The town where my mothers family lived was over two hundred miles from Moncton,and getting there was a bit of an ordeal.Then,as now you cut right down through the heart of New Brunswick.Only back then,you actually saw a lot more of the country.the road went right by towns,both large and small,through fields of cows,and a big farm near Sussex where if you looked out the side window you could see a whole field white with chickens or turkeys,or maybe both.Other than Fredricton,Sussex was largest town we passed on the way.It was farming country with pastoral views of gold colored Jersey cows munching on grass and unpainted covered bridges.There was a commercial strip along the highway in Sussex,and sometimes we would stop there at a bakery for cookies.The woman that ran the bakery was German,or Dutch,perhaps,and she was always kind and friendly,and loved children.My father loved the cookies and other baked goods there.All of the things that it took to make them came from the local dairy,and he said that the best butter and milk,or ice cream came from Sussex.In that,I believe he was right.but,for the most part,it was just good to get out of the car and stretch our legs,because the trip to our grandparent's farm was a long one.
We knew we were halfway there,or,halfway home,when we came to a big bridge at Jemseg.That is where it seems like all the waters of New Brunswick gathered together,many feet below.Grand Lake was located to the northeast of the bridge,and it met up with the Saint John River just under that bridge.You couldn't see the water really well,because you could never stop on the bridge,but sometimes you could catch a glimpse of boats down below.
Once we got past Jemseg,the land flattened out into river bottom.The river was on your left side all the way into Fredricton,and it was lush,green,wet country.In places there were huge trees growing right up out of the water,and I always wondered how trees could grow in the water.There was a big island there too that had cows on it,Jerseys and Holsteins,and I wondered how they would come home for milking,or how the farmer would come to them.There didn't appear to be any house or barns on that island,but the trees were so thick,they might well have been hidden from the road.Across the river,there was an army base and sometimes you could hear the boom,boom,boom of artillery practice.You'd see a lot of army trucks sometimes too.
The land started to rise when you got to Fredricton.And the roads in those days started to get bad upriver of The Princess Margaret Bridge.They were building a dam upstream,so the roads would all have to be replaced with higher roads,and there was construction all along there,all the way to where we would turn off the main road about sixty miles west of Fredricton. Some of the roads were little more than cow paths,there was construction equipment parked everywhere,it was dusty,and sometimes you had to detour,or stop for long periods of time.
The place where we turned off the main highway to travel into the back country was called Crow Hill.It was usually very dark when we arrived here because we often arrived at night.if we were still awake,my parents would begin to make crow noises-caaaw...caaaw-to let us know the trip was nearly over.But I don't think I ever saw a crow there.
Sometimes we would start back home during daylight hours and I could see what Crow Hill really looked like.But it was many years before the significance of it dawned on me.In very few words,let me describe it as the place comedian Jeff Foxworthy warned you about.I'm eternally glad we never broke down on that road at night-"Drive faster,I hear banjos." Crow Hill would not exactly put your mind at ease if you were heading back into the hills,not for most people anyway.
I don't think Dead Creek,the place where my grandparents lived would have looked much different than Crow Hill to the casual outsider.The only real difference was that we knew most everybody who lived there. My mothers family lived in four farmhouses right beside,and across the road from one another.It was not really good farmland and a lot of the people who lived around there had begun to abandon it.It wouldn't be long until my grandparents moved int town too.
In 1965,when I was four,I was too young to have formed any opinions about Dead Creek.I suppose I could have developed quite an attitude about it had I been older before my grandparents decided to become townies.Much like the Bogeyman's hood in Nova Scotia,Dead Creek was the sort of place that could evoke negative feelings and ideas in anyone who didn't live there.But by the time I was able to understand comments about the family trees of people who lived in such places looking more like fence posts than trees,my grandparents had moved.Still,they were very different from people in Moncton.They looked different,wore different clothes,spoke and acted differently too.But I never regarded that as a bad thing.
