Boy Days Were Happy, Happy Days

By Leroy S. Rose

Boy days is that period of growing up where you become aware of yourself as you progress from a small boy going to school and gradually enter the world as an adult.

During those formative years, boys experience and experiment with all aspects of adolescent life. Not all boys do experience these wonderful stimuli of growing up, and later in their adult lives, if they are unable to do certain things, they are often told that they did not have boy days.

This book is about a person who experienced the whole gamut of boy days. Accompany him as he and his friends go from one boyhood adventure to another. Do things with your mind that make you wish you had done in your growing-up years.

Parts of this book will bring back fond memories to some and maybe misery to others.

Sit back, lie back, relax, and reminisce about all our yesteryears. They were indeed happy, happy days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466951143

Leroy S. Rose

LeRoy Rose was born on Young Island, St. Vincent and the Grenadines. He attended the St. Vincent Grammar School and the Emmanuel High School before going to the United Kingdom to join the Royal Air Force. He served mainly overseas in Aden, Bahrain, the Persian Gulf, Cyprus, and Singapore in addition to detachments to several other places. After his service with the air force, he was employed with Banque Belge in the city of London as its telecommunications manager. He later returned to St. Vincent to be general manager of the island’s marketing corporation. He was “head hunted” by CARICOM and managed the region’s marketing arm, CATCO headquartered in Barbados. During his tenure at CATCO, he travelled extensively throughout the Caribbean region and knows all the islands and states intimately. He was invited back to St, Vincent to be executive director of the Chamber of Industry and Commerce where he stayed until retirement. In St. Vincent, he was also president of the Red Cross Society for an extended period. He is married to Yvette DeFreitas, and they have three children: Michelle, Tshekedi, and Clifford. They also presently have five grandchildren.

Book preview

BOY DAYS

WERE HAPPY,

HAPPY DAYS

36075.jpg

Leroy S. Rose

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© Copyright 2012 Leroy S. Rose.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-5113-6 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-5115-0 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-5114-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012914151

Trafford rev. 08/14/2012

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Contents

Chapter 1 In The Beginning

Chapter 2 Early Schooling

Chapter 3 On Eyry Hill

Chapter 4 Big School

Chapter 5 Home Life

Chapter 6 Mams

Chapter 7 Game of the People

Chapter 8 Outings

Chapter 9 Cassava/Farine and Arrowroot

Chapter 10 Devil Hole

Chapter 11 Growing up in Belmont

Chapter 12 Belmont People

Chapter 13 Belmont River

Chapter 14 Games that we played

Chapter 15 Spa Water, Big Mountain and Surrounds

Chapter 16 Local Religion

Chapter 17 Births and Deaths in the Village

Chapter 18 Country Women

Chapter 19 Hanging

Chapter 20 Working lands and Sharecropping

Chapter 21 Local Characters

Chapter 22 Jumbies

Chapter 23 Strong Rum

Chapter 24 Big Boys, Big Girls

Chapter 25 Some Close Relatives

Chapter 26 Neighbors

Chapter 27 Last Days at Primary School

Chapter 28 Secondary Schools

Chapter 1

In The Beginning

This chapter is about the small island of Young Island, as I know it now and recollection by my father and mother of what the island was in the early 1940’s. In those days and for many years after the island was called ‘Young’s Island’ until it was rebranded ‘Young Island’ when it was transformed into a Tourist Resort a few years ago.

It lies in the deep, where the blue water gleams

A beautiful Island, an Island of Dreams.

Young’s Island is a triangular shaped island lying about 200 yards off the southern shores of St Vincent in the Southern Caribbean. From its shores it rises gradually to a height of 150 feet above sea level. It covers an area of nearly 25 acres.

Today it is a fully self-contained and internationally renowned luxury island resort, frequented by the rich and famous from around the world.

No one lives permanently on Young Island. Holiday makers come and spend their week or ten days and go. Some affluent Vincentians will visit for a special overpriced lunch or dinner and occasionally have a swim in its crystal clear waters with its light golden sandy beach.

