I Will Always Love My Mother

I will always love my mother
She is my favorite girl…

So the song goes but for me that was not always true or so it would seem for a long long time; but more on that later, now I will just introduce you to my mother and why I will always love her.

Named Zillah Lulleta (Taylor) Davis but called Curly, she was the only child from the marriage of Nemiah Taylor (we called him Daddy) and Amy Davis Taylor (everyone called her Aunt). She was born on January 31, 1927 in the village of Retirement in the town of Lucky Hill in the parish of St. Mary. She had a half sister and a half brother, children of Daddy before the marriage. Knowing Aunt, her early life would have been pretty tough, more so than I came to know it, because at that time there were a lot less people to share the work load. But while Aunt’s house in Lucky Hill might have been tough, for my mother it was her refuge, a place she came back to often, especially in troubled times. It was eventually her final resting place. She died there in 1979 after succumbing to the devastating disease of cancer. She was only 52. But her life was varied and a fulfilling one. I do not remember her expressing much regrets.

She knew my father from Lucky Hill, he was from the district of Endeavour and I think they went to the same school for a while but I do not think they interacted directly while at school but knew similar people for they were always saying to each other ‘Do you remember such and such….”. In any event they made the connection and got married, she at early at age 18 or 19 and he at the mature age of 26 or so; then they had me, she was only 19 years old then.

My mother was always a fun person; happy, outgoing and like to have a conversation (I got none of those genes). She lived the moment, not overly concerned about the future but is always optimistic. At the same time she was strict (I had many a beatings to prove that) and by no means a pushover (I was often embarrassed when she would take me Down Town to Hannah’s store on King Street to buy me clothes or shoes for school for she would argue down the poor clerk to make me want to hide and hope none of my friends showed up then). Today I see most of her personality in Bill and Sharon than in myself or Harry. They have fun, they are outgoing but don’t cross them.

Her other great quality was her ambition and I think all of us got a little bit of that. But that was also the quality that caused my father the greatest anxiety and was the cause of many family disruptions. My father was more old schooled, and expected her to be satisfied with staying home cleaning and cooking, etc. My mother on the other hand was way ahead of her time and wanted to do more. While I think she tried hard to do the stay home Mom stuff it was just not in her blood. From the days in Grove she would take off to go to Kingston to learn nursing (later on it was to work in Browns Emporium in Ocho Rios, and later still to work at Tower Isle hotels). These episodes did not sit well with my father but she was a strong willed, determined woman who wanted more out of life than just being a mother.

Growing up we were Jehovah’s Witnesses, both my mother and father grew up as Witnesses, but my father was much more fervent than she was. She was an active participant in the meetings and traveling to different towns to Witness and to conventions; however, I think she enjoyed the experience more for the opportunity to interact with others than from a religious commitment. What I remembered most from her being a Witness was not her religious commitment but her voice. She had a great voice. I can still hear it rising distinctly from the rest of the congregation, and how proud I felt then standing right next to her.

Going to conventions was real close times with my mother. My father was always away doing manly things and I was left in her charge mostly. Conventions were special for Jehovah’s Witnesses. It was where Witnesses from several district or regions or the whole island would meet for a three day convention of religious convocation and celebration. The meetings were long but the food was something to look forward to (you get a rare chance to sample food not normally available to a poor child growing up in Jamaica. Some of my favorites were doughnuts and American Red Delicious apples) and it was also an opportunity to spend time with old friends and families. This was true for the grown-ups too so it was really something to look forward to. And getting there was always interesting. Our basic transportation was Brother Earnest Douglas’s truck. He would put benches in the back and the whole congregation would pile in. There were no public rest rooms so for long trips we would stop for potty breaks. The women would go one side and the men the other. Still that was fun, it was quality time spent with my mother.

My first experience of school was not at Ocho Rios but in Kingston. She had gone there to study nursing in one of her several tries and I was put in a ‘school’. School was outside in a big yard somewhere off Slipe Pen Road. There were no desks and the benches were pieces of wood held up at the ends by large stones and for punishment you were held under a big stand pipe in the middle of the yard and let the water beat on you. You had a slate to write on and at that time the slates did not even have lines in them and if you broke it you were in real trouble. It was my introduction to schooling but it was also the beginning of the one constant that would exist between me and my mother; she was going to make sure that I get all the schooling that she did not get. It was as if she was on a mission to make sure I did not fall into the entrapments that she found herself. And so this motivation for always learning developed…
Thank You Maa!

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Pimento Picking

The pimento berries were a primary cash crop for Shaw Park Estate. This made it a prime and sometimes the only source of hard currency for many of the women and children living in the surrounding vicinities. I looked forward to pimento picking season, not just for the cash but as an opportunity to picnic in the bush, Jamaica style.

