读文章记单词

UNIT 4 A Canadian Family Story

My story begins in Newfoundland where my brother and I were born during the Second World War. The island of Newfoundland, which was originally a British colony, became the newest province of Canada in 1949, the same year th at the People’s Republic of China was born.

Our mother was born and raised in Newfoundland. During the War (World War II), she worked in St. John’s, the capital city, where she met a young Canadian sailor from Ontario. He was a member of the crew of a Royal Canadian Navy ship that was part of one of the convoys that escorted supply ships across the Atlantic Ocean to Europe during the war. They fell in love and subsequently, got married. The rest is history, so to speak. Our family moved to Ontario in late 1945, just after the war ended.

In 1999, acting on impulse, my brother and I decided to take our mother to Newfoundland for a visit. It had been almost fifty years since we had last visited our mother’s outport (remote or very rural island village) where sh e grew up. It was also the 50th anniversary of Newfoundland’s becoming part of Canada.

In 1950, I was six and my brother was five when we last visited our mother’s childhood home. At that time, Ireland’s Eye was a vibrant, quaint fishing village hugging th e rocky shore of a small, enclosed harbour. There was no electricity. There were no roads, no automobiles, and few signs of automation of any type. There were oil lamps and wood stoves in the homes and mere footpaths between the aggregate of small communit ies on the hilly island, also named Ireland’s Eye. We can still see and hear the inboard motorboats, putt putting (sound of engines) into the harbour, hauling their day’s catch of fish. The image of hardy fishermen with pitchforks hoisting and tossing the codfish up to the stilted platforms from the bowels of the boats is still quite vivid. The aroma of salted, drying codfish, lingers still.

What I remember best, of almost half a century ago, was going out with my Uncle Fred in his boat to fish. That particular day, we were huddled together and lashed to other boats, just outside of the harbour. I can still hear the lively gossip between my uncle and the other fishermen, above the rippling and splashing of the waves against the hulls of the boats. I remember the boats heaving periodically, on the huge gently rolling waves. My Uncle Fred had only one arm, but amazingly, he could do everything as if he had two hands. He could even roll a cigarette and light it.

These are my memories of the quaint Newfoundland glory days gone by. It was a very hard life in those out ports, but a life romantically cherished by most of those who lived it. Our mother was not feeling up to the trip at the time we were ready to leave, but insisted that my brother and I go on this odyssey. We would later provide her with pictures, a written account, and videotape of the trip. Although we toured other parts of Newfoundland, including an overnight stay on the French Islands of St. Pierre and Miquilon, just off the south coast of Newfoundland, our main objective was to visit Ireland’s Eye. This necessitated finding water transportation. We managed to arrange for a boat to take us on the half hour trip to the island. As it turned out, the married couple who ferried us over to the island was actually a couple of our distant cousins, whom we had never met. We had intended to have our cousins drop us off on the island and pick us up a few hours later. However, either because we were newly found cousins, or they were typically hospitable Newfoundlanders, or they thought that my brother and I would get lost, they wanted to stay with us. Probably all three factors influenced their decision. They were absolutely fabulous.

They got caught up in what my brother and I were trying to do. They were very knowledgeable about the island and the people who had once lived there. Clutching a narrative of the island,