Growing Up & Sideways in Cape Breton

By Frank Morrison

“We had dared to dream and we would do it again – tomorrow”

Meet the Morrison Clan, cousins, friends and neighbours
Follow Frank, his brothers, sisters, and buddies as they get themselves into hilarious, touching and sometimes precarious situations throughout Cape Breton Island. A collection of short stories recounting Frank’s memories of a Cape Breton childhood will have you growing up (and sideways) along with the zany Morrison clan. Exploding stills, questionable money-making schemes and the tragic loss of a ’55 Mercury! Grab a mug of home brew and settle back for an amusing trip from 1940’s St Anns through to Halifax in the 1960’s… you’ll even learn a little Morrison family history while you’re at it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781304995551

Frank Morrison

Frank Morrison is a nationally acclaimed artist who received a 2010 Image Award. He is also the Coretta Scott King Award-winning illustrator of Jazzy Miz Mozetta by Brenda C. Roberts. Morrison lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with his family. For additional information visit his website: www.morrisongraphics.com

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Copyright

Growing Up & Sideways in Cape Breton

Copyright © Frank Morrison 2011

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the author or the publisher.

Artwork by Wallace A. Morrison

Jellybean Publishing Ottawa, Ontario

[e-mail]

Book and cover design: F. Morrison, Jellybean Designs

ISBN 978-1-304-99555-1

This book is dedicated to my dear sister Cathie

who left us too early as a beautiful 62-year-old girl.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost I must give a great deal of credit for this work to these fabulous people – relatives, friends and acquaintances without whom there would be no anecdotes.  Secondly, I would like to credit two particular individuals who urged me to write, first some essays and short stories, then attempt a novel.  The first person who recognized what she called some talent in my scribbling was my Grade 9 English teacher Josie MacDonald, who taught at the Baddeck Elementary School back in 1959.  She was a great teacher and a credit to the educational community.  The second individual to similarly encourage me to try my hand at writing was a professor at Dalhousie University back in the late nineteen-sixties.  His name was R. MacG. Dawson.  He suggested that I take Honours English and offered to help me get started in writing.  I was flattered by his advice, but did not heed it until just lately.  I never did take Honours English and unfortunately it is too late to avail myself of his assistance for he, like Josie MacDonald, has passed away.  However I have finally put together a number of short stories and assembled them in a collage for presentation.

So with the incentive provided by my mentors, I undertook this project and after a great deal of writing and rewriting I’ve managed to produce this modest collection of memoirs.  The pronoun I gives far too much credit to the author in this project.  My involvement was to write these accounts in cursive script and participate in proof-reading and have some input in the many other aspects of this project.  For that I will gratefully accept any praise and stoically endure your criticisms.  The overwhelming credit for the massive amount of labour that has gone into this undertaking must be given almost entirely to the small group of relatives and a select few other contributors.  The typing, proof-reading and editing has largely been done by my wife Dale, my daughter Frances and my sister Patricia.  They endured my sometimes cantankerous demeanour and persevered to the point where a book was created.  From time to time my other daughters Wendy and Tammy and even my grandsons Ryan and Nick Thornton helped with typing and computer inquiries.  All of the original illustrations in this work were contributed by my brother Wally.

Much of the credit for the research into my ancestry and early photos must be given to Russell Johnson and his cousin Walter Ross.  Russell’s grandmother Tena was a Morrison – my grandfather’s sister.  Other photos came from Murdock Morrison Jr. and from various other sources like my own albums and those of my Aunt Nellie Steele and my cousin Sharon Mazerolle.

To one and all of these generous and helpful people I say a heartfelt thank you.

-FJM

Introduction

Frank.jpg

Frank fishing on a little pond near Lewis Mountain Road in St Anns, not far from the old family homestead c1965

I began this collection of memoirs with a brief presentation of my family history to, at least in part, establish myself as a generic Cape Bretoner. Also I want to assure you that I’m an ordinary person very much like most of you.  Originally I considered referring to myself as a no-name Islander, but thought better of it because I am quite proud of my name and my Scottish heritage.

