My Jamaican Roots

In Milford My Sister Joined Us

2009-10-14T21:39:00.003-04:00

It was here in Milford that I first met my sister. I don’t remember anything leading up to her birth. It was like one day the world revolved around me, at least from the way I saw it and next day there was this thing with everyone ooh-ing and aah-ing around her. I cannot remember exactly when she was born or even if she was born at home or in a hospital; in fact I don’t remember my mother being pregnant or if the pregnancy was difficult. But I do remember distinctly the joy, happiness and pride that exuded from the family with my sister’s arrival.

We had been living in Milford for some time then and our family had become close friends with many families, especially the Swaurez who lived in the house behind us and the Brown’s (I think) who lived further up the road. So we were very much a part of the community. But with my sister’s birth it seemed like we gained new prominence, there was constant activity in the house. She became the center of the activity with everyone talking about her or doing something with her. I think her coming brought some of the happiest times in my mother’s life.

But I remembered it as turning my world upside down. For eleven years I was like an only child; yes I had to share sometimes with Bill, but that was different, or was it? In any case it felt like all of a sudden my prominence was usurped. I now had to share and compete. I remember feeling like an outcast as my sister became the sudden pride and joy of the family. I do not think it was jealousy it was just new. She was still a joy to be around for by association some of the attention would also fall to me. Know something! Not much has changed, today she is still the center of the family and she is still my pride and joy.

My father had started working at Shaw Park Dairy by then. He was the manager. It was just up the road, about a mile or so from where we lived. I think that was the reason why we moved to Milford in the first place. The dairy itself had not been built as yet and it was more like a milking station then with stalls for about eight or ten ‘milk men’ who did the actual milking (no automation then). I remember spending many afternoon there, just helping ( more likely a nuisance), like feeding the cows to keep them quiet while they were being milked and as I got older being trusted with bigger tasks such as measuring out the amount of milk from each cow and later still recording each cows production in a big record book.

The purpose of the dairy was to supply the hotel with milk but they produced much more than the hotel could use. The extra milk had to be trucked to a main dairy in Bog Walk and my father often made these daily deliveries himself. Also I guess as the manager, he had the privilege of using the vehicles during down time for personal use. And so began the most endearing period of my relationship with my father. I was his constant companion, whenever and wherever he was driving; weather it was over to Bog Walk to deliver milk, or to some impenetrable backwoods and bush just to check up on a distant relative that he has not seen in a while, or my favorite, after a hurricane driving around the island to see the damage. The most fascinating thing about these journeys though was that we could go all day without exchanging a single word! A grunt here, a point of his index finger there or a nod of his head (as only a Jamaican would) or my glance in his direction was about the only exchange we did. But the journey was not strained; far from that, it was entertaining, exciting and special in its closeness. It was something I looked forward to and will always remember as a special time. We communicated, it was just not verbal; it was at a higher level.

It was also about this time that I started realizing the remarkable talent for math that my father had. A part of his job was to keep a tally of how many quarts of milk that each cow gave. So there was this huge record book with a cows name on each line and the date in the column and each day you record how many quarts and fraction of a quart of milk that cow gave. Then at the end of each month you had to add up both those rows and columns and make sure they cross foot. My father could do this in one try, all in his head; with no calculator, computer or even an adding machine, and with only an elementary education, no high school. Later on, when the dairy had sent him back to school ( a school down in the Bay that specialize in accounting) I remember him commenting on finding errors in the class textbook. He was that good!

We move fron Ochie to Milford

2009-07-18T21:03:00.003-04:00

From Ochie we moved up to Milford. It was to one of those ‘row’ houses, that is three rooms stuck to each other in a row. I can remember the exact location. It was about four houses up from the intersection of where the road to Shaw Park/Parry Town intersects with the road from Ocho Rios to Fern Gully. The house was just before where the Shaw Park/Parry Town road splits with the left going on to Parry Town and the right going up to Shaw Park.

The property was not particularly big or interesting. I remember a big bread fruit tree by the gate which I would climb whenever I had to miss school so that I could greet everybody on their way home from school. One of the drawbacks of the house was its close proximity to school. I now had to go home for lunch and gone were the more preferred lunch treats like snow cone, drops, fudge, bullah cake, totoe, gizada, etc. Compared to when we lived in Ochie I now had to save real hard to get some simple treats like icy mints or 'lick and fall back'. A snow cone was now almost out of reach.

