Against the Wind: Hope Sees The Invisible

By Tony F. Powell

Tony Powell was born on March 16, 1955 in Charlottetown, Labrador, NL, on the Northeast Coast of Canada, son of the late Benjamin and Effie Powell. Together they had nine children – seven boys and two girls. Six boys become bush pilots. Tony is married to Ida Powell, and they have one child, Ramsey, who is a medical doctor.

Tony will take you on his life's journey. His stories are captivating, inspiring, and heart-wrenching. He never faltered in achieving his dreams and aspirations.

Tony has a great love for family and history. His greatest qualities are his positive attitude and calm nature, never allowing negative thinking to weaken his strengths and defeat his goals.

Tony's early years took him to the rich fishing ground off the shores of Labrador. At the tender age of seven he would accompany his dad and the crew to haul the cod traps in an ol' 10-metre motorboat. At age fourteen he was fishing as a share-man on his dad's longliner in the furry seas of Northern Labrador.

At age seventeen Tony was guiding sports fishermen from all over the world, fishing for trout and Atlantic salmon in our rich Labrador rivers and streams. Their excitement became his enjoyment.

Tony begin his career as a commercial pilot at the age of twenty. His love of flight included seven years with Labrador Airways, coupled with three years flying the mission plane out of North West River, Labrador.

Tony's dream was to have his own flying service. Pursuing his dream, he became owner/Chief Pilot of Labrador Travel Air, an aircraft charter company. With the newly constructed Trans Labrador Highway along our shores, Labrador Travel Air became history.

He has 45 years of flying experience and 27,000 hours of flight time on over 30 different types of single-and multi-engine aircraft on wheels, skis and floats, including a commercial helicopter licence, often logging 1500 hours in a single year. In Tony's years of flight thus far he is very proud to have a proven record of never having any injuries to his passengers or himself.

Tony continues to fly seasonally on a legendary Beaver seaplane for Portland Creek Aviation, and has his own PA-18 Super Cub C-GTFP.

I invite you to come experience first hand Captain Tony Powell behind the controls of the legendary de Havilland pistonpowered Beaver during the seventies without heaters in –50oC temperatures. Watch him perform many lifesaving mercy flights while battling some of nature's most severe weather conditions anywhere on the planet. His described flights will surely capture the attention of the most avid flyer as we witness him survive engine failures and even a crash landing amongst the huge trees in Labrador.

Come live out in real time his heroic shipwreck. Sit on his modified Mach Z Ski-Doo and feel the adrenaline flow through your veins as you race for dear life up the big mountain in the Race on the Rock at Marble Mountain, NL.

At age forty-eight, Tony was diagnosed with fourth and final stage cancer. Learn of his prognosis, and his courageous determination to survive. Experience his fight to beat the odds.

Throughout Tony's recollections you will travel by air, water and land, experiencing historic events and fatal airplane crash scenes in Labrador, including the story of his Grandfather Powell sailing onboard the Dorothy Duff while delivering a load of salt cod fish to the Mediterranean Sea during WWI. It will surely chill you to your core.

Tony will welcome you to his childhood family home where you will find pure love overcoming many of life's obstacles. Find out the true meaning of perseverance, courage and strength.

Tony has shown us what life's struggles are all about and how he survived them.

This book is a true reflection of living our lives one day at a time. Each day we all journey Against the Wind and survive the storms of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Dec 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228836858

Tony F. Powell

Tony Powell was born and raised at Charlottetown, Labrador, Newfoundland Labrador, a proud member of NunatuKavut, Southern Inuit of Labrador. He is mixed blood Inuit and European decent, the son of the late Author Benjamin W. Powell of Charlottetown, Labrador, NL. His mom was the late Effie Mary Campbell Powell, born at George's Cove, ten miles south of Square Islands on the southeast coast of Labrador. Married to Ida Powell of Conche, on the great Northern Peninsula of NL, they have a son, Ramsey Powell, who is a medical Doctor.When Tony was a boy the main mode of transportation along the Labrador Coast was by a Team of husky dogs or snowshoes.A travelling doctor and nurse visited our community once during the winter by dog team, and once during the summer by boat. The first scheduled Aircraft passenger service was Labrador Airways by single engine Otter in 1970 winter time only.

