I may have mentioned before that there was no place to buy anything in the little cove. Alice left the cove years before when her son, who was a priest, got his first parish. She went to keep house for him. So for someone like Nan, who didn’t have a car or a horse and cart, this was a problem. On pension day, Din would take the people of the cove to Old Perlican in his truck, but that was only once a month. Nan didn’t have a refrigerator so she couldn’t buy in bulk.

Nan and I walked to Grates Cove and Old Perlican which were three miles from the cove over gravel roads in either direction. We did this many times over the years. We could get up early in the morning on a fine day, eat breakfast, clean up after, then head for the Grates. The first mile was the hardest, up over Gorman’s Hill, which was named after a family that once used to live in the little cove. We would stop and “take a blow,” as Nan called it, a short rest to you outsiders.

See, the people in the cove had their own way of describing things. It was a “print” of butter, not a pound; “a turn”, not a bunch; a “yaffle, not a handful; a “truckly”, not a wheelbarrow; a “blow”: or ”spell”, not a rest; it was “minds the time”, not do you remember. It took a while, but I did get to develop an understanding of the local language. Anyway, that has nothing to do with the trip to Grates Cove for shopping.

Just to the right across the brook is another big hill, we don’t have to climb that one thank god. Mum told us there was a man buried at the foot of this hill. The man had been a shareman with my Pop one summer and had been found dead in his bunk in Pop’s bunkhouse one morning. No one knew where he had called home or if he had family somewhere. Men in those days sought work when they could find it, no one asked for resumes or social insurance numbers, just your first name would do. So no one knew what religion he was so he couldn’t go to any of the cemeteries around. Pop said some prayers over him and he was buried at the bottom of the hill.

Just a short distance from here on the opposite side of the road was a small “mudhole” where it was said John took the occasional bath. Down the road a little further, on the right hand side again there was a small garden that was owned by my Pop. Remnants of the wooden rail fence could still be seen. This section of the road had many twists and turns but was mostly level. There were no trees on the sides of the road like in the little cove, just rocks and barren hills with some low bushes. Everything was barren from here to Grates Cove.

The approach to Grates Cove was a steady downhill slope known locally as the Hart’s Barrens. You could see many gardens on the right hand side of the road, all with rock walls for boundaries. Each garden would have a small gap in the rock walls to let people or animals get in or out. Some rails were used for the gap, maybe some of the rails were cut in the little cove. On the left hand side of the road were the cemeteries of the different churches in the Grates.

The people from the little cove who had passed away were buried in the catholic cemetery in Grates Cove. Nan had two young sons buried there, two wooden crosses with no names or dates or other information marked the spot where they lay. Nan and I would paint these crosses every year. But that’s a story for another time.

There is a fork in the road up ahead and we stay to the right, which passes by the two protestant churches – the Church of England and the Methodist or United, they call it today. Our destination is just down the road from here. Will Avery’s store stands between the water and the main road along the water side of the Grates. It’s a big store that has everything from a needle to an anchor, as the old people used to say; groceries, dried goods, pots and pans, paint and nails, rubber clothes and boots for the fishermen and many other things. Mr. Avery has an office at the back of the store which has a big window showing the harbour and all the little fishing boats. He has a big spyglass on his wall, I would love to look through that.

Mr. Avery knows Nan really well and he knew my Pop too, I’m told. Nan goes into the office and settles her account with Mr. Avery before doing any shopping. We take our time in the store, there’s lots to look at. I get a little lunch for myself and pay for it at the counter. Nan picks out what she needs, careful not to get too much because we have to carry it all the way back home.

We won’t go directly back home from Avery’s store because Nan has an old friend up the way who she always visits when we are down this way. In later years, I would pick raspberries in the little cove to sell to a Mrs. Avery, who was postmistress in Grates Cove. Don’t know if she was related to Mr. Avery who owned the store, she did however have a son who was a doctor in some other part of Newfoundland. We visit Nan’s friend, Aunt Jane, and her husband Ike. They’re old like Nan, maybe a little older. Aunt Jane has a little store of her own and usually gives me some candy or a chocolate bar.

Uncle Ike looks after the catholic church, sees that it’s kept clean and read for mass, weddings or funerals. He does this free of charge. After leaving Aunt Jane’s we head for home by a different way. This road leads us past the catholic church and the little schoolhouse. We walk up this road that has rock walls on either side and many houses. This leads us to the fork in the road near the two cemeteries.

The walk up the Hart barrens is all uphill, but the slope rises gently. We stop several times for a blow before moving on. When we are out of sight of Grates Cove, Nan puts the items she has bought into a flour sacks he has in her purse and throws it over her shoulder. I carry some of the lighter stuff in bags with string handles, one in each hand. It’s all downhill from here.

Cyril Griffin
New Perlican, NL