Cover

preface

On December 28, 2006, I received a phone call from my oldest brother, Edward, informing me that Malcolm Dickie White had passed away earlier that day. Edward told me that Dickie had been staying at his mother’s house for Christmas, and had gone to bed the night before complaining that he wasn’t feeling well. He got out of bed the next morning and dropped dead. A massive heart attack. The paramedics administered CPR, but to no avail. He was gone, and with him went part of my soul.

My brother sounded sad. I was in shock. Dickie was one of the original corner boys. In the years that we were friends, he was more than a good buddy. He was my mentor, bodyguard, and hero. I adored him and his approach to life. Absolutely nothing bothered him. In all the years I knew him, I only once saw him angry. He was the most gentle man I ever knew.

He was a special man. He did what he wanted to do, not what others wanted him to do. No one ever said anything bad about him. Everybody loved him. I think God was short an angel in heaven that day, and decided that Malcolm Dickie White was just what He was looking for.

I was a year older than Dickie, but he was years wiser. What initially attracted me to him was that he was a very quiet and shy person who rarely got excited. (Unlike me: one of Dickie’s jobs was to keep me on an even keel.) He always had an unassuming look, a sort of I-know-what-you’re-thinking expression. He was never really happy, never really sad. He was a favourite among his friends and well-liked by his peers. Everyone trusted him.

I was always proud to be able to call him my friend. The more I was with him over the years, the greater the respect I had for him.

Edward has always said, Enjoy your life now, for you could wake up dead tomorrow. I use these words a lot. Time stops for no man, and those irreplaceable days of the past went by far too quickly. Some of those cherished days will be inside the hearts of my friends and me until the day we leave this earth. I know the ones I remember will. We all have memories, and sometimes our thoughts creep back into the past they come from. When we meet an old friend from the neighbourhood, or when we hear someone speak of a time, place, or person from long ago that we had forgotten about. Or when someone we grew up with dies.

To me, those days, those months, those years were a beautiful lesson in how life should be lived. And, boy, did my friends and I ever enjoy living it!

Back then, it was a place where you left the doors of your home open and your car doors unlocked, and where children were seen and not heard. It was a time when people were polite, and they cared for one another. You had respect for older people, and called your father sir and your mother ma’am. You opened a door for a lady. You carried an older person’s groceries home when they had a long walk from the corner store. They were times when we cared for elderly people, and had a healthy fear of behaving disrespectfully toward authority. Oh my, how times have changed!

young years

I was born on February 23, 1949, at St. Clare’s Hospital in St. John’s, a little more than a month before the province of Newfoundland and Labrador joined Canada. This makes me a true Newfoundlander. I was the second of five children, all sons: Edward, Robert, Calvin, Hubert, and the youngest of the lot, Angus. God didn’t bless Mom and Dad with a daughter.

I lived at 36 McKay Street for the first six years of my life, but my memory is vague when it comes to those years. The house we lived in had two storeys, and someone else lived in the upstairs part. I think it was an elderly lady. Mom was always going upstairs to check on whoever lived there, anyway. The four or five steps leading to the front door were concrete. The house had a big front window that Ed and I used to look out before we went to bed, staring at the stars and dreaming far-off, boyish dreams.

I do remember sleighing, one incident in particular. A bunch of kids, including me, were sliding down Leslie or Richmond Street, and going under an oil truck that was making a delivery in the process. I had a small sleigh made of wooden slats with steel runners, and it got jammed under the truck. I would have been run over or dragged off by the truck if a woman hadn’t spotted me and alerted the driver before he got back in and drove off. The driver took me home, and Mom and Dad gave me hell for my escapade.

I also remember going to St. Clare’s on a stormy winter day to have my tonsils removed at the tender age of five. My dad sat next to my mother in the back seat of a large car and held me in his arms all the way to the hospital. It was snowing hard and the roads were slippery. Whose car it was will always remain a mystery: Dad couldn’t drive, and there weren’t many vehicles in St. John’s in those days.

Years later, I met a girl on McKay Street who became my first steady girlfriend. Her name was Rita Powell, and what a beauty she was.