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, Effie Mary Powell, my wife, Ida, our son, Ramsey, and my sister, Marie.

About the Author

Tony Powell was born and raised in Charlottetown, Labrador, NL. A proud member of the NunatuKavut, Southern Inuit of Labrador, he is of mixed-blood Inuit and European decent. He is the son of the late author, Benjamin W. Powell, of Charlottetown, Labrador, and the late Effie Mary Campbell Powell, born at George’s Cove, ten miles south of Square Islands on the southeast coast of Labrador. Married to Ida Powell of Conche, on the Great Northern Peninsula of NL, the Powell’s have one son, Ramsey Powell, who is a medical doctor.

Tony enjoys hunting partridge and sport fishing with a fly rod for large brook trout and Atlantic salmon—something he’s been doing all his adult life. He has been a commercial fisherman as well as a licensed hunting and fishing guide for the past forty-seven years.

Also, Tony has a need for speed, racing his Ski-Doos at every opportunity since the age of fourteen, and riding and competing in racing events across the province of NL, and as far away as the Rocky Mountains of British Columbia and Reno, Nevada, as well as sometimes doing long two-thousand-kilometre- plus adventure-rides across Labrador on his snowmobile by himself.

He was shipwrecked on Inbound Island, northern Labrador, in October ‘75, in one of the worst hurricanes to strike Labrador in at least the last 135 years.

A pilot for forty-five years, Tony has flown all across Canada from the Yukon to Labrador and most places in-between, on single and multi-engine airplanes with wheels, skis and floats. In this book there are many stories of those adventures, including search and rescue missions and lifesaving mercy flights—sometimes in severe weather conditions.

Tony continues to fly a legendary DHC-2 Beaver seasonally, out of his hometown of Charlottetown, Labrador, mostly flying sport fisherman to the rich Atlantic salmon rivers in Labrador where the fish are big and plentiful. He also enjoys flying his own Piper PA-18 Super Cub, C-GTFP, at every opportunity, and plans to do some long adventurous flights in the future.

Throughout Tony’s recollections you will travel by air, water and over land, experiencing historic events and fatal aircraft crash scenes across Labrador, including the story of his grandfather sailing onboard the sailing ship Dorothy Duff, delivering a load of salt cod fish to the Mediterranean Sea during WW1—it will chill you to the bone.

This book is a true reflection of living one day at a time as we all journey against the wind and survive the storms of life.

Forward

Dear Reader,

Welcome! Thank you for choosing my book. In the following pages I want to take you on a journey—my life’s journey, and in many ways our journey. My goal for this book is for you, the reader, to be encouraged by our own collective strength, determination and humor, in order to overcome the obstacles we may have to face along life’s path.

I was born and raised in Charlottetown, on the south coast of Labrador. I am a fourth-generation Labradorian whose ancestry is a mixture of European settlers and Labrador Inuit.

At the tender age of seven I was introduced to the fishing boat, and by age fourteen I was doing a man’s work as a crewman on my dad’s fishing vessel in Strawberry, northern Labrador.

At the age of fourteen I was fishing with my brothers at Strawberry, Northern Labrador, on Dad’s sixty-five-foot longliner, Blanch Marie, for cod fish and salmon.

At the age of sixteen I flew to Goose Bay on Labrador Airways’ Single Otter passenger plane, the fare was twenty-eight dollars. There I worked on the USAF base for three months. I was always fascinated with aircraft. It was a pleasure to meet country music singer-songwriter stars George Jones and Tammy Wynette, who performed at the NCO Club on base.

In May of 1972 I left home with brother Lester for Toronto, Ontario, where he bought the Cessna 172 floatplane, CF-JJH, in Sudbury. One evening while Lester was doing his float training I went down town Sudbury to see Stompin’ Tom Connors and Wilf Carter in concert. It was awesome to see these Canadian country and folk singer-songwriters in person, an event I will always cherish along with the memories of flying home in less than desirable weather conditions, with no radios whatsoever, and just a road map and compass for navigation. Even though I did not touch the controls, I learned a lot about bush flying on that trip.

At age seventeen I was guiding at Powell’s Sports Fishing Lodge on the Gilbert River, sometimes piloting our thirty-three-foot cabin cruiser, Field and Stream, along the Labrador Coast from Square Islands to Gilbert River areas. When our sport fishing lodge closed, I went to Goose Bay on the coastal steamer SS Cabot Strait and worked in the woods with the Labrador linerboard until I was laid off four months later when operations shut down.

