The Shop

Last November when we were visiting in Sudbury I was reminded how memories of the same events can vary between people. It should not be surprising since we experience people and events differently, and we see things in the light of our individual experience and pre-dispositions. I say this by way of a disclaimer for the memories I have been recalling. My siblings may have very different recollections of these same things.

A great deal of our lives revolved around The Shop. The Shop was a Ma & Pa grocery store our parents operated. Throughout my childhood I heard about when it was located “under the cocoa-house”. The cocoa-house was built up on pillars, and my recollection the downstairs was open. We played there, and sometimes animals were stabled there. The upstairs of the cocoa-house was a large tray, which occupied the entire floor. Then entire roof moved on rails, and would be pushed along the rails, which extended beyond the building to expose the tray to sunlight so that cocoa beans could be dried.

In any case, in my recollection the shop was a wooden building down the hill from our house. There were two wooden steps that brought one into the shop. The area in front of the counter is where customers stood when they came to shop. Behind the counter was where most of the “goods” were kept. We children helped Ma as soon as we were able to count. There was a drawer built in where the money was kept. There was a file, which consisted of a wire hook that was hung from a nail. Customer bills (IOU’s) were kept in this file. On the counter there was a scale and weights where all goods were weighed. Few things were prepackaged.

Back of the sales area were two rooms. One of these rooms there were bulk items like cooking oil, salted cod fish, the salt meat barrel, kerosene etc. The other room was largely vacant, and from to time we had renters (I think) who stayed there. The front doors, where the public entered, were secured by bolts from the inside. Secured is used somewhat loosely since the bolts did not always fit securely in the holes. It was not unusual to come in the morning to open up and find the doors were not quite secured. I used to have nightmares about this, and still do from time to time. We used the back door to access the building, which was secured by a lock.

The shop was more of a public service than a business. My parents were not very good business people. They sold so much on credit that they often did not have enough capital to stock the shelves. Every now and then a new infusion of cash was needed. Pa had to go to work outside as the “business” could not support the family. I faintly remember from my child’s memory, my mother borrowing money from her brother to re-stock the shop. Ma went to San Fernando to buy groceries for the shop on Tuesdays. It was often my chore on Tuesday morning to go to people in the village and tell them that Ma was going “to buy goods” and ask them to pay their bills. I remember this task with great distaste. People often hid, or made my mother look mean for asking for the money they owed. I vowed there and then that I would never go into retail business.

At the same time the shop was, indeed, a public service. Whatever my parents lost in cash they made up in good will. Sure, you can’t take it to the bank, but it fit in well with the kind of people they were. And the shop helped to feed our family. During the WW II when many food items were in short supply, we were able to eat. We still had to live off the fruits of the land, a great deal, but we lived. The shop was central in our lives because it was the family business. But it was much more than that. There was a constant parade of people who came through every week. They knew that Ma and Pa cared. Sometimes they took unfair advantage of them, but there was always a respect there for my parents. I know that the shop helped to form me in my positive ways. In that sense, too, it was much more than a business.

Syne Village

Syne Village (pronounced “sign” village) is home. It’s changed a lot since I lived there, but when I talk about “back home” it is still Syne Village. When I was a child there was not much to it. I remember when “Darcie Phoo-Phoo” (Aunt Darcie) and family built their home on the hill next to us I resented the open field where I used to roam and find high adventure, invaded by a house. Later, of course, it meant that we had playmates in our cousins Marilyn, Clarence, Rawlins and, later, Roy. But at the time the invasion was not welcome.

Syne Village is located on the San Fernando-Siparia-Erin Road equi-distant between Penal and Siparia. It stretches for a couple of miles between Charlo Village on the Penal side, and De Gannes Village on the Siparia side. In my childhood the village was mostly along the road, although now it has expanded into the interior through side roads and traces on both sides.

