Newfie June - A Pain In The Butt

This month has made me do a lot of thinking about my Father. November 14 would have been his 90th birthday. Also, with Remembrance Day having just passed, there were a lot of movies and stories on television about World War II. My Father didn't serve in the military; he was a fireman in St. John's, Newfoundland during the war years. St. John's was quite a hot-bed of military activity, though. The American Navy had a huge base set up in the city and battleships from all the Allied nations lined the docks in the harbour.

Dad had lots of stories of the war years, as most people did who lived through that terrible time. There was the rationing of food stuffs to deal with and loved ones serving abroad to worry about. Newfoundland was still independent at that point in history…it joined Canada in 1949. The depression years hit hard on "The Rock" and even the hustle and bustle of wartime activity did not mean a quick turn around economically for most of the locals. "The Yanks", with their salaries to spend, artificially inflated prices on items that could be gotten during rationing.

My parents, in the winter of 1943, were living in a row housing unit close to St. John's downtown. It was called Kickham Place and it was essentially "slum" housing. Perched on a steep hill and attached to four other units that were identical; the small, narrow abode was three stories tall. Mom, Dad and four small kids were crammed in there like sardines. Mom had been ill with diphtheria the year before and the hospital bills had been crippling.

St. John's was crawling with American sailors and, of course, brothels had sprouted up all over the place. The owners could not be open about the business they conducted; it was against the law for one thing and Newfies, by and large, were God-fearing people. So, the majority of houses of ill repute were fronted by a legitimate business like a laundromat or pub but the real money changed hands in the back rooms. Kickham Place being so close to the waterfront had a brothel located at the bottom of the hill, disguised as a pub. The sailors were able to buy booze cheap on their base but they were not permitted to bring it in to the pubs with them. So, some of them would bring a bottle along and hide it out back; to be retrieved later.

So, November 1944 came and with it the cold, biting North Atlantic wind. There was already several inches of snow down and the wind had buffed icy spots here and there on sidewalks and streets. Dad's birthday had come and gone and Christmas was on the horizon. It would be a struggle to buy a few small things for the children and to put a turkey on the Christmas table. Other than that, there would be no extras… no coloured candies or treats, no rum to toast in the season.

Dad was coming home early one evening, slipping and sliding his way along the walks. He slid down into a snow bank at the bottom of Kickham Place and what should he see right before him but a full bottle of rum; sticking out of a snow drift. He looked around and there was no one in sight. The brothel was just down a couple of doors, so he guessed some sailor had stashed it away there. Well, finders keepers and all that. Dad picked himself up and nestled the bottle of rum into his back pocket… he wanted to keep both hands free in case he slipped again. He couldn't believe his luck! His friends would be so impressed when he could pull out a bottle and give them a Christmas drink! He continued on his way, whistling away and imagining himself telling my Mother about his good luck. Well, about twenty feet from the front door of his house, he hit a patch of black ice and his feet shot out from under him so fast he didn't realize what was happening. You guessed it; he fell flat on his butt and right onto the bottle of rum. SMASH!

My Mother said he hobbled in the front door, pant legs soaked with rum (and blood) and tears streaming down his cheeks. The tears, he told her, were not from the pain inflicted by the glass but because he had lost his bottle of rum. Mother, of course, was not amused that he would steal …even if it was just laying there…someone owned the rum and that someone was not Dad. She had no pity for him whatsoever and said he was being punished for being dishonest. By the time Christmas came, Dad was healed enough to sit and eat his Christmas dinner but 40 years later he was still moaning about the loss of his bottle of "free" rum.

Cheers,
Newfie June


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