Over the pass forty-five years I have logged more than twenty-seven thousand flying hours, mostly as a single pilot in both single and multi-engine aircraft. My most prized flights were those piloting the legendary de Havilland Beaver. I loved my work and still do seasonal flying as a commercial bush pilot. I was the owner-operator and chief pilot of my own aircraft charter company, flying the beautiful skies of the Big Land we call Labrador, as well as numerous other areas, from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific, Western Arctic, and most places in between. I’ve encountered the most adverse conditions that nature can offer a pilot. Prior to starting my own company, Labrador Travel Air, I flew for Labrador Airways out of Goose Bay, including three years flying the air ambulance out of North West River, Labrador.

My compositions of true-to-life stories in the following pages will bring you into my many triumphs and defeats along my life’s journey, and show how perseverance can help us overcome all obstacles if we remain positive in times of defeat, and win with an abundance of gratefulness.

I will share with you my seven-year-long battle against fourth-and-final-stage cancer, the importance of having good people in my life during my time of need, and the large role they played in my recovery.

See how much it meant for me to be given back my wings after having to do months of painful physiotherapy to build up my leg muscles in order to walk again, and endless hours of speech therapy that gave me back my ability to talk, as well the agony of throat stretching so I could swallow solids again. Experience the real meaning of gratitude to people who have great faith in your flying abilities and give you back your dream of flight.

Understand the importance of our history, our land, our ancestors, family and friends, and the most paramount of all circumstances in our lives: to believe in the of the power of prayer.

From as long as I can remember my parents taught me the importance of family, work, respect, gratefulness and prayer. Throughout my life I have been faced with many challenges and I have overcome these by maintaining a positive attitude coupled with a good sense of humor, never allowing stumbling blocks—or even boulders—to prevent me from achieving my dreams. Always remember when choosing a career to follow your heart because just like me after forty-five years, I hope you will still have the same passion as I do when I climb aboard my airplane, settle in the left seat with my hands at the controls, and call: Ready for take-off!

Thank you all for taking this wonderful journey with me, particularly my loving wife, Ida, who is also a cancer survivor herself. You have been my anchor over the past thirty years. You have been my greatest supporter, and for your countless hours of help and encouragement on the writing of my book I am grateful. To Ramsey, thank you for being a wonderful son. You made my life worth living! You were more than a son; you were my best friend.

Sincerely,

Tony F. Powell

A Note from a Friend of the Author

It is indeed an honour and a privilege for me to pen these words about the author of this book, Tony Powell.

I first met Captain Tony Powell early in the early 1980s in the cockpit of a small airplane. I quickly experienced first-hand his unique character and qualities. I had many flights with him over the years and in my mind, he is simply a legend in his field of aviation. His mastery of the controls were second to none and his love of flight was evident to all who flew with him. His understanding of planes and his uniqueness in flying them is unbelievable.

Tony always had great faith in the planes he flew. I learned the hard way while on charter with him that if you spoke unfavorably about his aircraft, he had a unique way of proving his point. He taught me that lesson on one such charter with him and I soon came to understand any plane that Tony is flying will get us to and from safely. His motto was it’s not the airplane but the pilot at the controls.

I have gotten to know Tony quite well over the years and I have no doubt his life’s journeys in this book will keep the reader enthused. Whether it’s his love of flight, the need for speed as he sits behind the handlebars of his beloved Mach-Z, or living through the fierce seas of northern Labrador, he will amplify the true meaning of self-confidence and the abilities of the man.

Always smiling and enjoying the blessings of life which have come his way, despite the turbulence felt through sickness and sorrow, his strength to survive is commendable.

Tony is a devoted father and husband. I am proud to be associated with such an individual (a true gentleman), and I’m certain you will enjoy reading his book and getting to know this Man of Labrador.

Gilbert Linstead,

General Manager of Labrador Fisherman’s Union Shrimp Company Limited.

Chapter 1

Early Days

Tony and Marie with their Father Benjamin W. Powell Sr. In front of his general store in Charlottetown, Labrador 1959.

