Recollections of Christmas on Cape Island in the 1950s. Nothing brings back recollections of long ago like Christmas. For me, it means memories of that special season while growing up in the 1950’s on an island off SW Nova Scotia where fishing and lobsters provided a modest income for most families. Even though we had less in terms of material goods compared to the truckloads of expensive loot children get these days , I think we enjoyed the season and appreciated our simple gifts more than children do today. Back when I was a little girl we didn’t decorate like people do now. A wreath in the window, a few lights on a real tree, red, green, yellow, and my personal favourite back then, blue. All the decorations we had were stored in an antique cardboard suitcase that was pulled down from the unheated, upstairs “junk room” where a variety of items were stored until season’s demand. In that room hung my father’s WW2 navy uniform, skates, old clothes destined for future rag rugs , and items that “might come in handy someday ” like the baby carriage and an antique kerosene heater. No one had heard of artificial trees and about a week before Christmas------- no sooner--- --we would go into the woods to cut a tree and drag it home for inspection. They were never good enough. Too crooked, too short, too skinny too fat, too tall. But, in the end, they were all beautiful when they stood in the corner of the living room, dripping with icicles and crowned with a crooked tin foil star fashioned by my mother’s hands. Long before we had our own tree, we children, armed with hatchets, would go into the woods above the neighbor’s house to chop down as many trees as we could for the man who came in a truck the first week in December to buy them. Big trees would command as much as 50 cents and make us temporarily rich. We took whatever money he gave us. Sometimes we received ten cents for a tree that I now realize sold for 100 times that in the city. No matter, we now had cold hard cash in our hands with no place to spend it. …..unless……..we were among those lucky enough to get to Yarmouth, a two hour trip on twisting, country roads though Woods Harbour, Pubnico , Argyle, Eel Brook, Tusket and finally the big town of Yarmouth with its downtown shops. On the morning of the anticipated trip, Daddy would survey the sky , look at the weather glass and while we held our breath, usually declare it a fit day. No GPS, no cell phones and no seat belts. What we had was tire chains, baby carriages and excited children who hadn’t slept the night before dreaming of this big trip to town. Parade Street was the main street into town in those times and to my knowledge Starr’s Road didn’t exist. Daddy would usually park on a side street to avoid the street lights and downtown traffic. A relatively new driver in the 1950s, he was very cautious and not the dare devil he became in later years. He’d got his driver’s license at a garage in downtown Pictou where he’d bought his first car, a 1952 black Chevy. To hear my father tell it, a driver’s license must have been negotiated a bit like floor mats are with new cars today. No training or testing had been involved. Just pay your money, grab your keys and license and hit the road. His first road trip was from Pictou to Cape Island where he saw his family after having been in the far north for six months on hydrographic survey ships. No malls existed, but oh , the department stores were wonderful. I remember the Royal Store, with its bar stools and sandwich counter, and climbing the wide steps to explore the second floor while holding tight to the dark wooden bannister . Up there, neatly laid out for my inspection were ladies hankies, linens, fabric displays, and hats. Wonderful hats with feathers and wide brims that I could not resist trying on , but only if the clerk in charge was busy with a real customer. Another stop would be Margolians to admire the infinite array of dishes on display. Down back they had birds in cages and I would check to see if any of them could swear like the ones I read about . To my disappointment none ever did. There was Wagners Restaurant and The Bright Spot with tantalising smells wafting out their doors. However, it was at the Clam Shell that I had my introduction to and began a life long relationship with the tasty French Fry, a dish we never had at home and sold there for 15 cents a plate. The excitement of downtown with its busy shoppers rushing about to the sound of Christmas Carols blaring over shop loud speakers was very different from today. It was the 1950’s; there were women in skirts (never slacks) and elegant boots that came up just above the ankle and zipped up the front with fur trim around the top, hats, nuns in religious habits, and often passengers from off the Bluenose which still ran year round in those days. A little girl from Newellton would be busy taking it all in. I don’t remember ever spending any of that Christmas tree money but I often think of that Yarmouth Main Street and the excitement of going to town at Christmas time. That trip marked the beginning of our Christmas Season with good things coming from the oven, mysterious parcels and dozens of cards from the Post Office, the Sunday School Concert, and the grand finale, the excitement of presents under the tree on Christmas morning.
Posted on: Wed, 24 Dec 2014 18:54:23 +0000
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