It was once thought that the pimento tree would only grow in Jamaica but now they are grown in Central America too. The tree itself was not particularly tall and has a distinct stark white trunk that evolves into very bushy but brittle branches. It blooms once a year with small white flowers which turns into small berries. These berries are harvested by hand while green then sun dried (which then looked like peppercorns) before being pounded into powder and sold internationally as the alluring spice called allspice. As a child, picking the green berries was my only opportunity to earn cash to buy the many necessities that a growing boy needs (kites, sweets and a Bulla cake or totoe or a gizada once in a while). Earning that money was not work though, it was part picnic, part education and part nurturing. Picking pimento was an occasion that you looked forward to all year.

The normal scenario was that having determined which trees were mature enough to be pick then a male and probably the only male there would climb the tree and break off the branches leaving the tree bare as if dying. The branches would be brought to a selected large shade tree where the women and children (the pickers) would be congregated. Everyone would have a selected spot and so would begin the process to selecting a branch and pulling the berries off the branch into a container. These containers would be emptied into crocus sacks and the number of sacks filled determined how much you would earn. Some of the better pickers had sacks all to them selves but as a child you would contribute to a sack and the amount you earned depended as much on you effort and skill as on the good judgment, memory and integrity of the adult owner of the sack to which you contributed; although I can’t remember ever feeling cheated; but such was the culture then that such a thought was practically unthinkable.

While you were picking a fire would be going and all the fixings brought from home plus available pickings would be cooked so that lunch would be this so special treat. Maybe it was just the atmosphere but those lunches at pimento picking time were special. It was not just what you had at home but a combination of the contribution from all the families and many would indulge in a little extra, on credit I am sure, in anticipation of the extra earnings. It was real basic food but I remembered it as mouth-watering and sumptuous, a pleasure you look forward to all year.

Then throughout the picking and the eating there would be the talking. In a culture where a child was suppose to be seen and not heard, pimento picking was one of the rare opportunities where a child could climb up the social ladder. Maybe because you were a full fledged contributor to the daily earnings it probably made a difference or because there were no adult male around to reestablish the ranking order but I think it was more an atmosphere thing, one that created camaraderie and nurturing rather than disciplining and ranking.. So for the brief period you were almost like an adult. You could add an opinion without meeting the surely eyes of an adult putting you back in your place. It was a chance to practice being a grown-up.

Picking pimento was not work it was more like a festival, a festival village style.

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Kellington - a fun place

While growing up at Grove, Kellington was where I most pestered my parents to let me go. Kellington was excitement, friends, games and fun… always fun. You see Kellington was where my grandfather lived. He had gotten married for a second time at the advance age of 65 and started a second family. The children from this marriage (my uncles and aunts) were close to my age and so getting the opportunity to go to Kellington was always an assurance that I would be having a day of excitement and fun.

Kellington was about 2 miles west of Grove but getting there meant negotiating your way across a huge cow pen. This was ok for grown-ups because they had shoes on but for a kid that runs around without shoes it was a mean task and one that at nights was definitely one of wet surprises. The cow pen was where they brought the cows in from the pastures for milking and feeding. It was done twice a day, morning and evening, and this particular cow pen sits smack dab in the middle of the way between Grove and Kellington. So to get to Kellington you go early in the morning after the first milking and returned late in the evening after the second milking, this gave you a whole day and this suited me just fine.

At Kellington lived my grandfather ‘Dadda’ (I will try to talk about Dadda later). He was the ‘Busha’ or ‘Head Man’ for Shaw Park Estate. This meant he rode a horse (Albert I think the name was) and he carried a rifle constantly as he patrolled the entire estate to see to its supervision. This job was prestigious and carried great influence in the surrounding community as he was responsible for the hiring and setting of wages for field hands associated with the planting and harvesting on the estate

I remember Kellington as a huge house (in my childhood eye’s of course) sitting on top of a hill overlooking the village of Parry Town. The most distinctive feature of the house was a concrete catch basin in the back which was like having indoor plumbing then. In the front was this huge tamarind tree and in the back were groves of mango trees. But to the south side was the best part, there was where you had the barbecue pits. These were not for cooking meats but more like large size raised concrete beds built for the drying of pimento seeds which was a big export crop for the estate. The seeds were picked green from the trees and carried here to be dried and bagged before selling (more on this later). So in the picking season you would have these huge beds of pimento seeds laying out in the sun to e dried. One of the fun job was getting them all back into storage if there was a sudden down pour of rain. Then you had to have all hands on deck, kids and all.