There was a winter blizzard raging along the Labrador coast on the night of March 15th, 1955. Around midnight, my mom told Dad to go get her mother. Grandmother Lenora Campbell ventured out in the blustery whiteout conditions and waist deep snow, arriving at our house a short time later in her snowshoes. A winter storm was no match for a mom whose daughter needed her. In the wee hours of the morning on Wednesday, March 16th, 1955, a healthy eight-pound baby boy arrived. He would be named Tony. That name had great significance for my mom. I was named in honor of the good Doctor Tony Paddon, whom she had seen in Square Islands six months earlier on the Grenfell hospital ship, the Maraval. My middle name, Frederick, was after Frederick Rowe, Minister for Labrador in the government who helped my father to get sales for his pulpwood at Grand Falls, Newfoundland, during the early 1950s when my father had his woods operation in Charlottetown, Labrador.

I recall my mom telling this little story many times. . . .

My brother Lewis, just twelve years old, had his own fifteen-foot rowboat. My mom loved berry picking and since my dad was always busy at our summer home in Square Islands, Lewis would be happy to take her out to the many small Islands in St. Michaels Bay. If the wind was in his favor, Lewis would rig up a sail to give his arms a rest.

In 1957 he bought his first outboard motor—a three-horsepower Evinrude. This was a big deal, cutting down on travel time. There was no babysitter back in those days so my mom would have to take her baby along on the berry pick. Lewis put a tent over his boat and made it comfortable for her and her baby.

She enjoyed picking blackberries in early August—they made for tasty, boiled puddings and jams—followed by bakeapples around the middle of the month, which were the cream of the crop when it came to berries. They always paid attention to the weather forecast because these berries had to be picked as soon as they were ripe; bakeapples spoil quickly with the hot sun and are easily beaten from their stock if there is heavy rain. The bakeapples were used to make pies, bakeapple juice, and were also quite tasty when served as a desert topped with a pinch of sugar to sweeten the sharp taste.

September was blueberry picking month. Again, these berries made delicious puddings, jams, pies, crumbles, muffins and juice. The blueberry was a real delight when served with a little sugar and cream.

By late September to early October, after the first snap of frost, it was time for partridge berry picking. This berry is quite bitter and needs lots of sweetener. However, it’s the one berry that gets a better flavor when picked the following spring. These berries also made for delicious jams, pies and juices. Berries were a big part of our food chain. We picked for free and they were all naturally grown.

I was just a year old when Mom took me along with her for the first time, She often found it difficult walking up over the island and then circling around the boggy marshes looking for a good batch of berries while she had a child in her arms. On this particular outing she picked the most bakeapples ever because she left me behind in the boat with my brother Lewis to babysit. I was fed, cleaned and fast asleep, so she scurried up over the island and across the boggy marshes. We were always in her sight but this was one time she could use both hands to do the picking without a baby swinging off her hips.

My mom always did very well with the berries. Once we were at the age that the older children could look after the younger siblings she would get dropped off on the islands and pick berries until her buckets were filled or until darkness—whichever came first. If we didn’t see her once we got to the island to pick her up we knew she was still picking. Normally she was down by the seashore sitting on a rock, smiling and happy with her pickings. She always said wild berries were among the healthiest foods on earth.

There are 365 Islands in St. Michaels Bay—one for every day of the year. One of these islands in the narrows to St. Michaels Bay was my mom’s favorite for berry picking. Today, in honor of my mom, it is referred to as Effie Powell’s Island.

Growing up, we all had our turn taking her to the islands. In her later years Dad would drop her off on that island named after her on his way to Square Islands and pick her up again on his way back in the bay to Charlottetown. She certainly would enjoy those couple of hours of berry picking. Some things in our lives are etched in our memories forever, this is one very special memory for me.

My family had just moved to Square Islands for the summer fishing season of 1957, I was just two years old at the time and like all little children I was outside playing with my older siblings. A man by the name of Jack Shea, who had fished with my dad for years, was splitting up birch junks for firewood next to our house. Jack used to smoke the pipe sometimes. Like all little children, anything different attracts our attention and our immediate response is, Can I have one like that too?