Thinking back now though, the house itself was quite remarkable. It was what we would call today an apartment complex. But each 'apartment' was just one room! Ours was the middle. But that one room was sectioned off by curtains and temporary dividers that you felt like it was a whole house in itself. In the very back was the bed room area and even that was sectioned off into my parents area to the left with their big bed and on the right a small area for my cot. In the front on the right was the kitchen and dining area. There was a communal kitchen outside but I don’t think my mother was agreeable to that so my father had rigged up a kerosine stove so that she could cook sometimes inside. To the left of the kitchen area was the living or guest area which became the nursery with a crib when my sister was born. And I can remember Bill being with us sometimes so there was room for him too. All that in one room, and I never thought of it as cluttered, dirty or crowded.

The other ‘apartments’ were just like that. Mr. Brown lived in the first apartment and I don’t remember who lived in the last. He had two daughters, the oldest one’s name I can’t remember for she was older than I. The second one’s name I think was Thibs. She was more my age and we were great buddies. She taught me how to jump rope and double dutch and I taught her how to shoot 'glassy' marbles. Seems like we were almost inseparable for a very long time.

It was not that there were not other kids around. A little further up on the opposite side of the road was another row house/apartment with many kids but for some reason I was hardly ever allowed to go over there. Then further up on the road to Parry Town there was a bunch of kids but these too I do not remember much about them. The only other friend I can remember was Orville (‘ville) Harrison (wow! I have been trying for weeks to remember his name and now it just came to me, just like that, in a flash! I guess by writing it all out the synapses made the linkage). ‘ville was my kite man. With his knack for the construction and my meticulous attention to details I think we made some of the best kites in Ocho Rios.

Kite season for me was special. First you had to start saving deligently for this was an expensive undertaking, it required hard cash and delicate negotiations. When I think I had saved up enough I could then negotiate with ‘ville to build you the kite frame out of bamboo and twine. Depending on the kite size, the season and his costs you negotiated a price. Only when he was done and you had your taunt frame securely hanging from a nail above your bed then you could proceed to your next step, selecting and buying the colored paper. So you would measure carefully and from listening to all the talk from the other kids you would learn which store had the best colors and at what price. Armed with that information you would make your purchase, but with limited funds you wanted to make sue you bought just enough to do the job; with the least left over and more importantly you did not come up short. I think that was my forte. Having bought your colored parchment paper and cut it meticulously to the kite dimensions then it was time to mix the glue from starch and water, making sure it was thick enough to hold but not lumpy to weigh the kite down or unbalance it. Then you go to work at crafting your kite.

Flying kite in Jamaica was something special. None of the kids I knew had enough money to buy a kite. I don't think they even sold them in the stores then, at least not in the ones we frequented. You crafted it from scratch. Each child was expected to have some hand in the creation of his or her own kite. If you were like me and not good at construction you had better develop skills in design to make it look appealing, crafting to glue the many patches of paper together neatly, aerodynamics to tie the perfect knot to balance the kite for elevation, or just the simple skill of flying it to keep it out of trees and your competitors flight path. I think my skill was in the design and measurement. I could figure out how much paper to get with the least left over. That’s probably where my love for math came from.

Then once the kite was made you would wait for that perfect day and that perfect opportunity. My chance would come by making sure I get all my chores done on time and done well so that I could entice my parents to letting me go to Kellington for a day. Kellington was quite a long ways off but it was worth the trip, for it was like the kite flying capital of the area. There was no better way to spend a day than to have your kite out there on a windy afternoon among the other many kites of all sizes, colors and designs just watching them soar, ebb, dive, spiral down and at the last moment rise again; and you hanging onto that taunt line as you maneuver yours to stay afloat all day and out of harms way. But inevitably the end comes; somebody cuts your line and you can only watch helplessly as your kite drifts off into never-never-land, or a down draft comes up and forces your kite into one of those sickening death spirals that shreds your kite into the top of some unreachable tree. Then it’s back to square one.

