Both of my grandparents came from Springhill. Both are buried in the cemetery on the hill leading out of town,on the side of town farthest from the mines,beyond the shady part of upper Main Street,where you are least likely to notice the foul air.But both are from the other side of town,where you would never notice the scent of roses and lilacs,or warm fallen leaves in the grave yard.
Rose Elizabeth Davis lived in another town,farther into Nova Scotia,and by 1965,I still do not have much of a memory of ever having seen her.Her maiden name was Ryan.During the time of my fathers growing up,she was separated from her husband.They never lived together in my lifetime,though the times I'd seen them together,they were respectful enough of each other.
William Wallace Davis seems to have been named after Braveheart. He was a larger than life sort of figure,about who there was an abundance of outlandish stories.In the 1920's he ran bootleg rum,and entered into the depression a reasonably wealthy,though no longer prosperous man.
My grandfather came around to live with us for a short time,and he helped my father do some building.During most of my childhood he would shuffle about between family members in Nova Scotia or Alberta,and often lived in decrepit little rooming houses.
He was not tall,but sturdy,thick and square,and he dressed in archaic fashion:gray trousers,white shirt,a gray jacket of Harris Tweed,a gray tweed British racing hat all proclaimed that he'd never really left the 1920's.His face was lined,his hands hard and thick,with one finger gone at it's top most knuckle.A mining accident,he said.
I'm not at all certain how he viewed children.He seemed to work hard at presenting himself to us in a way that my mother would find acceptable,when in fact,he might have otherwise lacked that inclination,being of a rough cut mining breed.As it was,he might have had the slightest suggestion of a sneer when he tried to remain acceptably civil,and may have regarded my mother as being prudish.The suggestion was there,but he never said as much.So he would sometimes use expressions like"Son of a ...lady dog" or "pain in the ...sitdown",always managing to to stop short of cussing when we were around.Relating to young ones must have been a full time job for him,and mostly he did it well.
By trade he was a carpenter,a ships carpenter he said.He built things well,so that they would last,and he would take hours checking to be sure that things were level and square.His eye was steady that way,though it seemed he never worked quickly.
Rose Elizabeth Davis lived in another town,farther into Nova Scotia,and by 1965,I still do not have much of a memory of ever having seen her.Her maiden name was Ryan.During the time of my fathers growing up,she was separated from her husband.They never lived together in my lifetime,though the times I'd seen them together,they were respectful enough of each other.
William Wallace Davis seems to have been named after Braveheart. He was a larger than life sort of figure,about who there was an abundance of outlandish stories.In the 1920's he ran bootleg rum,and entered into the depression a reasonably wealthy,though no longer prosperous man.
My grandfather came around to live with us for a short time,and he helped my father do some building.During most of my childhood he would shuffle about between family members in Nova Scotia or Alberta,and often lived in decrepit little rooming houses.
He was not tall,but sturdy,thick and square,and he dressed in archaic fashion:gray trousers,white shirt,a gray jacket of Harris Tweed,a gray tweed British racing hat all proclaimed that he'd never really left the 1920's.His face was lined,his hands hard and thick,with one finger gone at it's top most knuckle.A mining accident,he said.
I'm not at all certain how he viewed children.He seemed to work hard at presenting himself to us in a way that my mother would find acceptable,when in fact,he might have otherwise lacked that inclination,being of a rough cut mining breed.As it was,he might have had the slightest suggestion of a sneer when he tried to remain acceptably civil,and may have regarded my mother as being prudish.The suggestion was there,but he never said as much.So he would sometimes use expressions like"Son of a ...lady dog" or "pain in the ...sitdown",always managing to to stop short of cussing when we were around.Relating to young ones must have been a full time job for him,and mostly he did it well.
By trade he was a carpenter,a ships carpenter he said.He built things well,so that they would last,and he would take hours checking to be sure that things were level and square.His eye was steady that way,though it seemed he never worked quickly.
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