Pa’s family moved to Syne Village from Siparia Road when Dada (Jaimungal Seesaran) bought some lands there. Dada (grandfather) was Nanee’s eldest brother. Nanee (Miriam Moorti) was really our Agee (paternal grandmother) but our cousin Pearly lived with us and called her Nanee, because she was Pearly’s Nanee (maternal grandmother), and we grew up calling her Nanee, too. Dada was the oldest male relative (although Nanee was older) and was recognized as the head of the clan. Ma’s family (the Mahabirs) lived in Mondesir Road, Fyzabad, and later moved to Rochard Road near Barrackpore.

Our home was almost exactly two and a half miles from Penal and/or Siparia. By the time I came along Penal was our home town. We went to the Jagat-ka-Prakash (Light of the World) Presbyterian Church in Penal, and to the Penal C.M. (Canadian Mission) School, which was later renamed the Penal Presbyterian School. Both my older sisters Cecilia and Ermine completed elementary school there. In my last year my brothers Ezekiel and Nahum and youngest sister Evangeline and I transferred to Siparia Union School. (It had a better record in preparing students for High School entrance under the feared and revered Mrs. Niamath, better known as “schoolmistress”.) Later brothers Joshua and Moses would attend there, too. But our mailing address remained and still remains Syne Village, Penal (although we occasionally got mail in Siparia, too).

Our home was on a hill on an acre of land. Next to the road, “down-the-hill”, was another third of an acre which my parents owned, of which a large section was occupied by a pond, when I was a child. My parents had bought the land from Bhokhal Sadhu, who apparently used the pond for his “pujas” (prayer ceremonials). The pond was a village well, had wide concrete steps going into the pond, and I remember village women coming there to do their laundry. I remember, too, alligator stealing chickens, and our having to be extremely careful if we ventured near the pond. It later had to be filled in because it bred mosquitoes as well as alligators. In addition my parents owned a couple of acres of cocoa land “in the trace” (about a quarter of a mile from the road, accessed by a side road.) Here they grew cocoa, coffee, bananas, oranges, grapefruit and other fruit (and yams! real yams, not sweet potatoes). We made frequent excursions going “in the land” to harvest fruit in season, as well as to help pick cocoa, and coffee.

Niece Rowena wrote a research paper on the history of Syne Village when she was at the University of the West Indies a few years ago. I have a copy somewhere, although I am sure I don’t know where.

Remembering Amy Neehall

Last week an e-mail from brother Moses in Saskatoon advised of the death of Amy Neehall. I am writing this bit on Monday March 1. An e-mail message from Moses this morning advised me that today Amy is being buried.
I remember when the Neehalls came to our church in Penal. Indeed, I was there at the meeting when the vote was taken to issue a call. The Penal Presbyterian Church was well known for its politics. (During the past forty years I have learned that they are by no means unique!) Lots of discussion and debate at that meeting. One man was adamantly against it declaring that we did not need a “coolie Canadian”. When the vote was taken there was one dissenting vote.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that the coming of the Neehalls to Penal was the beginning of a social revolution. Roy was an immediate hit. Indeed, the one dissenting voter became one of his most ardent supporters. Roy’s rich, resonant voice, his wonderful oratorical gifts, his winning way with people, his fresh ideas and great energy brought many changes. The church grew and flourished.
While Roy went about doing important things, Amy stayed at home doing more important things. She had come to our rural community as a “white wife” of a native person trained abroad. But Amy’s quiet dignity and genuine warmth soon removed any color distinction any one might have feared. She raised her beautiful family, she practiced the ministry of hospitality, she formed deep and vital relationships. This person who was raised and formed in a different culture made her home among us. She touched the lives of everyone with whom she came into contact.
In today’s world few of us remain in our place of origin. I lost track of the Neehalls for a while. A few years ago (quite a few), when we visited Western Canada we made a trip to Edmonton, Alberta. Roy and Amy not only invited us to their home for a meal, they invited other people from the islands whom we knew. It was a beautiful reunion. I had the distinct feeling that this sort of thing happened quite often in their home. Practicing hospitality was Amy’s gift to so many of us. She did it with quiet distinction and genuine warmth. She imprinted the Syne Village Kanhai’s very deeply. Her life was a blessing. Her memory is a benediction.

