Although I have spent very little time in Merasheen, having visited there during the reunions, and occasionally with my Uncle Lou who has a cabin built on the old family homestead, my roots spring from its soil. My knowledge of my ancestral homeland has been gleaned from stories told by my grandfather who derived great pleasure in relating the history of the island as well as its folklore.
I thank the organizing committee of Merasheen Reunion 2000 for the opportunity to introduce to you my grandfather, Jim Ennis, the storyteller, and to share with you two of his stories, thereby fulfilling in a small way, his objective of passing on a piece of our cultural heritage.
Jeff Burke
JIM ENNIS, THE STORYTELLER
Jim Ennis, my maternal grandfather, was born in Merasheen in 1906 and lived there until 1959. Because of its isolation and sparse population, gathering together to listen to and tell stories was a common pass time. Now that this island, the dearest place in the world in his heart, has been deserted because of the centralization scheme of the 50's, 6ran's storytelling has a sense of mission – that of passing on to posterity that part of our cultural heritage which, like Merasheen, might otherwise be forgotten.
My grandfather's appreciation of history was not only that gained from textbooks. As a young man, one of his best friends was a 95 year old gentleman, Mr. Philip Pittman, whose mind was sharp at this ripe age. He would relate to my grandfather stories about people and events on Merasheen Island whose existence might otherwise have faded into oblivion.
Gathering in the twine lofts as the men repaired their nets and traps for the coming fishing season, my grandfather, as a young lad and later as a fisherman himself, became well ‘steeped’ in the folklore of Merasheen Island. The fishing grounds of Cape St. Mary's not only proved fertile in yielding great catches, but the fortunes and often misfortunes of the voyages became the subject of stories related again and again in the twine lofts, around the table of the lamp-lit kitchens, or in the tilts where the men would come to rest after a day's woodcutting in winter.
In 1940, my grandfather became employed by the Department of Fisheries as bait depot operator in Merasheen. This tiny bait freezing unit was located on a neck of land distant from the community and was often cut off completely at high tide. His work day would begin as early as 3:00 a.m. during the fishing season and end at 6100 p.m. These long hours alone provided Gran with the opportunity to read. The many stories read at the depot were shared with visiting friends at his home where nightly they gathered to talk over the day's events. Because there were no televisions, and until immediately preceding World War I, no radios, storytelling became a pass time, a leisure activity to while away the long winter nights.
My grandfather's method of storytelling is peculiar. Today you will find in his house a ‘daybed’ which he insisted be placed in the dining room. In Merasheen it had a prominent place in the kitchen. The daybed is the focal point when the storytelling begins. The listeners gather around the table and quite often a bottle of rum or whiskey is placed on the table for the listeners to indulge at will.
Gran usually lights his pipe, and with the arising aroma of the Irish Mist tobacco, a euphoria envelops the listeners and Gran takes them on another adventure resurrected from the recesses of his mind.Gran's stories are quite lengthy. If one of the listeners were to retell an episode, he could do so in a matter of minutes, but for Gran the process is lengthy. It is very important to him that the most
minute detail be included — the date, the hour, the day, the place, the name of every individual involved down to the most minor character who seemed to have an insignificant role in the story. Gran uses certain peculiar expressions such as ‘Sure and that was very good’ ‘Begarra now then’ and ‘ya know now’. These expressions seem to serve as link when he has to pause to take a puff from the pipe or a drop from the glass, the latter though he has given up during the past few years because he is taking medication for his heart. As Gran relates his tales, he is unconsciously folding little pleats into the leg of his trousers when, of course, he is letting the pipe cool for a little while. With the move to Long Harbour, the separation from old friends, the advent of TV, and a change in life style, my grandfather's role as storyteller seems to have been placed on the ‘back burner’. Every Wednesday, however, two senior friends visit him and Mom‘s return from school at five o'clock is the signal that ‘the trip back in time’ is over for the day and it's time to head home for the evening meal. Life—long friends and relatives occasionally drop by to visit and, of course, a yarn or two has to be told before the visit ends. Many who have heard my grandfather's stories have encouraged him to have them recorded for posterity and it seems in recent months Gran is anxious to get his stories told. With work schedules as they are, and with family members having heard these yarns over and over, the process of recording seems arduous. My grandfather is not receptive to having his stories tape recorded and to introduce a video recorder would establish an artificial situation not conducive to grandfather's storytelling techniques.
JIGGING COVE SPIRIT
Not being a born native of Long Harbour, my grandfather is not acquainted with the ghosts of that community.
Ghosts during the early part of the 20th century seemed .to die out and before the coming of electricity anyone who wished to visit his neighbour was obliged, as the saying goes, ‘to burn the brand’. This consisted of a piece of hardwood well ignited. Besides giving light to the pedestrian, it also warded off ghosts.