Our Second House Part #2

2009-06-05T21:38:00.004-04:00

I have been racking my brain to come up with some sort of time post so that I could establish a time line of when we started living in Ochie and how long we lived there. But I am still not very clear on these dates. My first recollection of a real school was a sort of kindergarten school held in the Seven Day Adventist church in Milford. The trip from Grove to Milford would have been too long for a young child so I have to rationalize that we must have been living in Ochie when I started going there. I do remember walking up to Milford in the mornings as part of a procession of kids walking to school. You would walk down Main Street all the way to the center of town then hang a right at the stop sign (the only stop sign in the entire town) then up the road to Milford. I was too young to attend primary school when I started so my parents first sent me to this sort of pre-school that was held by the Seven Day Adventist church that was located almost directly across from what is now Ocho Rios Cemetery. I am not sure how long I stayed there but they must have thought me well for my first day at Primary turned out to be a remarkable day. It might have been a part of the evaluation process but I remember the first grade teacher asking me to read and when I did she took me by the hand and walked me over to the second grade teacher who then asked me to read again and when I did they walked me right over to the third grade teacher. So in one day I went from first to third grade. It gained me lots of kudos and admiration for being ‘smart’ but it also ensured that I would always be younger, weaker and not as physically developed as most of my class mates. This was not so good.

Moving to Bay introduced me to a lot of new stuff. I remember it as the first time seeing Junkuno dancing and the other traditions of Christmas. Being Jehovah’s Witnesses we did not celebrate Christmas so I was not exposed to most of it. In our family New Years was our special holiday. My father would get up early in the morning and mix his special concoction of milk, cream and port wine, a concoction I have tried so hard to duplicate without success; funny thing, recently I hard my brother Harry, whose culinary skills are renowned, lamenting at his similar failure. People have often asked me if while growing up as a Jehovah Witness I did not feel cheated out of Christmas. The answer is no. First, while we did not get presents or did anything special we still enjoyed many of the traditions other families did, like going to market on Christmas Eve night (maybe not staying as late), watching the bands and Junkuno dancing all week and experiencing all the firecrackers and excitement that would be going on in the Bay. Secondly, because my birthday was a few weeks after Christmas; just about when everybody else’s Christmas toys would be breaking up, out I would come with my brand new birthday toy. Being the only one with a new toy made mine feel special and memorable. How can I ever forget my green and yellow plastic guitar or the red fire truck that you could crank up and it goes by itself.

It was also while we lived here that my mother became that independent person she yearned to be. It was then that she first started working out of the house. Her first job was at Brown’s Emporium, a brand new store that had opened up in a new building located right across from where the clock tower now stands. The building is still there but there is so much congestion at that intersection that I can never get a good look at what it looks like today. Back then it was the most modern store in Ocho Rios selling general merchandise from clothing to kitchen appliances. I remember the store well, its newness, clean and open; and her happy face whenever I had a chance to visit here there. It was a happy time for her, she was in her element, meeting people and interacting with them all day. I felt like she worked there a long time but now I am not as sure as I was reminded recently (thanks Ilene) that she also worked iat another store, Lindo’s (I think the name was) that was very close by. It was located on the other side of the road and closer to the Bay area. This one I only remember vaguely.

Living in Bay was a happy time. Besides my bout with mumps (in a previous blogg) I can remember two other distinct experiences. The first was a mishap from riding my bike too close to a pedestrian. The pedal caught his pants and ripped it. It turns out that he was the town’s tailor and his clothes were special, and worst, the news of the incident got back to my father even before I even got home to give my version. I think I got a whipping for that one. The second was probably just as costly. My parents had sent me down to the Bay to go to the barber. But I snucked and went to the beach to play with my friends first. Sand got in my hair which I did not wash out carefully. Exactly half way into the hair cut the sand grains in my hair caused the barber’s only clipper to break (it was only one of those hand cranked clippers but it was high-tech then). He was mad which he let me know in no uncertain terms and in addition he was payment from my father for the repairs or replacement. My predicament was two fold; one, I had to go home walking through the town with exactly one half of my head freshly shorn while the other side still bushy and the second, and even more daunting task was having to explain to my parents that I disobeyed them.