And from Rosalind:
I thoroughly enjoyed reading the first edition of the Syne Village Times. What an excellent way of chronicling events in one's life! I remember AJ (Rampersad) referring to Rev. Ramlogan on different occasions but alas, I was way too young to have known the individual.
I have, however, always been totally impressed with Rev. Neehall. My sister, Pamela, told me a very interesting story 2 years ago when she visited Canada last about that honorable gentleman's contribution to my life in particular. Some of my family history for you is that I used to have numerous asthma attacks and because we were so poor, my parents had to sit all night in hospitals/ clinics etc. He offered and insisted that he pay my medical bills and had them take me to his family doctor. What was even more shocking for me to find out was that he had even asked to adopt me, but of course my parents won't give me up! (Thanks for sharing the memory, Rose).

Project Recall

Note: From the date below, it has been a while since I started these reflections. I am now putting them all in one place in this blogspot, and will hopefully add to them from time to time.

March 1, 1999

PROJECT RECALL

I have been thinking for some time now that I should write some of my recollections down, not because they are noteworthy (or at all worthy, for that matter), but it may give my grandchildren (when they are old enough to read) one person’s perspective of the world which I have known. I wish some of my siblings, cousins, etc. would set their hand to remembering, too, while we can!

Although I have been thinking about this for some time each weekend I receive an e-mail bulletin from a friend, Dr. Robert Burns, which he calls Breezy Hill Bulletin. Each week as I read his bulletin, his account of family goings-on, reflections on current events, recollections of times past, and his section on Book and Poetry, each week I renew my resolve to set my hand to write. Thanks, Bob, for being the weekly reminder.

I am not promising (or threatening) a weekly bulletin, but I hope that from time to time I will be able to send out an occasional page. I would appreciate any feedback from you. If you have anything to contribute, please send it along. If you do not wish to receive any possible future editions, don’t hesitate to let me know that, too. (I won’t feel badly. I know that we are all inundated with materials, much of it unsolicited, for which we do not have time or energy).

In case you are wondering how you got on this list, it’s just because you came to mind as I was putting it together. If you know anyone else who might like to be on (whether e-mail or snail-mail), please let me know of them, too.



LONG, LONG THOUGHTS

I was thinking today of my earliest experience of attending Sunday morning worship in a church building. Since we lived some distance from the church, which was in the next village in Penal, and since we did not have a family car, and could not afford the fare for the whole family to go by public transportation, I did not attend services on a regular basis until I was old enough to walk the two and a half miles, and later to ride a bike there and back by myself.

The old wooden church building had colored glass window panes, which, I suppose, were a not-so-pale imitation of the stained glass windows in the missionaries’ home churches. I loved watching the morning sunlight shine through the colored glass and fall on the wooden floor, or the pews, or on people’s arms, faces or clothes. I have very little recollection of much else in my earliest experiences of “going to church” apart from watching the sunlight shining through the colored glass.

Well, I do remember spending quite a few Sundays wondering about how Rev. Ramlogan got his clerical collar on and off. It was one of those slave bands which completely circled his neck. I sat through many services pondering this mystery. My best theory was that he had some way of screwing his head off and on. (After all, who knew what mysterious powers the minister might have!) Imagine my disappointment years later when I discovered that the collar was not an unbroken band and, instead, was fastened with a stud at the back! I have to tell you, though, that there are few mysteries that engaged my thoughts as completely during a Sunday morning worship service. I have heard of kids counting the crosses on the wall paper, or the tiles in the ceiling of the sanctuary, even the flies in the light fixture. I am certain that none of that was as engaging as the mystery I tackled those Sunday mornings.