My wife, also a Cape Bretoner, has Huguenot ancestors on her father’s side.  These people were excellent record keepers.  We have been able to trace their lineage back to the sixteen hundreds.  We know about the first of her people to come here when they escaped from France in 1752.  We even know the name of the ship they came on and many entertaining anecdotes of their lives.

My Scottish ancestors were not good record keepers.  We have no information about the name of the ship which brought them to North America and we have only a few little stories of their existence and history, none of which are documented except for records of birth, death and sometimes marriage.

The only transfer of information from generation to generation was by word of mouth.  Many suspect the accuracy of this oral history, but we cling to it and depend upon it, for without it we are almost totally in the dark.  Time and again I have been frustrated in my attempts to get information about my forefathers and mothers.  Even recent accounts about ancestors, let alone those of ancient vintage, are hard to come by.

My hope in publishing this, my first attempt at a book, is to give a more enduring nature to my own existence and to those that I have written about.  Without this compilation of my little biographical anecdotes, it’s unlikely that we’ll be remembered at all in less than a hundred years.  With it we’ll be like old-soldiers and never die.  With your help we may not even fade away.  It will give our descendants who are curious about their forbearers a distinct advantage over other future historians and perhaps they will be amused by my revelations.  I expect, also, that those who just want to be entertained will enjoy my little stories and maybe, just maybe, some will be inspired to do a similar thing for their great-grandchildren and others as well.

In relating these stories from my past, I have endeavoured to be as factual and honest as possible.  Therefore it is virtually impossible to avoid offending someone.  The old people used to say, if you don’t have something good to say about someone – say nothing.  Nevertheless, I still feel that these remembrances deserve to be told and the sinners should be censored, but their relatives shouldn’t suffer shame for their misdeeds.  Consequently, I have substituted names wherever stories might be hurtful to others.

On the other hand, I’ve often used the real names of friends and relatives for whom I have a real and abiding affection.  Likewise, I have not used aliases sometimes for those whose behaviour might be deemed inappropriate, but harmless.

Furthermore, my recollection of people and events may differ from that of others.  In connection with this observation, I would like to quote a few lines from the forward of a book, No Room for Doubt by Angela Dove:  "it has become clear to me that we can never really know another person.  We have only our perceptions, coloured by our beliefs and biases and experiences.  We live with one foot in fiction, taking what we know about a person and creating the rest.  Each of us necessarily decides our own truth".

These stories are my truths and I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I’ve enjoyed recording them and sharing them with you.

My Ancestry

An examination of Russell Johnson’s database will acquaint interested persons with an excellent version of my Morrison Family Tree.  I contributed some of the information found therein, like details concerning close relatives and MacKillop data.  I abandoned my own database when I unsuccessfully attempted to merge two files.  The result of this failed maneuver caused confusion so perplexing that I despaired of resolving it.  Being technologically challenged, I opted for the path of least resistance and enthusiastically embraced Russell’s creation.  It is a well-researched database and contains most of the information available to me, and more.  So, to open this project, I will refer to Russell’s records and draw your attention to the earliest people named in the Morrison Family.  According to the family bible that was passed down over the years through successive generations and is currently in the possession of John Eldridge, son of Murdena Morrison, the earliest Morrisons were Brieves and there was also the mention of two Episcopalian Ministers.  Then there was an individual called Donald Ban Morrison.  Ban means fair in Gaelic, so I assume that he had fair hair.  The oral history of our family reports that Donald Ban was killed by a group of the MacAulays who stabbed him to death by tying their knives or swords to their oars and attacking him while he was trying to flee by boat.  Ostensibly the MacAulays were, by this murder, ingratiating themselves to the clan MacLeod with whom the Morrisons were feuding at that time.

Luckily for all of us who followed him, Donald did not expire before he had at least one son named John.  From that point on, if not before, I think it is safe to assume that my ancestors followed the naming conventions in practice at that time; i.e., first-born son is named after his grandfather.  The Christian names Donald, John and Angus are repeated over and again right up to my father, Huber 1922 – 1981.  He was the only son of my grandfather’s second wife (Catherine MacKillop).  Dad named me Frank after his best buddy during the Second World War (Frank Andrecyk).

