By Terry ( Ted ) Young

There’s something special about Newfoundland—something you can’t quite explain, only feel. It’s in the salt air that rolls in with the morning fog, in the laughter echoing from a kitchen party, and in the sound of a guitar being passed around like a gift. But most of all, it’s in the people—the kind of folks who know your name, your parents’ names, and exactly when your roof needs fixing.

My father is a proud man—fiercely independent—the type who insists on doing things himself, no matter his age or the weather—a man who is always ready to help others with their projects, no matter how big or small.  He gives his times and effort generously, never expecting anything in return.  His kindness, patience, and selflessness made a lasting impact on everyone in the community, as evidenced by the story I’m about to tell.

In May 2025, my father had a heart attack while trying to re-shingle his shed. That morning, his body reminded him, and all of us, that even the strongest sometimes need help. He was taken to hospital, and our family was shaken. Thankfully, he received excellent care and stabilized within days, but the fear stuck with us. Being away from home at the time, I struggled with guilt for not being there. I called him daily, checking on how he was feeling, asking about his blood pressure etc—but he only had one concern: his shed roof. With spring rain on the way, he was worried it would leak. Half of the shingles were gone, the wood beneath exposed to the elements.

Two days after his incident, my mom called with an update I didn’t expect. A crew of men had just arrived at the house—trailers in tow, hammers in hand, carrying tar paper, nails, and everything else needed to finish the job. I asked who was there. She laughed and said, “Every able-bodied man in Triton I think.”

By the end of the day, the roof was completely redone. Not just patched up, but fully and beautifully finished. Old shingles removed, new ones laid with care, and the yard cleaned spotless—no tools, no debris, no fanfare. Just a solid roof that looked like it had always been there.

When I asked Mom what was on the go? expecting a bit more detail, she just giggled and said, “The B’y’s just showed up, Ted.”

That afternoon, fifteen local men—friends and neighbors—came together without invitation or fanfare. They quietly removed the old roof, replaced the underlay, and installed new shingles. Without a word to my dad, they finished the job and left, knowing they had lifted a burden from his shoulders. No celebration, no pomp and circumstance, just a powerful act of quiet kindness.

Later, I texted my dad’s buddy Darren to find out who I could pay or how I could thank them. His reply: “We lost the bill me-buddy.” with a smiley face emoji.

That was it.

Try explaining that to someone outside this province. Try describing the way communities in Newfoundland work in a world that often seems disconnected and overwhelmed by self-interest. Here, that kind of thing doesn’t make headlines. It doesn’t need to. It’s just what we do.

In Newfoundland, your neighbour isn’t just the person next door—he’s family. It’s normal for someone to drop off a hot meal if they hear you’re under the weather. It’s not unusual to wake up and find your driveway already plowed after a storm. And when someone’s in trouble—or even mildly inconvenienced—the community moves as one and says, “We’ve got this.”

What makes these moments so meaningful isn’t just the generosity—it’s the humility. There’s no fuss, no need for recognition. Just people showing up for each other because that’s what community means here. It's a deeply rooted value passed down through generations, woven into who we are.

With the world feeling as unpredictable and divided as it does some days, Newfoundland remains grounded in something rare and real: human connection. We still make time to check in on each other. We still believe in pitching in without being asked. We look after one another—not because we have to, but because we want to.

Because when you grow up in Newfoundland, you grow up with an understanding that we are stronger together. You learn that the measure of a good life isn’t in what you own, but in how you care for others—and how they care for you when it matters most.

Yes, the world can feel overwhelming at times. News cycles are full of conflict and uncertainty. But I carry this story with me now—the story of a group of neighbours who showed up, quietly and without question, to fix a man’s shed – my dad’s – because that’s just what you do in a place like this.

There are still places where love speaks louder than noise. Where kindness doesn’t need a receipt. Where community isn’t just a word—it’s a way of life.

And Newfoundland – My Home. Well, it just might be the best example of that in the world.