But if there was no pimento drying then we as kids had the barbecue area all to ourselves. Our favorite usages was for flying kites. The barbecue gave us great advantages; there were no trees to entangle your lines, the barbecue sits on the very top of the hill so that our kites were a little higher that the rest of the kids from Parry Town and the surrounding areas, and with the vast open space the barbecue provided you had space to maneuver you kite. This was important as the challenge of kite flying was not to just get your kite up into the air.

To us (or probably just me) kite flying was serious business. You wanted your kite to be the prettiest, the largest and can go the highest. Your kite had to be up all day and the challenge was to keep it up against all challenges of being forced down or ‘cut’. Flying was not just about keeping your kite dancing in the wind but there were huge kite battles in the air. You could have your kite forced down by another kite's line forcing your down or you are dragged down from being entangled with another kite or your line cut by actual razor blades tied into the tails of opposing kites. This was the cruelest loss as the cut kite is sent adrift into never land, a tough loss for a kid who probably spent his entire year's earnings on that kite.

Kite flying was one of my favorite sports while growing up in Grove. I was no good a building the kite, mush to my father's dismay as this was one of the more cherished manly skills, but I was good at pasting and tying to give you a balanced kite, which probably explain my future love for the precision of mathematics. I had to buy my kites which meant that I had to earn the money. I enjoyed flying them though, too much perhaps for as a child I developed an eye problem and had to start wearing dark glasses. But when my father went out and bought me a pair of pink frame sunglasses the problem surprisingly went a way very fast.

Besides kite flying Kellington offered cricket. There were always enough kids around to get a game going. A ball made out on anything or a fruit and bats make from a coconut bough was all the materials we needed and a game could go on for all day. And if that was not enough Kellington offered hoards of mango trees which was always free for the taking as long as you could reach it by climbing or knock it down with a stone. Thinking back now it is surprising but I cannot remember a broken bone or any one being hit by a rock and definitely no one ever lost an eye.

Kellington was my all time favorite play ground. Though I was at an early age, the bonding we made there are ties that have lasted and the memories are some of my most treasured ones of growing up in Grove.

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Shaw Park Hotel

The road from Grove leads directly down to the rear of the hotel so this was my main view of it. The dairy where my father worked was the first building from this entrance . It was at the south west corner and about a mile or so from Grove. There were no cows there but the milk from the milk pens was brought here where it was bottled and they made cream and butter and I think ice cream also, The road then winds down through the hotel facilities. First you cross over a bridge and on the left was a Power House for generating electricity for the hotel (That must have been a rarity then). Next came the ice house on the left. It not only made ice but provided clod storage for meats and other provisions for the hotel. Across from it and on the right was the kitchen. There must have been a laundry area too but I cannot recall where it was situated. Once you got pass the kitchen you came to the rear of the main guest area. I recall it as being a two story structure, with white stucco on the outside. My research now tells me that it was the original Great House of a plantation. The guest house faced what is now the Botanical Garden area.

That area was even more beautiful then than it appears today. The main entrance road was lined with these towering palm trees that were surrounded by acres of meticulous manicured lawns. The palm trees were what you would first notice as you entered. The lawn area itself was on two levels. The top was expansive and heavily manicured. On the fringes of the lawn area closest to the hotel were numerous flowers that were always in bloom. On he other side of the garden, away from the hotel was the terraced side that was fenced in by Roth iron fencing. It overlooked the lower garden level, but most memorable was the view. From there one had the most spectacular view of Ocho Rios bay and its surroundings vicinities and a vast look of the expansive Caribbean Sea extending to the horizon.

Steps from this terraced level lead down to the second level. Where there was a pool and the rivers. The pool was made by damming the river so it was free flowing but was deep enough to allow diving as I remembered a diving board being attached. I remembered white wooden lounge chairs surrounding the pool.

While I was growing up the hotel added another wing, a modern brick and mortar structure that contrasted hugely from the other structures. That was a two story building just outside and to the south west side of what is now the Botanical Garden entrance.

The hotel had two Chevrolet station wagons. They were shiny dark green with an embossed wooden façade on the outside (I do not know they were made of wood then or just plastic as they are today). These vehicles were the life blood of the hotel as they were constantly going and coming.

I remembered the holidays at the hotels as especially exciting times. The food was sumptuous and plentiful then. I particularly remembered giant size turkey leg (it must have been America’s Thanksgiving celebration) that seemed half as big as I was then and Christmas and New Year brought more ice cream than you could eat and unusual other goodies.

But more important than the holidays were the people. Some names that I remembered were Mr. Wilmott, he managed the hotel infrastructure and its maintenance; Ms. Pottenger, she had clerical duties but was always particularly nice to me; Mr. Swarez, I think he was one of the drivers; then there was Claude and Mr. Brown and about four or five other milk men, these were the people I most interacted with. The hotel and the Estate were owned by either the Stuarts (Colonel Stuart’ father) or the Pringles. This I am not sure but these were the names of the people with power and influence over the hotel and my father’s (and grand father’s employment) for a lot of years.