With the exception of the reports which state that my early ancestors were Brieves and that two were Episcopalian Ministers and of course, the death of Donald Ban at the hands of the MacAulays, there is virtually no anecdotal evidence of my progenitors until Angus Tailor Morrison.  Even in his case, what endures is rather sparse.  He was reported to have been a tailor back in Scotland, but there is no evidence that he practiced this line of work in Cape Breton.

From the reported birthplaces of his children, one can deduce that he and his wife and his first five issue came to Cape Breton sometime in 1828.  There is a colourful story of that journey, or at least the end of that trip, in an account given by a daughter of the late Reverend Allistar Morrison.  Apparently, the Angus Tailor family arrived on board a freighter, not a passenger ship.  I don’t know what the implications of this situation are, but I have speculated that Angus, at 36 years of age, might have worked to pay, or help pay, the cost of the passage.  In any case, this story takes an unexpected twist at the end of the crossing.  Ostensibly the Captain of the freighter missed the entrance to St. Ann’s Harbour, which was the Morrison Family’s destination.  He entered, instead, the Northern entrance to the Bras d’Or Lakes.  When the errant skipper realized his mistake, he put my great-great-great grandfather and family ashore where the Seal Island Bridge now stands.

If they were deposited on the western most banks, then they were probably no more than a five or six hour cumbersome trek over Kelly’s Mountain to Englishtown.  Of course, Angus had no way of knowing this, having just landed in what was to him, indeed, an entirely New World.  If, on the other hand, they were put ashore on the Eastern most banks, they would have required a boat to cross the Bras d’Or before climbing the mountain.  In any event, they had no idea of any options.  They were stranded, plain and simple.  Consequently, they were condemned to spend several weeks in this wild and unfamiliar place until, at last, they were transported to St. Ann’s by some kind fishermen from a French community, perhaps Arichat.  Sadly though, they did not receive this blessing before they were forced to eat the seed potatoes that they had brought from Scotland for planting.

Notwithstanding their uncertain introduction to North America and the harsh winter that awaited them, they survived and persevered through the ensuing years.  Their progeny are now spread all over Canada and the United States of America.

Here are just a few more little tidbits about my great-great-great grandparents and then I will move along to the next Morrison ancestors in my line.  The record shows that Angus was an accomplished bagpiper.  It would appear though, that he was convinced by the equivalents of modern day spin doctors that the devil was in his pipes. So he determined to get rid of them.  Ostensibly, they were of such quality that others desired to take them off his hands.  But it is said that he felt that what was hurtful to him would also be harmful to others.  He would therefore neither give nor sell them to anyone else.  Instead, he threw them off a cliff in Scotland when he was twenty-six years old.  He might not have been particularly smart, but he had character.

My great-great-great grandmother was Martha Catherine MacKillop, more familiarly known - at least in her later years - as Big Kate.  This appellation conjures up an image of a rather substantial woman, but I have no idea whether it was a fair moniker or not, for no photographs of her have survived, to my knowledge.  For some time in the mid eighteen hundreds, Martha Catherine was Post Mistress at South Gut, St Anns.

The next person in my direct lineage was Big John Morrison, the first-born son (1819) of Angus and Martha Catherine.  Again the descriptive Big conjures up a picture of a rather large man, which is more complimentary to a man than to a woman, I think.  Again, however, no photograph of my great-great-grandfather exists, to my knowledge.  One does exist though, of his wife, Christine Dingwall, which shows her as a rather frumpy, largish lady in her advanced years.

I know even less about my great-great-grandfather than I do about his dad and I find this very disappointing.  This dearth of information though is something with which all of us who wish to pursue Family History are often confronted.  It is in fact one of the reasons I have undertaken this very extensive project of compiling and preserving my history – past and present.

