Island Living

Every Saturday night, Aunt Vi came down to shampoo my hair. On the mainland, she had a small beauty shop and she would arrive with a basket full of shampoos, creme rinses, lipstick, rouge and assorted cosmetics. She would wrap a towel around my shoulders, drag out the small stepstool for me to stand on, and lean me over the kitchen sink. Afterwards, she dried and curled my hair and let me play with the makeup while she and my grandmother drank coffee and smoked cigarettes on the sunporch. We watched the sunset over the water and sometimes there would be card games or dominos.

Aunt Pearl usually came by on Sunday afternoons with homemade fish chowder and freshly baked bread. Nana put out the good china and we all gathered around the dining room table. When supper was over, she sent us to pick wild strawberries and she made strawberry shortcake with real whipped cream. Aunt Pearl almost always brought a newspaper and she would read us the local columns with Nana adding bits of gossip as she read.

One night a week we were allowed to go across the road to Uncle Willie's who had a television set. The reception wasn't very good and the only programming was the local channel from St. John but we were thrilled anyway. Uncle Willie was a widower and he would sit in his old rocking chair and tell us fishing stories about whales and storms and all the young men who never came back. Fillin' their heads with a lot of nonsense, Nana would say sharply, they all come back, one way or another.

During the week, there were always people dropping by. Uncle Shad brought fresh scallops, Lilly Small came by with vegetables, Uncle Len came by to do a little carpentry. Some came just to visit - Nana would make coffee and muffins for them in the morning and cookies and iced tea in the afternoons. On their way home, the fishermen stopped by with haddock or lobsters and Nana would repay them with blackberries or a six pack.
Sometimes she read their mail for them.

Trips to the mainland were always a day long adventure and carefully planned in advance. Nana kept a list of the things she was to bring back and who they were for. We left early in the morning, got to eat in a restaurant for lunch, shop in real stores all afternoon, and then head home in time to make the last ferry crossing. We carried liquor, cigarettes, fabrics, magazines, medicines, store bought linens, an occasional small appliance or
machinery part. Nana checked her list carefully and then we piled back in the big Lincoln and headed home.

My great grandmother spent the last summer of her life in a bedroom off the kitchen. When she died, her coffin was put in the living room and for two days the sun shone on her. She was buried in the small village cemetary
on a warm summer afternoon and my daddy held me, trying to find the right words to explain death and dying to me. I just knew I missed her. Ashes to ashes, Nana said, it'll make sense when you're older.

Around the point, past the last breakwater, there were a number of small shacks. A narrow path led all the way to the center of the island but there were hazards, namely Old Hat. She was a small, bent, wicked old crone who raised sheep and carried a shotgun. If you ventured too near her property, she emerged, shotgun in hand, an old, black hat crushed by years of wear perched sideways on her head. Her white hair flew out from under it in all directions and she would give a high pitched cackle before taking aim with the gun. The blast would always go far above our heads and the recoil knocked her to the ground most times. We were long gone by the time she was upright again. Nana said she wasn't protecting the sheep but a whiskey still she kept deep in the woods. Mad as a hatter, Nana said firmly, Keep your distance.

Further around the point, there were coves where driftwood collected all along the shore, washed onto the beaches by the truckload it seemed. There were tidepools to splash in, rocks to climb, abandoned fishing gear to explore. We uncovered buried shells everywhere, played tag with the tides as they came and went, watched the fog roll in and out like an endless damp blanket unfolding in smooth layers. We made our way home blind, following the shore line one rock at a time and listening as the fog horn on Peter's Island would get slowly louder. Use your ears, Nana said, If you get lost, just follow the sound.

But it was hard to get lost. Everybody knew your name and where you lived and what time you were supposed to be home for supper. There was always someone to hitch a ride with and no matter where you were or who you were with, you were always safe.