On summer days and summer nights
When from the city wont to clear
We oft would visit one fair place
Held sacred in our hearts so dear

Sis Ann and I with Mom and Dad
Would leave the city streets behind
For calmer days and quiet nights
And solitude of finer kind

The call to Petty Harbour strong
It pulled us as a tidal bore
Till we could not resist the call
To visit that fair shore once more

For Petty Harbour was the source
From whence our mother’s bloodline sprang
And we were drawn to visit there
By feelings deep that in us rang

The Chafes of Petty Harbour shores
Trace family back full century three
Out of West Country born
Arrived indentured to a fishery

The drive that took one hour or less
Passed through familiar farming Goulds
Where the wee church of Ruby fame
Stood sentinel to farm family’s rule

And then past Second Pond so dark
Where black and shiny sea trout pooled
They were of special stock we knew
Landlocked since time old Neptune ruled

Across the bridge and left, the road
Meandered by the rock-strewn shore
Of waters deep held fast in place
By one gigantic dam full sore

The road continued round a bend
Whence turned we caught the favoured sight
Of that fair harbour snuggled there
Between the mountains towering might

From mountainous wall the black flume snaked
Like rat’s tail down the road-lined floor
And tiny sprays spewed into air
And mist rolled down to harbour shore

The vista from that vantage point
A multitude of houses white
All clustered close together there
A most nostalgic memorable sight

Then as we entered that fair harbour
Evocative airs assailed our noses
Of salt and bark and fish and offal
Fond smells of harbour akin to roses

And everywhere the beasts of burden
Those multi-breeded dogs of fame
That were so much a part of life
And known to each and all by name

The dogs that nightly as on cue
Would set to howling in one great anthem
That rang throughout the sleeping harbour
From house to stage, from stage to transom

The dogs that harnessed leather bound
To gray wood sleds all weather worn
Would haul the winter’s wood to home
O’er frozen ponds from night to morn

The same dogs that in summer months
Would laze around the stage head rife
In hopes of catching for a meal
The odd cod head from splitter’s knife

The gentle gurgle of river flowing
Through dark moss-crusted rocks of size
Would greet our ears and eyes in morn
Through open window on first rise

And scent of mint from streambed plants
Wafting in on summer air
Evoked in us a sense of magic
To banish all but deepest care

A twin seat swing of colour red
With whirling windmills well endowed
On which we spent some time each day
Which was for us a thrill allowed

It was a favourite pastime on
Return from church at half past eleven
On sunny Sundays, restful times
So close to God, and near to Heaven

The twine shed stood aback the house
Of ochre red with trim of white
And Edgar’s world all centred there
With nets and twine and bark pot tight

And pungent air of bark and twine
Mingled with the Harbour’s bloom
Of salt sea air and offal ripe
From neath the stage head splitting room

The loft full packed with nets a ready
The ground floor where the nets were sewn
And dogs in various modes reclined
As if the place were theirs alone

And kegs of swish, that sacred brew
Awaiting age for months or more
Round which old salts would spend their time
Yarning and checking the aging score

And Hughie’s magic motorbike
In pieces strewn across the floor
Awaiting reconstruction when
He would break from fishing chore

The old house stood off road apiece
You entered through a double gate
A square design with portaled door
And back porch entrance added late

With windows square, and those adorned
The kitchen one with lots of light
Lined Fanny’s cherished geraniums
O’er which she fussed from morn to night

And once inside that recessed door
To left the parlour, place of past
With pictures of ancestral lore
And organ old for child’s delight

To right the kitchen realm of Fanny
With large wood stove, would duly make
To welcome home her men from sea
Salt cod and scrunchins from the flake

And sometimes brewis with lassie spread
Laced down with milk or fresh brewed tea
T’would satisfy the hungriest souls
In all the whole wide country

And daughter Hatti tending table
And when her duties finally done
Regaled us with the latest news
Of happenings in the Harbour run

And talk of older sister Dot
At nursing in the St. John’s Grace
Due home this weekend for a stay
And anxious for news of the place

Out through the kitchen door a place
Of magic smells unique to here
The pantry, with fresh bread laid out
Cooling in the summer air

The back porch lined with clothing hooks
Adorned with oilskins, clothes oft sewn
And gumboots neatly lined in row
And hand pump source of squeak and groan

The stairs that steeply led to landing
From which four bedrooms neatly sprang
And one a favourite haunt of kids
On summer nights with magic rang

It held a bed of poster four
With downy feather mattress deep
Where two wee folks could disappear
And fall into enchanting sleep

And neath that bed a special pot
To help relieve those times full stark
Once waken in the dead of night
And wont to pee but feared of dark

And on that landing top of stairs
The object of a young boy’s dreams
A rocking horse with flowing mane
Awaiting a rider for years it seems

And Edgar fished with trap and line
For ages so it seemed to us
And split and salted and dried his fish
On his flake in room across the street

His boat of sturdy trap skiff lore
With engine of the make and break
His pride and joy since first arrived
He knew it inside out and more

The flake to Edgar’s room composed
Of longers tall supporting rod
Of sticks with walkway planks to follow
Between the drying spread of cod

At end the splitting room the centre
Of all the work that needs be done
Before the salted fish can dry
On flakes beneath the summer sun

From neath the splitting room arose
The pungent smell of bilge and gurry
And slub and blood adorned floorboards
As splitters worked all in a hurry

The work continued into dark
Beneath one tiny luminous light
Amid the hum of conversation
Till that last cod came into sight

The racket from beach-women swelled
As morn and afternoon they turned
The drying fish, and evening yaffled
It into faggots so eagerly yearned

At four when faint the sun would peak
Above the line tween sea and sky
We’d rise to go a squiddin for
The bait for this days fishing try

The sound of motors make and break
Reverberate through swirling mist
As boats put out to sea once more
For harvest of the squid sea kissed

And one wee boy along for fun
Watched closely by all fishers old
For signs of sickness brought about
By rolling swells that take their toll

And when at last to ill succumbed
The roar of laughter o’er the waves
Would put that lad to scurrying down
Out of sight of teasing knaves

The squiddin done, the catch off loaded
T’was back to Fanny’s kitchen where
Bread and lassie and cookie sweet
Were waiting for to sample there

In evening when the setting sun
Slid slowly down behind Boone’s ridge
Young boys and girls would gather at
A favourite haunt, the north side bridge

And there beneath the shining moon
Hearts are won and friendships bloom
To last a lifetime if not more
And carry on the Harbour’s tune

How time has wrought its wondrous change
To face and place of childhood thrill
But proudly still amid the new
The old Chafe homestead stands sentinel still
  Submitted By: John Cornick