Common sense is not a common commodity! A five year old owns no or little common sense, when labeled as "The Village Hellion". Adventure is just over the next ridge or valley below! Only at Bacon Cove, there are only so many ridges before you reach ocean water. One of many adventures I recall during the summer of 1948 when Newfoundland was still Newfoundland. To the average Newfie, Canada was still a foreign country in a distant land.

During one of my many "forays" to the "Cove" as I watched many village fishermen unloading fish from wooden boats onto a wood wharf, meanwhile others cut and split fish on seasoned wooden tables dressed in oilskin aprons and rubber boots as fish oil and water dripped off their oilskin aprons onto the wood wharf's deck into the seawater below as seagulls screamed aloft or from nearby rocks to get at the fish residue. Afterwhich others would spread the split fish upon eye level flakes covered with spruce and fir branches which sat upon the rocky bluff and shores above the outlet of Bacon Cove Book into the Cove. Within view other fishermen were mending nets with balls of twine and large wood needles by their side with their pipe's ablaze on a "fair day" dressed in woolen caps and rubber boots in front of their ocean side "shack", like "me...grandfadder Kelly".

As I stood upon Bacon Cove Road, if in the Lower Cove, or upon the oceanside bluff, if in the Upper Cove, I could see within one view, boats coming ashore with the days catch while others unloaded fish from wooden dorys onto the wharf's deck, then into wooden staved barrels with iron hoops. All of us children prized the iron hoops. We would roll them up the hill, past the Kelly house until almost reaching my grandfather Gushues meadow, only to let them go!...Down the road, past Griffin's place toward my grandfather Kelly's pasture. It is a wonder no one was killed, by the time any hoop stopped rolling almost a half mile away as it dropped 200 plus feet in elevation along Bacon Cove Road.

A few times the hoops would skip over the fences and roll into the hay fields. Once in a while, the cows moved quickly as some hoops passed by them, while others learned, to move quickly only after being hit once or twice! It was all part of being a young "divel" or "hardcase" as in "Yes, bye, he's a dive'l, that lad is".

In between chasing village goats, sheep and anything else that I could not catch, a rest consisted of going to the nearest garden to pluck a turnip out of the ground. Find a nearby brook to wash off my snack and drink from crystal clear cold fresh water while using a small pocket knife to cut my meal into bite sized parts, as I sat upon a rock in a green meadow overlooking the bay with its many boats going to and fro. For desert, blueberries were to be found within view and once in a while a patch of raspberries.

For something different, many gardens had pear, apple and cherry trees, but those were for pies at the dinner table, and few grew wild. All any youth needed was a small crust of hard bread (that I later learned is called "hardtack") for my summer meal upon the ridges around Bacon Cove. Nature provided all the food for such a small ridge runner.

As a special treat, upon reaching "home", me grandmudder would cut of a "thick" piece of homemade bread and put molasses upon it, or as a real sweet treat, butter and sugar, and off I'd be gone again. Until all would wonder what I was "at", whereby my aunt Elenor would be assigned the task of tracking me down by asking all she came across "have ye seen da little dev'il"! Each would tell of my latest misadventure until finally catching up with "da little plucklin".

Upon my aunt Elenor reaching "home" with me safely in tow....me "mudder" would say "ye's as much sense as God gave da calf"!... As grandmother Kelly would tell her daughter, "da lads only a babee" as she would hug her grandson while he sat safely beside her upon the kitchen's daybed.

Copyright 1998 - Patrick F. Gushue

Picture: Corel Gallery(tm) Magic 200,000