Memoir/Backstory

From Western New Brunswick,and from Springhill,in Cumberland county,Nova Scotia,my parents arrived in Goose Bay Labrador,in the Canadian North.I've never heard the story of how they met,so far as I know,but they married in the late 1950's and lived another three or so years in the north.

Goose Bay is almost straight north of Canada's Atlantic Provinces and anyone with a passing knowledge of the history of the latter half of the last century will know a lot about how it came to be there and what the place is all about.You see,it was a product of that history.And my parents were drawn there by the flow of that history.

Now in discussing history I usually like to forego the tinder dry and mouldy textbooks for what I refer to as the Ron Thomasson (comedian and bluegrass musician extraordinaire) school of history.At least what it lacks in accuracy can be made up for in wit.
So how did Goose Bay come to be.Well,there was this guy in the 1940's by the name of Hitler,who by all accounts was a bit of a jerk.I can't attest to that personally,but a great many people say it's true,and I believe them.He was so bad in fact that everyone ,both good and bad guys alike got together to remove him from the scene.Doing that wasn't easy,but it was successful,eventually.But this raised a whole new set of problems.Because there was this guy named Stalin who was said to be even worse than this Hitler guy.He killed more people,but that didn't bother us too much while we were all fighting Hitler.But about ten seconds after Hitler was gone we recognized Stalin for what he was.That was at the end of WWII.You probably heard of WWII-it was in all the papers.

With WWII over,us North Americans needed another enemy,so Stalin and a succession of  others made a natural choice.They were after all communists,Godless by definition and against all that America stood for.So began a new war called the cold war,and that's where Goose Bay comes in.America had,of course bombed Japan with a new kind of Moltov cocktail,that was bigger and better than anything that came before it.And that finally ended WWII.But the enemy,the Godless Communists in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe were not far behind in developing ever better firecrackers of their own.So,the Americans decided what they needed was a better way to deliver these new explosives.So they more or less kidnapped a man by the name of Von Braun,who,as luck would have it had at least one or two revolutionary ideas about how such things could be delivered.He'd been doing it,and assorted other dastardly things in Germany before he was spirited away.A German friend of mine says he conceived of rocket propulsion because of a gross overindulgence in good German beer and Weiner Schinitzel,drowned in sourkraut.Again,I can't attest to that.

At any rate,rockets turned out to be a much better way of delivering atom bombs than the old tried but not quite true method.Those big bombers were heavy and always seemed to generate a lot of noise complaints when flying over enemy territory.As it turned out,you could expropriate property in Kansas or Nebraska,bury these rockets,called missiles,and if you ever had to fire them the only one who would be annoyed would be some farmer who had a bunch of smoking holes where he should have had corn.Crop insurance didn't cover that,apparently.Well.that farmer and several million Russians that is,but of course they were communists.There were communists over here too but we could get to them without bombs.A man named McCarthy,a master of innuendo and also a bit of a jerk was in charge of that.But I digress.

At some point,our American friends decided to share this cold war with us.As it turned out the most direct route from the United States to Russia went right over Northern Canada.I t was also a convenient place for all of that military hardware to land once the United States superior military machine had shot it down.Far better than Washington,or Los Angeles or Chicago.Well,maybe not Chicago.After all,they had the Bears and the White Sox.

So what followed was a building spree of military bases all over the north.Including Goose Bay which had both a Canadian and an American base.And that's where my parents wound up.By this time a man named Ike came along and decided that war could be used to advance the economy and we haven't looked back since.It seemed to work like a charm, and here in Canada kept a number of communities viable,including Goose Bay.

Well,that's the history part of it,or at least most of it.There were a few other events of note,like the formation of the State of Israel which no one seemed to recognize for what it was because people like Bertrand Russell and Charles Darwin had convinced a great many others to stop reading their bibles.And of course,Newfoundland,where Goose Bay was located had just become a part of Canada a few years before.It wouldn't be long before they became the laughing stalk of Canada and many wished they'd not joined and started flying the Canadian flag upside down.

And thats what I know about Goose Bay.Well,there are a few things my father told me and some things I could tell from family photos,but that will have to wait for tomorrow.

Never in a million years would I have thought I'd miss a place like Toronto.Before I moved there I used to think of it as a place too big for human beings to live in.I was wrong.It may not be my ideal place top live but it is a surprisingly livable city for a place so big.On the other hand,it may be that I just continue to carry around a bad attitude about Calgary.I try not to,but this city is really sucking me dry,demanding way too much of my energy.