Still Bay was a happy time. The house might have been only two rooms but it was a house of love and sharing. I remember Bill being there and recently I also learned that both Bernice as well as Aunt Little (more on her later) stayed with us there while they attended additional schooling.

Living in Bay was a happy time.

A Visit to Lucky Hill

2009-04-26T15:32:00.004-04:00

While in Jamaica for the funeral (Uncle Bullion) I took the opportunity to make one last trip up to Lucky Hill. This trip was extra special because I had the company of my sister. Since we have grown up I think this is the first time I have had her to myself for almost a whole day alone!

Also special was that I had the chance to see Bernice (Sue) who I have not seen since I was a teenager I think.

Here are some pictures from
Lucky Hill:

Lucky Hill has not changed, if anything it has gotten smaller it seems. Areas that I thought was miles away turns out to be not so far after all, and houses that I thought were so big were really tiny. It was revelation to me how a child’s eye view and that of a grown up cold be so different. Take for example walking to school in the morning. I remember this as a grueling huge distance with corners and turns and the road going on forever. It turns out that the actual distance was about a mile, if so long!

Jeffery Town school (My First Fight) was still there but it looked so small and not at all like I remembered it. Besides the bright yellow and green colors, the building is half as big as I remembered it and the playground was almost nonexistent. The same play ground I remembered at recess you would full games of cricket, football, chevy-chase, jump-rope, gig and marbles going on all at the same time.

My visit to Luck Hill was an eye-opening experience of how a child’s view of spatial things and a grown-up’s view is so much different!

Uncle Bullion's Funeral

2009-04-16T22:01:00.003-04:00

It has been over a month since my uncle’s (Uncle Bullion) funeral but I have not had a chance to update my blog. Below are links to some of the pictures taken during the visit to Jamaica.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27040491@N06/sets/72157616733145438/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/27040491@N06/sets/72157616643537681/

It is unfortunate that the reason for the trip was his passing. But just like spring follow winter so does rejuvenation follows death. His death, while sad, was a vehicle for enlivening the family bond; re-energizing old linkages and building new ones. His passing while sad was a vehicle for making the Davis family bond stronger, bigger and deeper. Were he able to see it, I know he would have felt as happy and proud as I was of this special family.

The funeral itself was sad as funnerals are but it was also a joyous occasion. The service was packed, standing room only. His brothers officiated; Dixon lead us in prayers and Hugh did the eulogy. His burial was at his beloved New Hope, next to his wife. Driving up that very steep, curvy, rocky and unpaved country road up to New Hope was an adventure. But having arrived; the good food, happy gathering, superb vista and the opportunity to touch and re-connect with family that you have not seen in so long and be introduced to ones that you have never seen made the evening an unforgettable joy!

How fitting…, as he did in life so he did in passing, bringing happiness to all!

Why I love my Uncle Bullion (Charles Davis).

2009-03-11T21:42:00.003-04:00

He is in the back row on the left above and next to him is my father.

I heard today that my favorite uncle died. He died at the advance age of 97 years. I would say he had not only a long life but a good life too. While I did expect his passage I will miss him. I will miss his touch, the way he cocks his head when he talks to you, that forever smile that says ‘everything is going to be alright’ and that long lanky gait he had when he was younger, tackling those hills going up from Parry Town up to his house. I was secretly hoping to have one more chance to sit with him and hear from his own mouth some more of the family history. Now that will never happen and all that knowledge and family history died with him. I will miss the knowledge but I will miss him more!

From earlier conversations here is what I gather about his history. He was born in Lucky Hill on April 20, 1912 and started school there but finished up in Kingston where he was living with his sister, Sister Lou (Louise Davis). He started working in Kingston too, first as electrician then driving but with the end of WW II (1945) he gave up driving and was never behind the wheel of a car again. I never heard the full story of why. But what was surprising about his youth was that he was politically very active. To do this in a family that was so astutely Jehovah’s Witnesses would have taken some doing. But I have heard from other sources that as a youth he was very active in the Jamaica Labour Party (JLP); that he traveled the island extensively canvassing votes and was very prominent in party gathering. He said however that he himself never voted.