There were a lot of isolated communities in New Brunswick at that time and Dead Creek was one such place. I've heard others referring to the the people who lived there as hillbillies. I've heard the area referred to as The Badlands,and I've heard references,only half joking,to ignorance and inbreeding.Nevertheless,that is where my mother's family is from,and,as far as I know,they were all decent people. Church people.
I"m proud to say that I've been blessed
and touched by their sweet hillbilly charm
Dwight Yoakam,
Readin',writin',Route 23
We knew we were halfway there,or,halfway home,when we came to a big bridge at Jemseg.That is where it seems like all the waters of New Brunswick gathered together,many feet below.Grand Lake was located to the northeast of the bridge,and it met up with the Saint John River just under that bridge.You couldn't see the water really well,because you could never stop on the bridge,but sometimes you could catch a glimpse of boats down below.
Once we got past Jemseg,the land flattened out into river bottom.The river was on your left side all the way into Fredricton,and it was lush,green,wet country.In places there were huge trees growing right up out of the water,and I always wondered how trees could grow in the water.There was a big island there too that had cows on it,Jerseys and Holsteins,and I wondered how they would come home for milking,or how the farmer would come to them.There didn't appear to be any house or barns on that island,but the trees were so thick,they might well have been hidden from the road.Across the river,there was an army base and sometimes you could hear the boom,boom,boom of artillery practice.You'd see a lot of army trucks sometimes too.
The land started to rise when you got to Fredricton.And the roads in those days started to get bad upriver of The Princess Margaret Bridge.They were building a dam upstream,so the roads would all have to be replaced with higher roads,and there was construction all along there,all the way to where we would turn off the main road about sixty miles west of Fredricton. Some of the roads were little more than cow paths,there was construction equipment parked everywhere,it was dusty,and sometimes you had to detour,or stop for long periods of time.
The place where we turned off the main highway to travel into the back country was called Crow Hill.It was usually very dark when we arrived here because we often arrived at night.if we were still awake,my parents would begin to make crow noises-caaaw...caaaw-to let us know the trip was nearly over.But I don't think I ever saw a crow there.
Sometimes we would start back home during daylight hours and I could see what Crow Hill really looked like.But it was many years before the significance of it dawned on me.In very few words,let me describe it as the place comedian Jeff Foxworthy warned you about.I'm eternally glad we never broke down on that road at night-"Drive faster,I hear banjos." Crow Hill would not exactly put your mind at ease if you were heading back into the hills,not for most people anyway.
I don't think Dead Creek,the place where my grandparents lived would have looked much different than Crow Hill to the casual outsider.The only real difference was that we knew most everybody who lived there. My mothers family lived in four farmhouses right beside,and across the road from one another.It was not really good farmland and a lot of the people who lived around there had begun to abandon it.It wouldn't be long until my grandparents moved int town too.
In 1965,when I was four,I was too young to have formed any opinions about Dead Creek.I suppose I could have developed quite an attitude about it had I been older before my grandparents decided to become townies.Much like the Bogeyman's hood in Nova Scotia,Dead Creek was the sort of place that could evoke negative feelings and ideas in anyone who didn't live there.But by the time I was able to understand comments about the family trees of people who lived in such places looking more like fence posts than trees,my grandparents had moved.Still,they were very different from people in Moncton.They looked different,wore different clothes,spoke and acted differently too.But I never regarded that as a bad thing.
There were a lot of isolated communities in New Brunswick at that time and Dead Creek was one such place. I've heard others referring to the the people who lived there as hillbillies. I've heard the area referred to as The Badlands,and I've heard references,only half joking,to ignorance and inbreeding.Nevertheless,that is where my mother's family is from,and,as far as I know,they were all decent people. Church people.
I"m proud to say that I've been blessed
and touched by their sweet hillbilly charm
Dwight Yoakam,
Readin',writin',Route 23
No comments:
Post a Comment