With good intentions, Jack found a small birch stick and using his pocketknife, carved me a little pipe. I was as happy as could be going about with the pipe in my mouth. A few hours later everyone was in an uproar. Apparently, I tripped while running down a flat rock between our house and my dad’s fishing stage, falling face down, and the narrow end of the stick went down my throat and broke off. Mom saw me fall and ran down to fetch me. Grabbing me in her arms she immediately knew I was literally choking. She began to call out in a loud and panicked voice, Come, somebody help me, Tony is choking! Within minutes her call was answered. With me in her arms she ran to the house as fast as she could with many others trailing behind her. Opening my mouth they could see the stick stuck down in my throat but it was down too deep for the human finger to nip the end of it. After several attempts to remove the stick without success, my face begin to turn purple as I fought the swelling and bleeding, and my breathing was being choked off. Each attempt to remove the stick would cause me to gag and vomit, when finally the stick loosened up enough that the next big gag pushed it up just far enough to pinch. The stick was removed!

There were no phones and Dad did not have a HF radio working that summer. He had left for Fishing Ships Harbour in his motorboat but the northern ice was pinned on the Cape Shore. They landed somewhere along the shore and made the very difficult eight-kilometer trek along the rough terrain to Fishing Ships Harbor. He asked Lewis Roach, the manager of the fishing rooms, to try and get a message to St. Anthony Hospital and see if the Beaver mission plane was in the area because this was a life-or-death situation. He hurried back over the hills to the motorboat, and when he arrived back to Square Islands the next morning he was very relieved to learn the stick was removed and that I was doing okay. He also learned the mission plane, CF-JAT, flew over and circled Square Island Harbour later the previous evening but due to icy conditions it was unable to land.

As I grew older I would ask my mom about that day. She would always choke back the tears and say, God was good to you that day Tony. After we got the stick out you were a long time getting better from the damage done to your throat. Thinking back, I’m sure that must have been a terrible day for my parents. How terribly helpless they must have felt. You can read the full complete story about that dreadful day in my dad’s book, Labrador by Choice.

A year later, on a beautiful July morning in Square Islands, several huge icebergs were grounded at the entrances to the harbour and the motorboats were coming and going. Dad had three fishing crews that summer. Frank Clark was skipper of one crew, and my brother Lester, just eleven years old, was the youngest share-man on Frank’s boat. He cut-throat eleven hundred kennels of fish that summer. Jim Hedderson, from Main Brook, NL, skippered another crew. My dad’s share-men were Bobby Hilliard, George Noel, and my oldest brother, Lewis. Dad had the smallest motorboat, and their first priority was the salmon nets, followed by cod trapping. The codfish was so plentiful it was load-and-go with boatloads of codfish, each boat bringing in three loads a day.

Just a few days earlier the northern ice was moving in on the cape shore as Dad and his crew loaded the little motorboat with almost three hundred salmon from just one fleet of salmon nets at the distinctive Labrador landmark, Hole in the Wall—named after the huge hole through the cliff facing the Atlantic Ocean—at cape St. Michaels, seven kilometres southeast of Square Islands. That morning, my mom, looking out the kitchen window, said, Here comes Jim Hedderson and crew, with the motorboat loaded to the gullans (fully loaded) with cod. Looking at my sister Marie, she added, I better get a lunch ready your father, they should be here anytime soon.! I was just three years old at the time and I thought she said, Your father is here. I loved going down to meet my dad, so without notice to Mom or Marie, I booted out the front door and down over the long flat rock to the stage head less than a hundred feet away. Without slowing down, I slipped on the wharf plank and landed in the icy cold water. I can’t remember anything after that. After the motorboat moored, and prior to going up to the house for lunch, they pronged-up the boatload of codfish on the wharf. Just before the boys came up for their dinner Mom realized I wasn’t in the house so she headed down to the wharf and asked, Where is Tony? But no one had seen me. In panic mode, everyone started searching. Suddenly, in a concerning voice, Jim Hedderson said, Is that him down there on the bottom among the cod’s heads? He grabbed the bolt hook and snatched me up. I was motionless as they ran for the house with me and rolled me around and patted me on the back. I began to throw up water. It would be about three hours before I recovered enough to talk. Just goes to show how easily children can slip away from our sight.

Chapter 2

We Lose Everything in a House Fire

The house where the Author was born in and later burned to the ground Losing everything in the Winter of 1961. The old school behind on the hill.

