come from"every time we passed.And we passed many times over the years.

Let me start by explaining,such as I understand it what Dead Creek was like.I'm sure there are many who have a better understanding of life there than I ever will,but most of those people don't have much to say about it.That makes me most curious.In deciding to write all this down I've come to realize just how much I don't know about the place,as my moters people were not really story tellers.

My memories go back to the early 1960's when my grandparents still lived on the farm,before they moved into the nearby town of Canterbury.The earliest reference I have to myself in that place is a picture my mother took of my grandfather holding me up next to a large bay horse.I appear to be just an infant so I'm guessing it was sometime in the warmer months of 1961.

In my mind I don't imagine Dead Creek to have changed much since my mothers time.The cars certainly have changed.When I was a child most of the cars were 1950s models,almost exclusivly North American made.There were a lot of rusting automobiles sitting in the yards of abandoned farms and old farm implements as well.By the time I was born many people had began to leave their farms,if only to move into town.Some people moved to Toronto or Fredricton,but most people moved somewhere.

Dead creek burned out in a wildfire in the year my mother was born.Her house was burned when she was about two months old.Maybe about the same age I was when the picture of me with the horse was taken.The countryside must have grown back so it would have had just short of thirty years to have changed before my first memories of it.It was rough country.Of my grandfathers home itself,it was sitting on the side of a hill that some people called a mountain.In some of my memories of it there was a big cistern by the road-a big wooden container of some sort.But in some of my memories it's not there,so really,I don't know if it was there or not.The country around was a place of a lot of trees and hay and wildflowers.I recall daisies and dandelions and black eyed susans most of all.There were kittens and cows and chickens too and horses of course.I can't ever remember a dog being there.When you entered the barn through the front you were at ground level.If you took the stairs into the hayloft you were still at ground level at the back,and how such things could be mystified my young mind.

Dead creek is not far from the Maine border.On a clear day you can look west and see Mt.Katahadin.How you would ever know if you stepped across that border,I have no idea.Maine and New Brunswick were pretty much alike.

Of course Dead Creek had a creek called the Deadwater Creek on some maps.It crossed the road up the way from my grandfathers farm,then turned and flowed in behind the hill on which his house had been built.I've never been down to that part of the creek.In dreams that recur occasionally I'm walking the whole of Deadwater from one end to the other,in the creekbed at night,always by the light of a bright moon.I can't say how that dream ends.