Young Island is the perfect place to forget what time it is, what day of the week it is and even forget who you are.

Rest and relaxation is the order of every day on this secluded resort and for the holidaymaker, every whim and fancy can be catered for. If your fancy is a swim, then it is there for you—the sea or the saltwater swimming pool; if you would like to snorkel, then it is just a matter of walking to the back of the island where there is another high and rocky tiny islet—Fort Duvernette—Rock Fort to all Vincentians, comes into view. It lies 50 yards from Young Island and it is possible to walk most of the way to the base of this old Fort which was a defensive position for St Vincent during the colonial wars for the islands. On the summit of Rock Fort some rusted cannons still point seawards where they were left by the colonizers.

Around Rock Fort are some of the most stunning snorkelling and diving area in all of the Caribbean. The waters are deep and large and varied species of marine life are in abundance.

One night each week vacationers on Young Island are taken by boat to Rock Fort for a Bar-B-Q picnic and are entertained by steel pan music. The more lubricated will even climb the Fort, following a flambeau lit path to its summit.

The workers and staff who look after Young Island all live on mainland St Vincent. They commute daily and nightly using the free Young Island Ferry, a small replica of the ‘Island Queen’ in Humphrey Bogart’s film Casablanca. This little motor vessel traverses the short distance between the mainland and the resort ferrying holidaymakers and workers virtually non-stop during the daylight hours; at night the service is As Requested. If you are on the small jetty on St Vincent, it takes just a wave of the hand to get the attention of the driver of the ferry who will immediately start the boat’s engine and motor the short distance to pick you up and return you to paradise.

In the 1940’s Young Island was a completely different place. Same Island but it was covered mainly by cedar trees. There were also coconut and breadfruit trees and a few varieties of mango also grew on the island. The island also had an abundance of other tropical foliage and shrubs. The fauna were Iguanas, Manitou (Opossum) a few goats and of course crabs.

It was on Young Island that my father developed his love for hunting and in particular Iguana and Manicou. He later became an expert Iguana and Manicou hunter and catcher and delighted in taking his friends hunting for these animals on any moonlit night on mainland St Vincent.

Fishing, I was told was very good due to the abundance of sea life around the small island so the family were completely supplied with all their needs for survival. They also cultivated a vegetable patch with root crops and various herbs for cooking.

There were two houses on the island—a five bedroomed bungalow perched on the top of the island, with a large public room and surrounded by a spacious gallery that was used as an observation station. This house was rented out to local Vincentians who wanted to have a quiet holiday away from their homes. The second house was for the Island’s caretaker, who at that time was my father. He did his infrequent commuting to and from the island by a row-boat which he called Queen. This little boat was also used to ferry the visitors who rented the holiday bungalow.

It was during that period of time that I entered this world. I was told that when my mother started to experience ‘Labour Pains’ my Dad had to row his boat all the way to Calliaqua, the nearest town on the mainland, in order to get the Midwife to assist my mother with my birth. My Dad buried my navel string under a cedar tree; the exact spot was pointed out to me many years later by him.

As far as I know or anyone is aware I am the only person acknowledged to have been born on Young Island. That fact in itself is an exceptional ‘First and only’; and with pride I always tell anyone who asks, that I was born on perhaps the smallest and least inhabited island in the world. That is unique and I love it.

I was Christened a month after my birth at the Calliaqua Anglican Church and had one Godfather from Calliaqua, Mr. Phills and a Godmother from Belmont, Tita Revierre who was my Mother’s best friend. Mams, my Mother’s mother was at the christening and Edith McDowald, my father’s mother also attended. A little Feast for the occasion was held at the Church Hall because my grandparents did not want to travel to Young Island by boat and it would have taken several trips to get everyone over from Calliaqua and back after the get-together.

My parents left Young Island about two years after my birth and returned to Belmont, the home of my mother.

Daddy came from Murray’s Village, a suburb of the Island’s capital Kingstown. He attended school in Kingstown and therefore grew up as a Town Boy.