Calgary,I've concluded is a place for working,not for living.But that's why I came here and as far as finding employment is concerned,that was not difficult.But the same old boom town problems continue just as though I'd never left.Landlord problems,political problems,poor service in the stores,exorbitant prices for everything.Grapes:3.59/lb in Calgary-1.19 in Toronto.Washing a small bag of laundry in Calgary:3.50-in Toronto 1.75.Green Peppers 2.99/lb in Calgary-as little as .79/lb in Toronto.Last Thursday I went to a work supply store for a safety vest and a new hard hat.I already had both of these,but,of course anything not under lock and key here for more than about ten seconds has a way of vanishing,even from your own home.I'd picked out my vest and was in the process of selecting a hat when I was addressed by a sales lady."Is there anything I can help you with sweetie?"
"Excuse me?"
"Something I can help you with,dear?"
"I heard you and I said excuse me.I said excuse me because of the rude way in which you addressed me.A customer in you store.Not sweetie or dear."

Tell me,am my getting to be a nasty old man,set in my ways beyond all reason?Or does business still require a sense of decorum as it did in my time,not so long ago.I've worked in customer service and I would never dreamed of addressing on of my clients in such a familiar manner.But,you know what ,it happens all the time here in Calgary,so much so that I often think of this city as a huge brothel.Believe me,if I'd wanted to be addressed in such a manner,the brothel is where I would have gone.So please tell me it's not just me.

Maybe it's hard to see things straight when things are not going so well.Late last week I had a fall from the lowest rung of a small ladder and I fear I may have broken my foot.After hobbling around all week end I decided to go to the clinic today,and now I need to go foe x rays.That will have to wait until tomorrow as I've way too much to get done today.Maybe it will get better by then.The doctor says it doesn't seem to be broken,but wants the x rays none the less.The more I walk on it the looser it seems to get,but its still very painful.Painful is one thing.But it's a thing I can put in it's place without painkillers.I can't risk doing further damage to the foot though.And,speaking of pain killers,they are disturbingly easy to get here.As in the past,with almost every visit to the doctor,I'm asked if I want some.A thirty day supply of percocet,at two a day,just for asking.And the doctor isn't even a hundred percent certain that anything is broken yet.I think I can manage my own pain and decline his offer.Still,with this ache every time I take a step I'm unlikely to come to view Calgary in a better light anytime soon.

If I were in Toronto right about now,with it being Monday,I would be just about to walk into my memoir writing class at the library and sit down with the friends I've come to know over the past couple of years.I don't miss the hot weather there,but lots of days are pleasant enough.Going home I would likely check the dollar shelf at Economy produce,maybe get some grapes or even some mushrooms to make a stir fry with.But I'm stuck here-that's how I've come to see it-in Calgary,with the blue Rockies shining in the morning,less than eighty miles away,as pretty as I've ever seen them and with me having no way to get there.Some days I wish I was anywhere but here.

Memoir-backstory

What my father was trying to say,I think,is that it is a shame to forget where you come from,because that is you.He never said it in so many words.It was a concept that was likely too philosophical for him.But he lived it out in his life.

I mentioned that my father seemed to have a bit of a love hate relationship with his hometown.I think perhaps most people do.Not with Springhill,that is,but with whatever town they happen to call home.It's just a simple fact that life is often times cruel,wherever you happen to live.So while he never thought of living there again,so far as I know,he certainly never abandoned his hometown.Most of his people spent time in other places,but most of them returned to Springhill at times too,sometimes to live for a period of time.We often took family drives in and around Springhill,and it was usually a time that my father took to relate family stories of the times that went before.

According to my grandmother it was a cold night when she went to the hospital to give birth to my father.I seem to recall that she said she went via horse and sleigh.

They must have grown up poor.My father would often mention as we would drive through Springhill Junction,where the railroad tracks are,about walking along the tracks when he was young and collecting coal that would fall off the passing trains.He said that many people did it in order to provide heat that they otherwise could not have afforded.You would get in trouble for collecting coal if you got caught he said,as the coal company regarded dropped coal as still being it's own property.

As a boy,my father liked to go to the beach.He liked the sun and the heat.Springhill was some distance from the beach,or at least the beach where he liked to go.That would be Heather's Beach,near Port Phillip,a distance of maybe twenty five miles.It was maybe twelve miles to Oxford,and something like twelve or thirteen more miles to the beach.They would go on foot,my father said,and stop to steal and kill a chicken along the way.They always killed the chicken,he said by squeezing it's neck so that it would not alert the farmer to what they were doing.It must have been rather more dangerous to raid someones chicken coop in those days than it is today,but he says they never got shot at.

I never knew exactly where my father lived,though I believe it to be in Mapleton,a bit out of town,towards Parrsboro.He never pointed out an exact house to me.Maybe the house is no longer there,or perhaps I simply cannot remember him showing me one.He did say that he liked to fish and mentioned a place called Southbrook which was more or less nearby,if in fact the family home was in Mapleton.We used to visit people in Mapleton,though I'm not entirely certain who those people were.They lived in a small house across from a plant that processed locally grown fruit,especially blueberries.Mapleton as I recall was dense with blueberries.

One day as we were driving back towards Springhill,my father pointed out a certain house,on the same side of the road as the fruit processing plant and not too far up the road in the direction of town.He said that when he was young,maybe twelve or so,he wrapped up some coins inside a tin can and buried them beneath a grove of trees.He claimed the coins were valuable,but that he would never be able to retrieve them,because the owners of the property on which they were buried were angry with him.He said that I should retrieve them,though he never said how.