In 1945 he dedicated himself to Jehovah and has been a ardent Witness ever since. As a young man he left Kingston and came to Ocho Rios (Kellington) where he married Violet. They set up residence in Parry Town where he has lived ever since. While there he became a tradesman; a skilled masonry, carpenter and builder in the Ocho Rios community. Together they had six children: Lillian, Rudley, Sonia, Robert, Sutcliff and Yann.

My uncle was not rich but I have never known him to ask for a dollar. He was always self supporting and a good provider for his family. But what he might have lacked in material wealth me more than made up for in kind thoughts, a happy disposition and a giving personality. I have never known him to be mean, have envy for anyone or curse at someone.

For me, he was the balancing act to my father’s anger. He was the one who could calm my father down from his fits of rage and get him to see reason and become rational again. I cannot tell you how many times I hoped for Uncle Bullion to stop by (as he often did on his way home from work or meetings). You know, those days when you got into too much trouble for your mother to handle and she gave you that ultimate warning ‘You just wait until your father comes home….’ Secretly I would then pray for my Uncle Bullion to show up. I know he was the only one who could reason with my father and get him to forget or at least bring the punishment down a notch. He was my savior many times. My mother, I think uses a similar tactic when she had a difficult confrontation with my father. You see Uncle Bullion and my father were both very close. He was my father sounding board and I know much of my father’s endeavors would not have happened if he did not have my uncle’s advice and support.

The first dollar (pound) I ever earned was from Uncle Bullion. I was home on vacation from high school and he had a masonry job in the kitchen area at Tower Isle hotel. Against my mothers strong objection he go my father to allow me to come and help him on that job. It was the first dollar I earned but more than that it shows how my uncle operates. My father undoubtedly was complaining of how lazy I was sitting home all day and doing nothing. He was probably bent out of shape agonizing about it and talked to Uncle Bullion about it. But Uncle Bullion saw it for what it was; that I was not particularly lazy but just a young man bored out of his whit’s and was really looking for something new to do.

That was my Uncle Bullion. He always seems to look beyond the obvious. He was a thinking man, my type of guy. He will always be special to me.

Aunt's Children

2009-02-04T21:21:00.003-05:00

This is an excerpt from Bernice (Sue). She probably lived with Aunt the longest and has the best knowledge of all of Aunt’s ‘children’. I have left it almost verbatim as it not only describe the children but gives a good perspective of how Aunt was viewed in the district.
….now, with regards to your request. As you have said it is a tall order. However, I’ll make a try at it and as comprehensive as possible.
Growing up with Aunt was quite SOME experience. But that is another story which was not all negative. You may not know this, but my surname is really McDermott. My parents were Mr. & Mrs. Zachariah McDermott living in the same district of Retirement. Aunt was a Nanny/Nurse so she delivered many babies including those of my mother. I was told that she liked me very much at birth and got to adopt me. That is how I got the name Taylor. I was taken to her home when I was weaned at about nine months old. Your mother and Cliffie’s mother-Evelyn Burrell who is Aunt’s niece by a brother were at home when I joined the family. Then there was Siddie (Hector Bonito) who is Jackie’s uncle. After that another girl in her early teens –Delphis White spent a few years. She came from Ocho Rios (church connection) her father (Mr. White) took her back home.
While Cliffie, Bill and Winston and I were all there together, you came for a little time. When I was in my late teens Jackie’s mother, Elaine Russell came and spent a year. After that a young girl (about 9 years old) from the district also spent about 2 years, her name was Cinderella McDonald. Her parents were Mr. & Mrs. George McDonald. She eventually went back home. The last person I remember was Eartha Allen, a little girl about 4 years old. She was one of Aunts church brother’s child. Her parents were Mr. & Mrs. Allen from the area. She also spent a very short time and went back home.
…It should interest you to know that Aunt was regarded as a very significant person in the district. She played the role of Advisor/counselor, attended the sick, embalmed dead bodies (a process which lasted 3 days until the burial) as you know in those days there were no funeral homes. As I have said previously she delivered many babies. As far as I know majority if not all services without charge, she was fairly well read and had a good knowledge in house-keeping, dressmaking etiquette and of course nursing skills. She sometimes spoke about some study course in which she was involved. I recall seeing at least two of her books at home. In addition she was a landowner and farmer in her own rights, and a very strict disciplinarian workaholic.

