Moving Day

Michael stood at the top of Lookout Hill gazing out the bay as he had done perhaps ten thousand times before. His mind went back more then seventy-five  years now, to the Fall of 1892 and the  first time he had gazed at these waters.  He remembered how fascinated, and perhaps a little frightened, he had been, as he watched the  seas break against the cliffs sending spray and foam over those enormous rocks as it had no doubt been doing for millions of years.  He remembered too, how he had held tightly to his grandfather’s hand as the blustery south-east wind blew against his frail three year old body. He saw again the leathered,  weather beaten face of the old man who loved the sea as he did life itself. He smiled too, at the thought that he must have believed his “Poppy”, as he had learned to call his grandfather, to have been as old as the cliffs itself, but knew now that the old man had not reached his seventieth  year. His grandfather, who knew the bay like the back of his hand, pointed out the various markings; to his right and out about sixty feet was the “sunker” and straight out another hundred or so feet, set the “Fryer”, a  jagged bare rock,  perhaps twenty feet in diameter, that rose like a gigantic statue more then sixty feet into the air. Michael’s father John, had gone fishing with his dad when he was twelve, rowing the old black punt or the big dory sometimes for hours before reaching the fishing grounds and returning each evening with their catch. Neither his father nor his grandfather had ever left the bay in which they were born, having  travelled only to the other three communities that shared the land-locked harbours of Bird Island and up the shore to the dozen or so equally isolated outports that littered that side of the bay. The distant market city of St. John’s was something that they had only heard about from those who worked on the merchant’s vessels that travelled there with fish and returned with the salt beef, flour and molasses that was the mainstay of the resident’s winter’s diet. 

For more than an hour Michael stood there seemingly as defiant to what was happening in the cove below, as the cliffs to the raging sea. Finally as the red sky to the west, foretelling another sunny day tomorrow, gave way to the gathering darkness, he turned slowly to make in his way down the hill to Furbey’s Cove and to the house that he had built shortly after him and Emily  were married almost sixty years ago. They had raised eleven children in that house and now he was expected to leave it all behind  because the   government  wanted to change the old ways, debunk the fishery, and make his beloved Newfoundland into the image of industrialized Ontario. His father, he remembered,  had warned people of this back in 1949 when the electorate sided with Joey Smallwood and Confederation with Canada. It had started in the Fall of 1965 when rumours began circulating about the government subsidising anyone willing to move from the islands to more centralized areas. Michael had paid little attention at the time, he had been born and bred in Furbey’s Cove and expected to die there. The talk became more serious in 1966 and a few families from the surrounding communities had actually moved to Cartersville, that had been touted as the area for new development. Things really came to a head in the Spring of 1967 when the government, to prove they were serious, substantially increased the subsidy and even sent representatives  to the various communities to convince families to move to Cartersville. The premier in the meantime announced plans for a third paper mill for the province and strongly hinted that it was to be build in the area surrounding Cartersville. It soon became evident that the young people were determined to move.  When his daughter and son-in-law first spoke of it, Michael  had vowed to remain in the cove – alone if necessary.  Even the women were caught up in the excitement of moving but Michael and the other retired men were dead set against it. When his children told Michael they were definitely leaving, he refused to speak to any of them for the next two weeks, and even then would not discuss anything related to moving. It was June 3, 1967 when the first family left Furbey’s Cove. The Boats steamed out the harbour loaded with stoves, beds, rakes, hoes, and shovels and their few meager pieces of furniture. All through the summer it continued, there wasn’t a week passed  without at least one family setting out for Cartersville, taking with them all their worldly possessions. Some even considered floating their houses as was being done in other communities up the shore, but in the end all opted to build new houses with the help of the government aid money and the little they had saved over the years. In early August the bishop arrived to de-consecrate the little church after which the building could be sold. Michael watched sadly as his friends departed one by one with their families, and finally admitted, at least to himself, that he would have no choice but to do the same. He was happy that they were at least among the last to leave, but stubborn to the end, would only discuss the move during the last few days.