A Spring Bike Ride

by Ben Robicheau ~ brobicheau@cogeco.ca

It’s early Spring, 1959 and I’m ten years old; the sun’s out and Westport’s gravel roads have dried up enough for me to finally take the bicycle I got for Christmas out for a spin. As I roll down the driveway on my new CCM Supercycle, I notice that the boats usually moored up the road are gone from their spots. Ace and Wick must be out hauling traps, taking advantage of the nice weather in these last few weeks of lobster season. In fact, as I look around I see that most of the boats in the harbour are gone from the three dozen or so mooring sites along the waterfront. As I turn out of the driveway I realize that even though the road is starting to dry up, it’s not very smooth. Brad hasn’t been out with his grader yet and I have to carefully steer between the ridges, ruts and mudpuddles.

Heading down the road, I pass by the buildings that make up my father’s fish plant, the blue-shingled drier is on the right, and over the water on the left is the long shed and ramp where boats unload their catch. As I pass by, I catch a whiff of the woody, fishy scent coming from the smokehouse, which is attached to the front corner of the building. On the same side of the road, at the bottom of Ed Pugh’s lane, is a building that looks like it might have been a store or some sort of business at one time. Lately it has been put to a variety of uses, right now it’s full of large wooden hogshead barrels, someone is using them for salting down fish.

As I roll along past Herald Thompson’s, Ray McDormand’s and Charlie Boy’s shops, all my concentration is dedicated to trying to stay out of the ruts and avoid soft spots in the road. As I pass Edna-Fred’s stone wall I suddenly hear the yapping of a dog and, knowing what this signifies, I throw caution to the wind and splash through mud puddles and over ruts in a desperate attempt to avoid being caught by Mrs. Bowers’ little black Scottie dog. Just when I think I’ve managed to avoid him this time, I feel his teeth clamp onto my pant cuff and all of a sudden I’m fighting to keep my balance as I zig-zag across the road, trying to avoid falling in the half-thawed mud or running into the rocks along the breastwork while fending off my growling attacker with my right leg and trying to pedal faster with my left leg. I’m starting to think Blackie is going to win this one when the sunporch door opens and to my great relief I hear Mrs. Bowers order her dog back into the yard.

Having just survived one of the terrors of travelling the Front Road, I am now confronted with another one. The liver factory is an imposing looking, two-story building where the father-and-son team of Gerald and Albert Baily cook fish livers in a big vat; the resulting liquid is put into forty-five gallon drums and shipped off to be made into fish oil products. This building is a scary place to some kids, not because of the strong cod liver oil smell that comes from it when the vat is in operation, but because of the door on the second floor. Above the big sliding ground-level doors are a set of smaller, upper floor double doors. When these doors are open, passersby can usually see Gerald and/or Albert sitting on an old couch looking out at the road. This is not the scary part, the scary part is that sometimes when you pass by there is another person sitting there, a person you don’t recognise. Some kids say that this is a ghost, some say it’s a dummy that Albert and Gerald made and some say it is just someone with a mask on. Usually he just sits there staring out at you, but several kids swear that they have seen him get up and come to the door, demanding to know where they are going or why they aren’t in school. As a result, many kids take the Back Road to avoid this strange character. I am relieved to see that this time the doors are closed; nevertheless, I speed up and hurry past the building with a prickly feeling on the back of my neck and an eerie sense that someone is watching me from that second floor.

Now I’m coming up to one of the oldest buildings in Westport. On my left is a one-story building with several tall windows in the front; some of which have been replaced with a set of double doors. Before the big red schoolhouse was built on the Back Road, this two-room building was the school for the Island: now Vic Strickland uses it as a garage for his car. Vic is a Studebaker man, every few years he gets a brand new car and as I pass by I can see his latest, a Studebaker Lark, through the small, wavy panes of the old school windows.

Across from Vic’s garage stands what I have always imagined to be the sturdiest house in Westport. Russell Swift has the only brick house on the Island, in fact, I think it’s the only brick house on Digby Neck. Russell also has the most feared cat on the Island, Toby is a grumpy, twenty pound tomcat that doesn’t seem to be afraid of anyone and has a habit of beating up the neighbourhood dogs.

I pass a few more fishsheds and an old green double-ender fishing boat that’s been sitting on the side of the road for the past couple of years; then after passing Edgar MacDormand’s TV repair shop and the little building next to the ferry wharf that houses the post office, I pull up in front of my father’s store. After chatting with Gladys and fortifying myself with some Digby Dairy chocolate milk and a bag of Scottie’s Chips, I’m ready to continue my ride.

As I head down the road I glance out over the harbour; out near the moorings are a couple of boats unloading their catch at the lobster cars, and farther out I can see the lighthouse and the lightkeeper’s house on Peter’s Island. Continuing along, I pass the bank building, open one afternoon a week, then Daniel Kenny’s big fishplant. I make a brief stop to look through the open doorway of Gerald Strickland’s machine shop, he’s always working on something interesting and the noisy, complicated overhead shaft-drive system with its wide, looping belts that power his various saws, lathes and drillpresses is always a source of fascination for me.

As I ride along past the string of wharves between the Co-op Store and Bowers’ Store at the bottom of the New Lane, I notice that some of the big cast iron cauldrons that sit on the side of the road in front of nearly every fish shop are being readied for use again. Soon, fires will be burning under these pots and they will be filled with melted tar, through which new fishing lines will be drawn to coat them with a protective layer.

As I approach the New Lane I notice a thick cloud of smoke pouring out of one of the buildings next to Bowers’ store: someone is making leads. This building contains a forge where scrap lead is melted down and poured into moulds to make fishing weights. Even though all the doors and windows are open, the smoke is so thick you can barely see across the room. Nevertheless, I go in to see if they’ll let me turn the crank that blows air through the coal and heats up the fire in the forge. After half an hour of continuous cranking while breathing coal smoke and lead fumes, my arm is getting sore, my eyes are running and I’m having trouble breathing so I call it quits.

Outside in the fresh air once again, I notice that it’s starting to look like rain so I decide to head home. As I turn onto the Back Road a few scattered raindrops fall. Standing up on my pedals, I race for home, flying past the Oddfellows Hall, Gerald Strickland’s movie hall, the school house and the Baptist Church parsonage, all in a row. Half-way home I slow for a truck coming down from the field behind Whitney Derby’s house where they used to dry fish on wooden flakes in the sun, then I go all out again and just make it home before the rain really starts to come down. What started out as a nice sunny day is now a downpour and in a few hours might well turn into snow. It’s just another typical Spring day on the Island.