I added a schematic above showing Aunt's ‘children’, their sequence and approximate time line of when they were with her in Lucky Hill.

Our Second House – Part I

2008-12-10T22:17:00.003-05:00

From Grove we moved to a little house just on the outskirts of Ocho Rios’ bay area. It was a three room house on what is now Main Street out towards the western end of the town. It was directly across from Our Lady of Fatima, a Catholic Church and school. The house is now demolished and a commercial building occupies the space.

I don’t recall entirely the circumstance surrounding why my father left Shaw Park Hotel but I felt that my mother had a pivotal role in the decision. Being a people person I can see how she would have hated the isolation of Grove. In any event my father left Shaw Park Estates and started working at a hotel out towards White River; it could have even been Tower Isle Hotel. He was commuting on his bicycle and it was during one of these commute that he almost lost his life. He was hit by a car that knocked him off his bicycle and down a steep rocky precipice. He ended up in St Anns Bay Hospital with severe head injuries. It was the result of these injuries that some felt caused the memory lapses in the latter part of his life.

I think I must have been about four or five when we started living there. I estimate that because I was still riding ‘under bar’ and I was not yet in primary school. But I was attending the Seventh Day Adventist’s school in Milford. This in itself was a remarkable accomplishment by my mother, for she must have been brilliant in applying the necessary pressure and persistence on my father for him to agree to this. You see, for him it meant going against his entire side of the family (his father, his brothers and sisters) plus the entire Jehovah’s Witness congregation in Ocho Rios; a gut wrenching, conscience strewn and unnerving decision. Or maybe it was just love for his wife, but allowing his child to get any education in a religious house other than a Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witness I know did not come easy to my father. But my mother’s mantra for me was education, education, education and she would have traded with the devil to make that happen. It was not the last time too that she pulled that off.

Our house was one of two that that was located on that property. In the other which was bigger but older lived the Greens (I think that was their name) and they had a son called Cutie who was about my age and a daughter whose name slips me. Both houses faced out onto a common yard with a big almond tree in the western corner of the property. Under the tree was the communal stand pipe. It was not that we did not have running water in the houses for I distinctly remember a kitchen area and an outside shower area behind our house. But Cutie and myself seem to have spent a lot of time together under that almond tree, all our games and activities happened there. I remember it as a happy place and not just for the almonds; which you stoned off when they were ripe to get the fruit and when dry you broke open for the nut inside, and the leaves, when you really bored or destitute, you could make a poor kite out of it. On our side of the property was a breadfruit tree. I mention this because thinking about it now I realize that every house that we ever lived in my father always seem to manage a breadfruit tree. I guess it was his way of ensuring that there was always food.

I will bring you Part II soon but first I want to go Back to Lucky Hill. Until then...

Back to Lucky Hill

2008-11-03T21:36:00.010-05:00

I thought I had closed this chapter but new information keeps drawing me back here. A recent encounter (Harry’s 50th. Birthday Party) brought new information and a whole new perspective to Aunt and Grand Mumaa, my paternal grand mother and great grand mother respectively. Thanks Jacqui, I can now fill in most of my mother’s family tree. Above is a look at it so far.

First, I found out Grand Mumaa’s real name. She was Sarah Dalling. Secondly, Aunt was not an only child but had at least three siblings. And third, while it cannot be documented as yet, some says that Grand Mumaa's maiden name was Taylor. If that turns out to be true it would be something, she being a Taylor and her daughter Aunt, also marrying a Taylor. But even more intriguing is the fact that she must have married or had relationship with a Davis for Aunt, her first child, was named Davis. This suggests very strongly that my mother and father were related, they were probably cousins!

This was all happening in the small community of Lucky Hill, where the total population was probably less than a thousand people. It was mentioned that Lucky Hill was originally settled by three families two of which were Davis and Taylor. Given the information I have today it does not seem that far fetched.