The only little bit of information that I have been able to glean about Big John is that he probably worked in the store of a prominent St. Ann’s family, maybe the Monroes.  I have often mused also that the store might have been located on property at the foot of Lewis Mountain Road where there was a wharf and which land was, at least subsequently, in the Morrison family.  Murdena, daughter of my dad’s Uncle Angus, had a restaurant on this site during the 1970’s and 80’s.  It has even occurred to me that perhaps John owned the store at one time.  I have absolutely no support for this supposition.  It is pure speculation on my part.

One thing I do know for sure though is that Big John did have a son Donald, my great-grandfather, about whom I do have some pretty well established information.  Donald settled his family at Lewis Mountain on the property which was bequeathed to him by his father John.  This became, in effect, the family homestead after our holdings at Big Hill.

By all accounts, Donald was a farmer and as such, he was known particularly for his sheep.  One of Alexander Graham Bell’s projects when he was at Beinn Breagh was experimenting with sheep genetics in an attempt to develop a more suitable breed for the Cape Breton climate.  Besides having a significant herd of his own, Bell visited others in the Baddeck vicinity who also had sheep, in an attempt to further his studies.  My great-grandfather became a familiar acquaintance of the inventor, who visited him often.  My second cousin, Murdena, told me of being bounced playfully on Alexander’s knee on several of these visits.  I also have a copy of a photograph of my great-grandfather tarring his boat.  This photo was reputedly taken by Alexander Graham Bell.

Donald married a lady by the name of Sarah Morvengi MacLeod.  Together they had ten children, one of whom was John James, my grandfather (born in 1882).  I never met my grandfather because he died more than three years before my birth while his son, Huber, my father, was overseas.  Dad had no recollection of his father either, having been removed from him at two years of age in 1924.  According to my grandmother, John James was an abusive drunk who terrorized her on a number of occasions when in his cups.  Having known my grandmother, I am not certain that John James was entirely and completely responsible for their difficulties.  For example, my grandmother told me that Grandfather flew into a rage when he noticed a man’s footprints in the snow that led directly into his house when he was away.  Grandma said that these prints were made by her father and that John James’ needless reaction was motivated by jealous paranoia.  Maybe she was being honest about this incident, but I have some doubts.  Grandfather was a hunter and trapper.  His survival was based upon his ability to read tracks in the mud and snow.  I would guess that he knew the prints made by the footwear of everyone in his vicinity and he would certainly have known his father-in-law’s tracks.  Come on, Granny!

Whatever the case, she must have been thoroughly disenchanted with Grandfather to leave him and escape to Sydney with my dad and her daughter from a previous liaison.  Her father and mother left with her also and great Grandfather MacKillop became somewhat of a surrogate father figure for my dad.  Father confided in me that he had always wanted to know his dad, but that of course, never came to pass.

John James did go once to Sydney after the estrangement and made an effort to recover his son, according to Grandma.  My father was in school and unaware of this event.  Grandmother was resolved that there would be no reconciliation and adamant that their son remain with her.  She sent Grandpa away after returning the ring that he had given her when they were married.  This was the last, in-person, contact they ever had.

Grandma maintained that J.J., as he was sometimes referred to, was an inveterate and abusive drunk.  On the contrary, his nephew Kelvin, to whom he left his house and property, told me that John was much maligned, and that after Grandma left him he repeatedly sent her letters with money enclosed.  These were consistently returned without the cash, of course.  Kelvin’s opinion of my granddad was not at all like Grandma’s; of course, he didn’t live with Grandpa.

Whatever the case, there is one thing for sure: John James lived an inauspicious and tragic life.  His first marriage was to a young lady in Bisbee, Arizona where he worked in a copper mine, I believe.  From the pictures I have seen of them together, it is obvious that she was quite attractive and it appears that they had a good relationship, insofar as one can tell from a still photo.  However, if they were happy in their new married life, John and Ida Huber didn’t stay that way for long.  Before she was sixteen years of age, Grandfather’s lovely young bride had her first baby, Tena Frances who, sadly, died