So Few on Earth - Josie Penny

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“Even though ya was spoiled by de nurses,” she used to say, “we was happy ta have ya back home.” Then her tears would flow freely. Every time we had a visitor in our home, she’d gently pull up my hair to expose the terrible scars. Using her index and forefinger, she’d rub along my skull, feeling the deep grooves left by the bites.

      “Dese rips on yer head was wider den two fingers,” she told me. “Dere was several teet marks as well as de two big ones dat went right round de back of yer head, but dere was no udder bites on yer body. No one could understan why de dogs only tore up de back of yer head.”

      Later, while visiting Spotted Island on his regular trip along the coast, Dr. Forsyth told my mother the details. “The wound that came closest to killing Josie was the fang puncture behind her left ear that pinned her earlobe to her head. And there’s one spot where there’s a piece of skull missing. Both these areas will be susceptible to pain. However she’s a very tough and extremely lucky little girl.”

      The community had to destroy nine dogs that had blood on them. Once a husky has tasted blood they can’t be trusted, so everyone knew they had to be shot.

      As with children everywhere, accidents were common. The difference in our isolated communities was the difficulty in getting medical care. Often a home remedy had to suffice.

      My mother used to tell of the time I fell from Aunt Lucy’s bridge, or verandah, into the slop hole. “Ya was foolin around out on de bridge, maid, an ya fell off an broke yer collarbone in two places.” She shrugged at the inevitability of childhood foolishness.

      “What did you do?” I asked her.

      “I took an ol’ sheet, tore it inta strips, an wrapped ya up till ya was healed.”

      In later years my older siblings painted a picture of their life as it was before my memory. Their recollections offer glimpses into the primitive life of our family.

      My sister, Marcie, recalled my father’s gift for song. “One of my favourite memories, when we was small, was Daddy lyin back on de settle. He’d sing ta us from suppertime till bedtime. I loved ta hear him talkin ta his dogs as he was drivin along. He’d talk an sing to ’em de whole time.”

      Our winter home of Roaches Brook held special memories for Marcie. “When we moved inta Roaches Brook in de fall, de grass would be all grown up real tall over our heads. We would go an pick de moss from de bogs round de ponds an let it dry. Den we would use it ta stuff de seams of de cabin ta keep out de snow an cold.”

      Marcie remembered one day when a hunt went very badly. “One day me an brother Sam was after a squirrel, an de squirrel bit his finger. It held on an woulden let go! He was screamin. De blood was flyin everywhere! I was toddlin long behind him scared ta death! Prob’ly screamin my head off, too!”

      My mother and Marcie used to tell me often that Marcie fainted when she was hurt. Once I asked her if it was true. She laughed. “Yeh, ever time I hurt meself I’d faint. De first time I fainted, I was standin on de kitchen table. My finger was all gathered [infected and swollen]. I caught holda it, started squeezin real hard, and said, ‘It don’t hurt, it don’t hurt.’ De next ting I remember is wakin up in Daddy’s arms. After dat, every scrape an bump I got, I fainted.”

      I asked about our brother, Sammy, who drowned tragically when he was 19. “Sammy was a good hunter even when he was small,” Marcie told me. When I asked what he hunted (besides squirrels!), Marcie said, “Mice. I member seein a pile a mouse skins on de windowsill. Dey’d be swarmin an he’d catch ’em, skin ’em, dry ’em, an sell ’em fer five cents each.”

      I was intrigued by Marcie’s stories and wanted to know more about our home before I was big enough to remember. “Tell me about our mommy,” I asked her once.

      “Mom was a good hunter, too. She used ta take off in de mornin wit her short little .22 rifle, an she always come back wit tree or four partridges, or tree or four rabbits. I used ta be lookin up at de hills, an lookin up at de treetops showin up against de white snow on de hillside, and thought dey was de partridges Mom used ta get.”

      I asked Marcie if she was allowed to go ice fishing as a child. “Sometimes,” she answered. “I member me firs trout. Minnie Rose [a neighbour] an me went down to de steady [a quiet place in the brook] where we used ta get water. I caught a trout, an was I ever glad! I brought me trout home, cleaned it, an split it meself. Den I hung it up ta dry. I musta been on’y four years ol’ at de time. We had a lot a fun, us little ones growin up.”

      And so it is with children everywhere. Even when our parents are struggling to keep the family alive, children can still find fun.

      As a supplement to the winter’s food supply, wild berries were as vital to a Labrador diet as fresh fish and wild game. With bandanas tied snugly under their chins to ward off flies, rubber boots to keep feet dry, and tin cans and buckets in hand, Labradorians roamed the marshes, traipsed through bogs, and huffed and puffed over rocky hills, picking berries.

      Although there were several types of berries that ripened at different times during the summer, bakeapples, also known as cloudberries, were the favourite. The time between ripening and rotting on the stems was only a few weeks. Although berries grew in abundance on Spotted Island (our summer home), it was the day trip by boat that yielded the most bakeapples. It was important to us to get out to the little islands where we had discovered favourite berry patches.

      But weather was always tricky. It had to be civil (calm) enough to go by boat, but it had to be windy enough to keep the flies away. Although the bites from crawling blackflies, also called sandflies, didn’t itch too badly, they would get into every part of the anatomy and draw blood. The mosquitoes were torture, and their bites left huge welts that itched for hours. I remember Daddy scanning the skies looking for the ideal conditions to pick bakeapples, and finally it was time. I’ll never forget my first berry-picking trip in the boat. I was six. The memory of every detail is clear.

      “Kin I go, Mommy?” I pleaded as I watched her take fresh buns from the woodstove oven.

      “No, Josie, yer too small yet ta go fer all day. Ya’ll get too tired.”

      “But, Mommy, I can pick lotsa berries, an I won’t get tired an I won’t eat even one!” I cried.

      “Awright den, ya can come, but I don’t wanna hear ya complain,” she warned as she stuffed food into the grub bag.

      “I’m goin berry pickin, I’m goin berry pickin!” I yelled, running out the door.

      “Yeh? And I knows yer gonna pick lotsa berries, awright,” Sammy piped up, laughing.

      “Yeh! And I can pick as many as ya can, cuz ya eats half yours,” I retorted, taking a chance sassing my big brother.

      “Where’s me berry picker to, Mommy?”

      “Dunno, Josie. Get yer little water can. Dat’ll do.”

      “Awright den. It won’t take me long ta fill dis up,” I bragged, checking it for sharp edges so I wouldn’t cut myself.

      After a hurried breakfast, Mommy finished packing the grub bag with enough food to last for the day. Finally, we were on our way, and as I skipped down the hill toward the stage, I thought about how many berries I was going to pick to make Mommy proud. As the motorboat chugged through the choppy sea, I could barely contain my happiness. Daddy landed the boat on the rocky shore, and we all piled onto the rocks. In my tiny sealskin slippers I huffed and puffed up the rocks. When we reached the chosen spot, we laid our things down at a high point near a big rock. We used the rock as a marker so we wouldn’t get lost. No time was wasted during berry picking.

      “Get back here till I puts dis stuff on yous!” Mommy shouted.

      “Pooh, Mommy, dat stinks,” I squealed, trying to wriggle out of her grasp. As soon as she finished, I

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