It was a beautiful, bitterly cold and sunny February morning, with a temperature of -37°C. All of the older students were required to bring a junk of dry wood to school each day to keep the old pot belly stove burning, as this was our school’s only source of heat. I was just a tiny little fellow, and would turn six in March. I remember the day—February 23rd, 1961—like it was yesterday, seeing all my older siblings with their junk of dry wood under their arms as we walked to school.

I was settling into class in our one-room schoolhouse on the hill, just a hundred yards behind our home. It was the first and only school in Charlottetown at the time. I went to school for the first time after Christmas that winter. My belly was beginning to feel like it needed food. I thought to myself it must be getting close to lunch time. Suddenly, our teacher, Mr. Edward John Flynn, rang the bell for the one-hour dinner break. Little did I know, it would be more than a year before I would return to school. The sixteen-by-twenty-four-foot schoolhouse could only accommodate forty students and because there would be more than the required number the following September, the school board ruled that all students under the age of seven would not be eligible to attend. I recall saying to my family as we sat around the table when the news broke, Then I guess I’m outta luck. Mind you, in my mind I was kind of happy because I sure would rather be outside playing than in a stuffy school where it was all work and no play. The teachers were extremely strict back then; I did not consider school much fun at all. In our school the grades ranged from kindergarten to Grade 9. We couldn’t talk to our friends, we had to just sit in our seat and do work. In a way we almost had to self-educate because with only one teacher there was very little attention given to each student. The very worst of all was if the teacher saw any student outside after supper, they would be punished the next day when we went to school. This was particularly bad for an outdoorsy kid like me.

Thinking about it now, I guess the teachers had to be strict as I’m sure it could not have been an easy task trying to teach forty students. I imagine the rationale behind not being allowed out after supper was because we would have our homework completed for the following day.

That day I can remember running down over the hill in through the house door to see what Mom had cooking for dinner. I was real hungry. That day’s menu would be porcupine. The aroma from the food cooking on the wood stove made my mouth water. Dad had just come in from the post office where he was doing up the return mail. The weather was nice and he was expecting the mail plane to arrive from Gander any day now. Everyone was home except my oldest brother, Lewis, who was on the wood path with our horse, Harry, gathering firewood. The next thing I remember was a loud bang coming from upstairs. It sounded like a piece of furniture fell down. Mom and Dad ran for the stairway because they thought my baby sister Blanch was upstairs in her cot. Get out children, get out, quick, the house is afire, they shouted. Then another big bang sounded as the old fire extinguisher exploded, knocking Dad a cold junk on top of Mom and sending them both tumbling down over the stairs.

There was quite the commotion. As Lester attempted to go upstairs to help save our baby sister from the burning house, he would be pushed back by the smoke and flames. Mom shouted for him to come on back and he answered, The baby is upstairs!

In all the panic, Mom forgot that my baby sister Blanch was downstairs in the highchair in my dad’s office, and the first thing she did was grab the baby and gave her to my sister Marie, telling her to go quickly to her aunt Winnie’s house.

When Dad came around, he quickly grabbed his most valuable item—his old HF radio—and ran outside. That radio was his only connection with the outside world. Mom told me go tell Uncle John Kippenhuck our house is on fire, then to go to my grandmother’s and tell them too. They only lived a short distance from our house. She told brother Sandy to go in the opposite direction toward Uncle Bart Turnbull’s and let them know that our house was afire and we needed all the help we can get. However, very few helpers were to be found because most of the men around the community were still in the woods. Dad managed to get most of the important things out of the post office, but was unable to save anything from his shop. This was bad because in those days most people would get everything on credit and pay in the fall once they sold their fish. He had no way to know who had what or how much he was owed. This was a terrible loss for his business. We lost all of our personal belongings. The fire had reached his year’s supply of ammunition, including kegs of gun powder, shotgun shells, riffle shells and more. Everything was exploding. I recall hearing Dad talking to everyone about the fire and saying the only thing he could guess had happened was that the fire must have started around the stove pipe upstairs. I remember after alerting everyone, I came back to the house for a look, and seeing the smoke bundling out. I saw my mom grab a few things from the post office, and my grandmother pulling a pair of ladies’ flannel underwear from the clothesline and hauling them over her head before disappearing into the black smoke. A minute later I could see her coming out dragging behind my mom’s old gasoline-powered washing machine. I saw Dad along with others climbing up the ladders to the roof, but parts of it were already caving in. It was just too dangerous for them to do anything because you could see the flames coming up through the roof. They could only step back and watch everything that he worked so hard for all his life go up in flames. The most important thing was that we all escaped with our lives. However, my brother Lester lost his husky dog, Blackie, in the fire. Blackie was very special to my mom because he was the last one left from my mom’s own team of husky dogs that she loved so much. Blackie was getting old and cute. With all the noise and sounds from the loud explosions, he thought that Lester was going to harness him up to go to the brook for a barrel of water with his other dog, Tray. Blackie ran underneath our house which he often did, and never survived.