His mother was Edith McDowald and his father was George Rose. A brother of my Grandmother Edith, whose name was Ivan Peters fought in Germany in the 1914-18 war as part of the BWI (British West Indian) contingent. He returned to St Vincent with his surviving comrades after the war with his medals and a wooden left leg. I do not know if he and others were ever rewarded for their services to the crown.

My father was the youngest of five children born to his mother. Ormond Clarke was the first but he died in an accident involving a horse and cart at the young age of 16.

Nathaniel Joseph was the second son and was apparently the ‘tear-away’ of the family. He was very gifted with the use of his hands and had a very sharp mind which led him to become an engineer at the Cotton Ginnery, amongst other occupations which he followed.

Olive Pishton was the first of two girls; the other being Marie James. She was followed by my Dad, Clifford Rose, the last of the siblings of my Grandmother.

The only two of my Dad’s brothers and sisters that I knew were Uncle Nathaniel and Auntie Olive. Marie, one of the sisters went to Trinidad with her father and subsequently migrated to Canada. She never came back to St Vincent.

I did not know my Grandfather very well although I met him on a few occasions. What I do know is that he fathered two other sons by another lady whose surname was Primus; they were both younger than I, but are my uncles.

My Grandmother I knew very well because as a young boy I occasionally spent a few days at her home where I was subjected to utmost care and affection, being her first grandchild. I was told by my uncle and aunt that in her younger days she was very strict with her children and did not ‘spare the rod’ in their upbringing. She was also a very strong lady and could lift and carry any load as a man.

My Aunt Olive often related stories to me about her growing up with her brothers and sister. She recalls how the boys were often locked out of the house if they were late returning from an errand or playing with their friends. When Grandmother was asleep, which was more or less as soon as she went onto her bed; as soon as she started to snore, Olive would let the boys in; however she could not fall asleep herself because she had to let the boys out before dawn so that when their mother awoke they would still ‘be under the house’, thus giving her the impression that they had spent an uncomfortable night sleeping rough outside.

My Grandmother was a devoted ‘Penetion’ Leader or Spiritual Baptists as they are called today. She had her own ‘Prayer House’ where other prospective devotees came to ‘Mourn’ and hopefully get a vision. If they did not get a ‘vision’ they were beaten with a flat piece of board and given more days to fulfil their mission. The same treatment was meted out to both men and women.

My father, I was told was very adventurous as a young man growing up. He used to walk to all of the neighbouring villages with his older brother Nathaniel, looking for farmers who had certain produce to sell. Their mother would subsequently visit the farmers and purchase the produce which she resold in the Kingstown market.

He met my mother on one of those trips in 1939 and they married in 1940 after he had built a home and settled in Belmont. This was during the Second World War and all able bodied male Colonial citizens had to do their bit for King and Country. My Dad was enlisted into the Local (Home) Defence Force and was taught to drive a vehicle. He didn’t see any action during the war because the island was never invaded; nevertheless, he and his colleagues were taught some basic defensive skills which they never had to put to use.

Chapter 2

Early Schooling

Intelligence appears to be the thing that enables a person to get along without education. Education enables a person to get along without the use of his/her intelligence.

Albert E Wiggam

We can all remember those first days of school only that many of us do not wish to so do. In fact to many of us childhood is a forgotten journey. In St Vincent our ‘language’ is English; however if a stranger was listening to young children and adults converse, chances are they would believe that a different language was being spoken. This beautiful and melodious ‘twang’ is often discouraged by some adults but it is still sweet music to many of us to this day. ‘Put yo fo siddung’ is Vincentian ‘parlance’ for someone telling a youngster to ‘have a seat’. At my first school if you got there early the teacher would ‘Put yo fo siddung’ on the bench; if you were late then ‘yo ha to siddung pon a stone or de grund’.

My earliest memory of life was being taken to school by my mother at about age three and a half. The school was owned and run by a friend of my Mother whose name was Violet Wyllie, but known by all as ‘Vie’, ‘Tanti Vie’ or ‘Ms Vie’, dependent on the age etc. of the individual who addressed her.