What happened to my father to cause the fall from grace with one of his neighbours I don't know for certain,but it was noticeable to my eyes that he was not on good terms with every one from Springhill.He was, I came to realize being quite selective about who he visited and associated with from Springhill.We visited with many different people from Springhill,both in Springhill and in other places.Once we went to visit someone in Montreal and they ended up having a kitchen party of sorts,talking about the old days,while I tried not to fall asleep and had an interesting visit with a couple of Hesidic rabbis on a short trip to the store.Well,that's a story for another time

There was a man in Moncton who would visit my father too.He was from Springhill and his name was Shorty.He had a bit of an Irish accent and one year at St.Patrick's Day he appeared with green hair.As to what his background was with my father in Springhill,I really cannot say.they appeared to have a rather close relationship in Moncton though.Shorty seemed to be rather serious about being Irish,which my father never was,though half of his family were Ryans.My grandmother was Rose Ryan and she had a lot of brothers and sisters,though I don't recall that we ever visited the most of them.Her brother Jim Ryan,owned a store at the top of Main Street,and we would sometimes visit there,before it burned down in the 1970's.


Now I came to meet people in Moncton who were from Springhill and who seemed to cause a reaction of discomfort in my father.Leona Marshall was one such person.she lived nearby and for a while,when I was maybe ten I would spend a lot of time with Her daughter Patricia.I mentioned to my father that they were from Springhill,but ,although he said he knew who Mrs.Marshall was,he never said another word about them.The Marshalls never visited us,except for the one time that Patty came to my birthday party.I always thought it odd that talk never turned to Springhill on that occasion.

As far as I know my fathers schooling seemed kind of ordinary.He completed eighth grade.He never said if it took eight years to complete that many grades,or if perhaps it was more.The only story I can recall that he ever told me about school was of a sort of punishment,presumably for minor transgressions that he once received.It was a variation on the theme of a time out chair,or,if you will,standing in the corner.Nova Scotia schools were,to my understanding in those days segregated,and Springhill had a significant black population because of the mines.My father told of a desk that was said to have been brought from the black schoolhouse,in which you would spend your time out.It was set somewhat to the corner of the class and was referred to as the "nigger chair"It seems so unimaginably mean to me that such things ever took place,but it was viewed differently in those days.

My father seemed to be respected by black people.I once met a man,out in Alberta who said he knew my father well and that he was a good man.He said that he lived in "nigger alley" which was close to where my father lived.Another clue as to the fact that they may have lived in Mapleton.Also somewhat of a commentary on the time that a black man could refer to a place as "nigger alley" so comfortably and without a trace of bitterness.I can't say if my fathers alternative seating arrangements while in school were in any way involved in his view on black people,but even in the 1960's they seemed progressive.We were never to use a racial slur,we were to treat everyone with respect and my father set a good example in this regard.He would as often stop to speak to a black person on the streets of Springhill as he would to a white person.It's caused me to wonder if there might not have been a period of time when the most of his friends were black,and what brought that about.I have never heard a black person ssay a bad word about him though.

If it only took my father eight years to finish school,then three years passed between the time school ended and the time he left Springhill for good when he was seventeen.Of those years I don't know a lot.He does mention that he worked at a hotdog stand at the beach for a man named Art Jardine.Art was a war veteran who took a load of shrapnel in his face in WWII and who was involved in boxing after the war.Art was a man my father was very close to throughout the years.We visited them nearly every time we went to Springhill and when my father built a summer cottage,the Jardines had a cottage less that half a mile away.

It's only speculation on my part,but I would think if you lived in Springhill in the late 1940's or early 1950's and were not attending school,you would have been under considerable pressure to find work in the mines.My father certainly never wanted to work in the mines,but I can't say that it was the reason,or at least the only reason he left Springhill.He did make mention of a fight with someone whom he says he laid out one day after a rather long history of conflict.That would be,to my reckoning 1951.My father moved to Goose Bay Labrador.Labrador is part of the province of Newfoundland,but geographically it is located on the Canadian mainland and is a part of Canada's north.He was,as he always said,seventeen at the time.

My father used to have a picture in his wallet of him at seventeen.He was of medium height with a slim build and,if the photo was any indication was a good looking man.It was the beginning of his adult life.He never returned to live in Springhill,yet it was never really far from home for him either.


Refrences.
Here are a couple of references which  I should make note of in regards to the preceding blog entry.They are informative in respect of coal mining and mining disasters in Springhill,and segregated schools in Canada.I've read the book and viewed the video and both provide invaluable background to subjects I've touched upon in this latest blog entry.

1.Blood On The Coal:The Story Of The Springhill Mining Disasters-Roger David Brown.

2.The Little Black Schoolhouse:Revealing The History Of Canada's Segregated Schools(video,2007).

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.