by Cal Lander Although not native born, I consider myself a Newfoundlander. My parents were both born in Newfoundland: my mother is from Garnish and my dad is from Bonavista. I was born in Sydney, Nova Scotia, and each summer until I was about 12 or so, I would accompany my dad, or my mom and dad, to Newfoundland for summer visits. I would always joke that I was the son of immigrant parents, as they came to Canada before Newfoundland entered Confederation. I loved those days of being able to roam freely in Bonavista, especially. Being able to make some good friends and meet up with cousins made me look forward to it every year. My dad had worked in the steel mill in Sydney and went in search of work in Ontario, and that resulted in our move to Orillia, Ontario where I live to this day. My dad had never owned or driven a car, but in 1965 he bought a 1957 Chevy four-door sedan. We, of course, wanted to take the trip down East again and he wanted to show off his "new" car. I was 16 years old that year, and being a car lover from day one with a brand-new driver's licence, I fully intended to do a lot of the driving. My dad had never driven a car before and had to learn to drive when he bought the car, so he was quite happy to let me do most of the driving. The drive down was uneventful, and we took the opportunity to stop to visit relatives and friends on the way before we met the ferry, "William Carson," in North Sydney. We drove across Newfoundland on the old Trans Canada Highway, ending up in Clarenville where we took the side trip up to Bonavista. Before this, Dad and I would disembark from the train at Clarenville and arrange a taxi to go the rest of the way to Bonavista, always in the middle of the night. Most of the roads were dirt roads back then, and for us it was a long trip. I fully enjoyed the trip for the three weeks we were there, and it finally came time, of course, to leave and head home. Now, because we were travelling by car and not by the old Newfie Bullet, which we used to take all the time, we of course had to arrange to meet the ferry at Port aux Basque. To do that we had to leave Bonavista in the middle of the night, driving through and meeting the ferry in Port aux Basques at (I believe) 10 a.m. the next morning. Off we went, late at night, with yours truly driving. We drove the dirt roads in the dark back to the Trans Canada and headed west. Suddenly I realized that I was driving on new pavement, and I thought this explained the big roadside signs we had seen all along on our trip east that year. "We'll finish the drive in '65 thanks to Mr. Pearson." So, unwittingly, I had joined the new Trans Canada in '65 thanks to Mr. Pearson. The paving was completed, but it just wasn't open yet. "Great," I thought, "a wonderful drive and no traffic to worry about. However, I soon discovered that although the road was very smooth, we had got on the new highway and the bridges hadn't been quite finished as of yet, so every time we came to a bridge under construction we had to take the construction road around it to get to the pavement on the other side. Well this certainly took a toll on our tires, so inevitably one of the tires got a puncture and I had to change to the spare tire. We continued in the dark headed towards Port aux Basques, and early next morning as we approached Corner Brook another one of our tires went flat, and our spare had already been used. As luck would have it, when we crested a hill we spotted a service station on the right of the highway and we thought, "Great, we can get the tire fixed here and still be on our way to catch the ferry." It was about 7:00 a.m. and on arriving we realized it did not open until 8:00. So, we waited in the parking lot and sure enough about 7:45 this gentleman trudges up the hill, goes to the front door, opens the door and enters the service station. Still on track, we went in and explained that we needed to catch the ferry in Port aux Basques and we had a flat tire and could he repair our tire and get us on our way so we wouldn't be late. "No problem," he said. He then promptly began to boil the kettle to have his morning cup of tea. I said, "We won't make it on time if we don't get going soon." "Oh no, no, no, you'll make it," he said, "but I don't open until 8:00." What could we do? We waited, he fixed the tire and we got back on the road headed for Port aux Basques. I, of course was driving and now we were in a hurry. The old '57 Chevy with its 10-year-old (at least) six-cylinder engine wasn't the fastest, but it wound out surprisingly good. I was driving that little Chevy, I think, about 80 miles an hour down the highway towards Port aux Basques. My mother was in the back seat and I could feel her white knuckles and she was completely silent. My dad never said a word about my speed, knowing that we had to get there. So driving along at about 80 miles an hour, 16 years old, new driver, new licence and I'm going along like the clappers, then I see an RCMP cruiser coming the other way. As he passed by me, he pointed at me directly and I thought, "Oh, my goodness, he's got me." So, I watched my mirrors, and sure enough he pulled over, turned around and came after me, so I made sure to slow down to the speed limit. When he got up behind me he flashed his lights and I pulled over. Now I am sweating proverbial bullets, my dad doesn't know what to do and I'm thinking, "I've done it now, new license, speeding, out of province." The Constable walked up to my car, looked inside, saw my brother and sister and my mom and dad and says, "Good morning, sir. Do you know why I stopped you?" I said, "No, Sir, I do not." He responded, "Well, I noticed as you were coming down the highway that the tarp on the roof rack you have on the car is loose and it's flapping and about to fall off, so I suggest you fix it." I thanked him profusely and immediately set about fixing it. After he left we headed on to Port aux Basques, got on the ferry and I think we were the last car to embark. That was our experience of the new Trans Canada Highway they were going to "finish the drive in '65 thanks to Mr. Pearson." I've told that story many times over the years, but I still remember the trips I had on the Newfie Bullet with my dad in earlier years. What a memory that was. Caribou on the tracks, derailments (albeit slow speed) and unscheduled stops in the middle of nowhere, and watching the railroad ties catch on fire beneath the train because of the ashes from the steam engine's firebox. I'm 71 now, and I have travelled a little over the years, but I will not forget those days. The details of this trip may be embellished or fogged with the mists of time, but they are accurate in my mind anyway. By the way, they did finish the drive in '65 thanks to Mr. Pearson.   Submitted By: Cal Lander