The school was situated at Top Belmont, about half of a mile up the unpaved stone covered main road from our house.

As I walked along the road with my mother who carried my little bag which contained my slate and snack, we passed villagers doing their daily chores. ‘Mornin Miss Rose’ would be the greeting of all whom we passed. Mammy would return the salutation, adding that she was ‘Taking Leroy to school’, in response to any enquiry as to where was she going so early.

Eventually we would reach our destination and Mammy would greet the Teacher and gives her my bag. They would both chat for a while and when my mother was ready to return home, she would turn to me and say that I should be a good boy and that she would come back for me later.

At first I was unwilling to let my mother leave without me but very soon I got used to the idea of going to school. In fact, I loved going to school so much that I used to ask Mammy to take me there even on Saturdays and Sundays; those were not school days, but I was not aware of that fact at the time.

Teacher Vie’s school was more or less a private kindergarten for children three years and over. The school was held under a mango tree and the yard was surrounded by tall copio plants which served as a defense from the strong blowing winds. When it rained we were taken to a thatched open-sided shed in the yard nearby.

School was conducted only in the morning, where we were taught our ABCs and basic counting. Counting was fun; it was taught as a singing jingle… One and one is two; two and one is three; three and one is for and four and one is five… . The lesson was further reinforced and illustrated with the use of plumbs, which we were allowed to suck after class.

School then was not all ABCs and counting. We played games; Teacher sang to us and about mid-morning Teacher would go off to her kitchen and prepare lunch. Our various parents collected us children any time after Teacher finished her lunch.

After a short while, at age four, Teacher Vie told my mother that ‘the boy (me) head light’, meaning that I was somewhat bright, and that she should send me to Ms. Edwards’s school; so I was dutifully transferred there.

Ms. Edwards’ school was another Private Early Learning establishment; and she conducted classes in the downstairs of her house. She taught children from any age up to when their parents or guardian thought that they should move to conventional government schools or to assist with chores at home. I think that the fees were one dollar per month.

There was only one classroom and we all wrote on slates. Teacher Edwards would place her hand over a pupil’s and guided it in the formation of letters and numbers.

A slate was a fine-grained and brittle but smooth piece of grey/black piece of a special rock that was used as a writing tablet. It was sold in different sizes, the most popular being twelve inches long and eight inches wide. It had a wooden frame all around and two holes at the top to facilitate a string. This enabled pupils to carry their slates around their necks, which left both hand free to do other things. Some parents made a small bag with two handles for their children to carry their slate to school. Lines were scored on one side of the slate using a nail; this made them permanent because they were etched into the slate; this side was used for writing. The reverse side was usually left plain and was used to do sums and drawings. The versatility of the slate was that anything written upon it could easily be wiped off, and reused. A slate in theory could last a pupil until he started to use exercise books, but it never did. If it fell, it would be broken into small pieces and could not be used again; akin to Humpy Dumpy and all the King’s men.

Ms. Edwards’ school was situated very close to the top of Eyry Hill, on an elevated section known as Pansombey Hill. Eyry Hill commands a three hundred and sixty degrees panoramic view of southern St Vincent.

From this vantage point, looking south, most of the Grenadine Islands are visible and on a clear day Union Island, the most southern of St Vincent’s dependencies, can be seen. From this position looking in the same direction, every village, hamlet and settlement is visible within an hundred and eighty degree semi-circle, Kings hill forest reserve and Argyle to the east and Mount St Andrew to the West.

Facing the opposite direction the beautiful vista of the Marriaqua valley is seen in the distance, with surrounding villages and verdant mountains, and sometimes shrouded in clouds, rising majestically towards the sky.

The Majorca water catchments can be pinpointed, and all around hundreds of farms and small holdings with various agricultural cultivation, can be seen. From Eyry Hill everything appears to be below you, and you get that feeling of being a Monarch of all that you survey. Even the birds floating effortlessly in the air