Prior to the 20th century there were no flying saucers, but balls of fire named Jack-O-lanterns which were weather lights. After a shipwreck with loss of life, these lights would be seen in the coast line and tales would be told of lost souls.
During my grandfather's time of schooner fishing, and before the advent of bait depots, fishermen were forced to procure their own bait.
A ghost ship was a common phenomenon in Placentia Bay, especially when a storm was brewing. One fall my grandfather and his shipmates had an experience with this ghost ship.
They went to Jigging Cove in search of squid. The weather was fine and they anchored in a place called Coffin's Cove. Squid were very scarce. Along with the Merasheen Schooner, there was another small boat with one man, Peter Bennett from St. Anne's. They invited him to stay on the ship until the squid would strike. They stayed for three days!
The fourth evening the sky became overcast and the wind picked up from the Southeast. Skipper Din said to the cook, ‘Have supper ready. We'll be out of here before dark’. The Merasheen boys, the skipper's two brothers-in-law, John and Frank Ennis, and an older man, Mike Fulford, took Bennett's boat on deck. The skipper advised John and Frank to get underway and go to Isle-au-Valen and not to attempt to cross the bay that night.
‘We prepared the schooner for a rough night‘, said my grandfather, ‘and ate our supper’. After supper they took in their dories. By that time, it was dark. The Ghost ship was lying to off towards the White Islands. They took in their anchor and got under way on the same course as the phantom ship. That did not concern them a bit because they were used to seeing the lights from the land. Seeing it at closer range, they believed it to be the ghost ship instead of the ball of fire that they normally saw. The nearer they got, the more real the ship appeared.
They jogged to port not having much sea room. They did not like to get too handy to her, so they talked it over. The skipper said that the squid might shift after the weather let up. He reached as handy as possible and the crew put off two dories with three men in each dory. When they got in Coffin's Cove again, they struck the squid. The storm became heavier and the three men on board the ship were unable to handle her, so they ran back to take the dory-men on board. When the skipper saw the squid jigging, he lay off again.
When he got off in the strain of the bay, the wind increased and he was forced to heave back blowing the horn. This meant squid or no squid come on board. He reached the land in the cove and took them coming out and ran to Sandy Harbour under a foresail. When the dawn broke, the ghost ship vanished.
So much for the ghost ship as far as they were concerned, but what about the Ennis boys? John was a bit strong headed. Did he harbour at Isle-au-Valen, or did they try to push on across the bay to Merasheen? When he started his motor, he took a southwest course for the sheltered side of Isle-au-Valen. Mike Fulford had the wheel. John saw the ship again coming straight for them. Fulford hove the wheel to clear the ghost ship. John ordered him to keep on the course as he was doing. John ran aft, took the wheel from Mike, and threw it hard to the starboard. They were so near the land that they had no room between the ship and the breakers. You could see the rivets in her side when she disappeared.
To this day John couldn't say if they passed through or slipped by her. Anyhow he, at that time, was made to call her bluff.
DOG HARBOUR SPIRIT
It was the custom in Merasheen for the captain and crew hired by the owner of the fishing vessel to go in the spring and cut a boat load of wood for the owner. Thus, it was that Mickey Cochrane and his crew found themselves in Dog Harbour. After cutting all day, the men were lying aboard ship when they heard the shouts and moans and groans that forewarned them of bad weather. There was, however, one crew member, a Northern man, who was not familiar with these strange noises and who said, ‘If he shouts once more, I'll answer him back’. Not wanting to instill fear in this new crewman, but yet seeing the necessity of instilling respect for these spirits, Mickey told him to say nothing and to disregard the noises. The shout came again. The Northern man shouted back. This time the shout came from the J very rock to which the ship's bowline was tied.
Mickey ordered the man to go ashore and untie the line. He refused. He was scared. Mickey, himself, went ashore and undid the bowline without any incident.
Later that night, a storm raged but the crew made it back safely to Merasheen Harbour. The Northerner signed off, quit the crew, still very much shaken by the events of Dog Harbour. He was brought home before the fishing voyage was begun. Sometime during the summer he died.
Because Gran's pipe was such an integral part of his storytelling, I have chosen to conclude with the following poem which my mom, Patricia, composed.
ODE TO DAD'S PIPE
Faithful companion, warm to his touch
You helped spin the magic with each little puff.
With reverence he held you
As he quietly recalled -
Bountiful harvests or dread August squalIs.
Such a rich heritage he made known to me
My dad, the great spinner of yarns ‘bout the sea.
Gran's pipe, now bronzed, has a place of prominence in our house. His daybed has been removed from the dining room, and his two old buddies no longer visit for Gran's dory took him to his eternal harbour on June 6, 1995, at the age of 89 years. I can't help but imagine that there's a special twine store up there in heaven where all the old sea tars gather to share a drop, have a draw, and spin yet another yarn ‘bout the sea.