While I never enjoyed the amenities of a guest the hotel it played a vital part in my life while growing up at Grove. Foremost, it provided a livelihood for my father and thus the means of existence for us. Secondly, it introduced me to another world and the things associated with that world. But mostly for me today I appreciated the people, the associations and protection that they gave me was a vital part in forming who I am today. I always felt loved at Grove. And it was not just the love of my mother and father or my dog, or because I was an only child, or because I was most times the only child among a bunch of grown-ups, it was more than that. It was a sense of protectiveness and the goodwill you feel from being recognized, liked and protected by everyone, from the lowly milk men to the hotel owners.

Growing up in Grove was a special time and the hotel provided a special nurturing, for even though I was alone most of the time I never felt really alone.

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Growing up in Grove

I was born in Grove. It was not a city, nor a town, nor even a village. In fact our house was the only house in Grove. I think the name was originally generic because it referred to a fairly level parcel of land surrounded by hills, a grove, but some how in time the name referred to a specific place, my birth place. I was born there early one Monday morning in early January in the year 1946.

Its location was a few miles beyond the hills overlooking the bay of Ocho Rios and was slightly above what was then an exclusive self-contained resort hotel called Shaw Park Hotel which is now the site of Shaw Park Botanical Gardens. (http://www.shawparkgardens.com/).

The area was mainly level pasture land with walls and fences separating the individual ‘fields’ (patterned after the English). It must have been particularly beautiful for I remember more that one movie being filmed there. I remember the bustle of the crews and all the motor vehicles and trailers that would show up (which was a rarity in that neck of the woods then) and the tents they would set up. There would be a lot of excitement for a few days then everything would disappear as quickly as it came there. I also remembered distinctly some scenes like a lady running through the same little area over and over and would wonder why they keep doing the same think in the same little space instead of using all the expanse of the area thy had available. But then, I never had the chance of visiting a movie theater until I was a teenager.

The area was also a training site for visiting soldiers, mostly French or British armies. It was through this association that I got my name. My father happened to have overheard a French soldier telling another about the loss of his child. The child’s name was Chevol or some derivation of it and my father like the name or the story, I am not sure which, but that was how I got my unusual name.

But mostly, the area was used for grazing cattle, cattle that supplied the hotel with all its dairy needs. My father was a foreman, either for the hotel or the land surrounding it (I am not sure which), but he was responsible for ensuring that the hotel was supplied with milk and butter. The house that we lived in was a part of his compensation.

It was a modest house. It was a two room construction with a detached kitchen and a out-house set back a little ways in the back. The yard was fenced in and in front there was a large grapefruit tree. We had no neighbors. The closest connections we had was the hotel and that was a place of business and my Grandfather’s place, Kellington (more on this later), which was too far for a child to take on alone.

So I grew up pretty much a loner, dependent on my own resourcefulness for my entertainment. My dog Sweets (a brown mixed blood mongrel) was my treasured and constant companion. Together we had adventure filled days investigating as boys do. My life at Grove was a carefree time. My only limitation was my individual fear. I could travel from the river (we caught shrimp there or picked watercress for dinner) leading to the reservoir that supplied Ocho Rios with water to the hotel (for treats on holidays); and from the hills (investigate caves or pick mangoes) above the grove to the milking pen (where you could help feed the cows) where the cattle were milked and fed. It was a carefree time.

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Earliest Recollection

My earliest recollection of life is not one of tranquility and bliss but the traumatic physical force of being pulled apart in the middle of a public bus by my very own parents. I cannot recall the incidents that lead up to the episode but I distinctly recall being pulled apart as one parent hanging onto one half of me and was pulling me towards the front of the bus while the other parent was hanging onto the other half and pulling me back towards the rear of the bus. I also clearly remembered the anger of the bus driver. I remember him not sitting at the wheel but standing at the top of the isle and yelling at both my parents. Neither parent ever mentioned the episode but it was distinctly etched in my mind.

The incident happened in Lucky Hill, St. Mary (this came to me later). The bus was on the main road coming from Kingston and going towards Guys Hill and the stop was where the local road from Jeffery Town (I think) intersected the main road. Having had to catch the same bus on many occasions later, I came to realize that this was the location of the incident. It was an afternoon and the bus was one of those long busses with bright colors (browns and reds and yellow) and had a carrier on top. It had seats on two sides and an isle in the middle but it was not full as my parents seem to have had full use of the entire isle in the middle.

I cannot recall who won the tussle or how the incident even ended, just the altercation and the uproar it caused on the bus.
Who would have thought that with such a violent beginning my life and memories of Jamaica would have been happy ones.

Stay tuned for more….

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