Even though I was only six, the family’s move from McKay Street to Brazil Street in 1955 shattered my little world. Dad told us many years later that we were supposed to live on Brazil Street for only a little while. He had intended to find another house in the city, he said. We ended up staying on Brazil for twenty-one years. Later in life I realized that Dad couldn’t afford to buy a better house, and I think that leaving McKay Street for Brazil bothered him (although he never said anything, being a proud man). McKay was considered a better neighbourhood, and CN workers such as my father tended to live in the west end, on streets such as McKay and Craigmillar. (The Reid Newfoundland Company, which built the Newfoundland railway, gave mortgages to its employees to build houses on the south side of Craigmillar. These houses, which are still in existence, were known as Railway Range.) But once we settled in on Brazil and he met some neighbours, Dad seemed to be at ease with the move.

the centre

of the city

It was on Brazil Street that I met Dickie White, who was to become my best and closest friend, and who would lead me from the age of innocence into the age of mischief. (Of course, even at six, I was no angel myself.) I remember my first meeting with Dickie White well. It was in June of 1955, the day we moved to Brazil Street.

It was a fine June day, and Dickie and his younger sister, Louise, were sitting on the front steps of 38 Brazil Street, the house next to ours (which was number 40). Neither of them said a word to us as we settled in. They just kept staring at us as if we were intruders.

Dickie’s stare scared the living crap out of me. He just had that look. Also, he was big, and that intimidated me. (I soon became very happy that he was my friend and not my enemy.) And then he came into our house and sat down as if he were part of the family. Mom and Dad took to him right away, and he ended up becoming an honorary Hunt for many years.

It only took a small part of the day to move in. Our family didn’t own much. We didn’t have a lot of furniture. Mom and Dad came home a few days later with more. We were now living in the poor section of town.

After we finished stowing things away, I sat on the front steps. Dickie approached me, speaking in his quiet, steady tone. He was about a foot taller than me and weighed around ninety or a hundred pounds. But it turned out that he was as pleasant as a sleeping dog. Unless he got angry, which was rare. Whoever got him mad was in big trouble.

(When he got older most people backed off after one look at him, saying, Yes, sir. I know I did.)

Want to have some fun? Dickie said.

I was hooked. Why not? I said. And that was the start of a wonderful friendship.

The first place we visited was the corner, where we would trade stories and secrets for the next twenty years. The corner was situated at the bottom of Brazil and Casey Streets, and extended over to Central Street. It was Y-shaped and extended halfway out into Casey Street. There were no trees. There was no sidewalk, either. Cars always seemed to zoom by at breakneck speeds, and we had to be very careful when we stepped away from the store or the houses. Only three or four feet separated the houses from the road.

There was a store, which was the focal point of the corner. The steps to the store were curved, and the door was on the corner. It had two large windows, one on the Casey/Central Street store side, and another on the Brazil Street side. At the end of the store on the Central Street side were three steps that led to the Taylors’ (the family who lived above the store). Next to the store on that side were the Kings, in an old three-storey house (Jimmy King and his older brother Edward would become good friends). On the Brazil Street side of the store lived Kay Hann, a sweetheart of a lady who was always good to us when we were young boys. Next to Kay’s was Dickie’s house, and next to Dickie’s, of course, was our house. The corner is long gone, but both our houses are still there. (In fact, Dickie’s mother, who is in her eighties now, is still there; I drop in and have a chat with her from time to time.)

The store was owned by three different people when we were growing up. The first owner was Kevin King. Many years later it was owned by Frank Fossie Furlong, a great dart player who competed in many of the city’s dart tournaments. The last owners I remember were Bette Royal and her husband Socks Phelan, from Casey Street. Bette’s brother Pat was a long-time sports fan and a great contributor to sports, especially baseball and softball.

The corner, and later our clubhouse, would be our main hangouts. In those days we didn’t know what boredom was. We never had time to get bored.

Back then, the centre of St. John’s was different from any other area of the city. It was the hub of downtown. All the real action took place on Water Street, the busiest section of the city, which was only a stone’s throw from our homes. Dickie took me everywhere, showing me the new neighbourhood, all the hiding spots and interesting places. I was in awe: I had never been out of my own neighbourhood of McKay Street, although I had heard about other parts of town from school friends. I had never even been to Water Street— it was too far away from McKay for me to be allowed to walk there at my age—but I had envisioned it many times in my mind.

The area in which I now lived, just up from Water Street and New Gower Street, was the heart of the city: its bustling crowds and loud noises were new experiences for me. It was very exciting to explore the streets I had heard so much about. Before the days of