Mom sent me up to Mr. Flynn’s house where I watched through the frosted window along with his daughter Shirley and his son Melvin. We would watch together as our home burned to the ground. I could see a very large crowd standing around, and I saw Pastor William Gillette recording everything on his 8 mm movie camera.

I can still picture my dad running about in the bitter cold with only his shirt on. We had lost everything except for the clothes we were wearing. He built our two-storied house eight years earlier. Attached to his new house was his general store and post office, including an underground cellar on the back where he kept all the vegetables and perishable food items, enough to last until next June, now it was all gone.

That night some of us went to stay with Grandmother and Uncle Sandy, and some of us went to Aunt Winnie’s. I remember my brother Ramsey, who was just three years old, crying to go home. He was too young to understand there was no home for us to go to, but just to ease his mind Uncle Sandy Campbell took him in his arms and walked to where our house once stood. The cellar was still burning, and Ramsey’s only words were, I want to go back to my mom. He never mentioned anything about going home after this. The horrific ordeal of losing our home would traumatize us for weeks and months. Needless to say, when Mr. Jack Shea, who fished with my dad for a few years and was a great friend of our family, reached up to take his rifle down off the gun rack and didn’t realize the gun was still loaded, accidentally firing a bullet up through the loft where my baby sister Blanche was sleeping, Mom quickly jumped to her feet and booted it upstairs. Not a sound from her baby could be heard and naturally she was fearing the worst. A short while earlier when Mom had changed the baby, she left her secure on the bed instead of laying her back in her crib. When my mom charged into the room, Blanche was wide awake and smiling. Looking over to the cot she saw there was a hole in it where the bullet came up through and stuck in the ceiling. I can assure you Jack never forgot to unload his gun before coming into the house after that.

Dad connected his HF radio the next day and sent a message to the Welfare officer in Mary’s Harbour to let him know the situation. He also contacted the Red Cross and sent a message to Dr. Frederick Rowe, member of the Newfoundland and Labrador government. I can remember several days later an aircraft flying in with some clothing, bed clothes and other basic necessities. There were only two general stores in Charlottetown, Dad’s and Mr. Wentzell’s. However, Mr. Wentzell never had enough food for the whole community. Dad contacted our MHA and the provincial government and they agreed to pay the cost of shipping in supplies from Battle Harbour to Charlottetown for the food items he ordered—mostly rough grub, flour, butter, sugar, milk, hard bread, beans, dried-apples, molasses etc. Three days later Dad had his little shed all set up and renovated, ready for business again. My dad was just fifteen years old when he came to Labrador from Carbonear, NL, with everything he owned in a brown paper bag. This was during the Great Depression. At a young age he learned quickly that when bad things happen we have to rise above the fray and look ahead, because what happened yesterday is behind us. Once he got his store situated, he soon began the work of cutting logs and hauling them out to his sawmill to be cut into lumber. He wanted to be well prepared when rebuilding a new house for his family in the summer. Many of our family and neighbors in the community volunteered to help out. Dad spoke of it often through the years and would always voice his deep gratitude and appreciation for all those that supported him.

Dad didn’t want to be a burden on others even though he knew they were happy enough to help out, so in the spring, when the weather began to get warmer, he took the horse out of the barn and fixed it up good enough to live in until we moved out to our summer home at Square Islands. My mom mixed together flour and warm water to make a sticky paste. The paste was spread over outdated pages from the Eaton’s catalogue, old newspapers, magazines etc. and used to cover the walls in the barn. Old scraps of canvas would be used to cover the floor. I remember the floor in the barn looking like a