There was also a lot more information on Aunt, my grand mother. I found out that she had three siblings. There was Aunt Jane whom I vaguely remembered as living very close to Aunt (I think just down the road where the road bends as it leaves Retirement and heads towards Jeffery Town). Then there were Arnold and Lucille. These two I don’t recall.

But what is more intriguing than the siblings is the new perspective I get of Aunt. I always had this picture of her as a strict disciplinarian, not mean, but a tough, dictatorial, no-nonsense type of a woman. But hearing from other who lived with her much longer than I, there was a softer side. It turns out that Aunt was actually a midwife for the district and that is where much of the respect and high esteem she was given in the district comes from. It was also one reason why she always taking care of so many other people’s children. It was because the attachment from having helped to bring them into the world. This information is interesting and gives me a whole new perspective of her. But it’s still a tough one for me to picture, probably because of the many heavy licks that I remembered those hands delivering to my rear end. I just can’t imagine them as tender enough to deliver babies. She was one great woman! I wish I could get back time to get to know her allover again.

There was new information on Daddy too. It turns out that he had children before he married Aunt, giving my mother two siblings. His first child was Aunt Zill. I do not think I ever met her as she lived in Kingston but she was always talked about and I grew up with Winston who was her son. Daddy’s second child was Uncle Sonney. I have heard the name and I think he lived close by or at least in Lucky Hill but he must not have remained close to the rest of the family for I cannot recall him. My mother was his third child. Having lived with Daddy for a year or so and witness first hand his calming influence I can see how much he contributed to my mother's childhood. While he did not intervene when Aunt was threatening you with fire and brimstone he also did not escalate it. He was that quiet person, soft spoken, caring and thoughtful. He was always in the background, but without him Aunt would never have the presence nor commanded the respect that she had. I can see now where she was the initiator but he was her support and together they were a strong team.

Dadda

2008-10-11T20:43:00.008-04:00

My paternal grand father ‘Dadda’ was the Davis of the Davis’. You only have to look at him to know where we all came from; medium height, lithe frame, spindly legs, high forehead with deep furrows, bushy eyebrows, straight nose, big ears and light complexion. These were the physical attributes he passed on to all of us, some more than others, but we all share some of it to some degree. In a family gathering I was always fascinated by all the hues of colors and mixtures of features. But select an individual and you will see some of these tell tale Davis features in some degree; he or she might not be fair but will have those skinny calves, another might not have as straight a nose but notice those big ears and deep furrows in the forehead, and so it would go that you can always tell a Davis.

Dadda was obviously of caucasian ancestry and the name Davis suggest Scottish or Welsh heritage. Beyond that I have not been able to unearth his family history. He was born Theophilous Dixon Davis in February of 1881 in the village of Endeavour in the parish of St. Mary, Jamaica West Indies. We know that he had a brother, Alfred and a sister, Florence; and that he grew up in the Endeavour/Lodge/Cascade area of St. Mary. Beyond that little is known about the family history. I keep digging but as yet, I have not been able to find anything about his parents or where they came from.
His first marriage was to Alberta Adina Goldsmith of St. Elizabeth. Not much is also know about Alberta’s family. It seems she was considered illegitimate and not considered a full Goldsmith. She had three siblings, John, George and Lena. Little is known of how she grew up or how she met Dadda but they got married sometime before Frank (the first child) was born and they first lived in Rose Street (Hall) in St Elizabeth. Then they moved back to St. Mary and most of the children were born in Lucky Hill, St. Mary. For him she bore 13 children plus 2 miscarriages:

‘Dadda’ Theophilous Dixon Davis (1881 - 1965) - Alberta Adina Goldsmith (1890 - 1942):

Frank
Louise
TT
Joyce
Charles (Bullion)
Violet
Vivian
John
Leslie
Lilla
Harold
Archie
Florence (Little)

She died in 1942 at the early age of 52. Unfortunately she became blind (probably from diabetes) before she died.

Dadda started out working in the schools (as a teacher or headmaster) and he was also a deacon in a local church. Later he teamed up with the Pottinger family and became a cultivator but gave that up for a job as a Head Man on a property in Three Hills, St. Mary. Later he became the ‘Busha’ of Shaw Park Estate. He apparently started in some other position at Shaw Park but the prior ‘Busha’ had to leave Jamaica unexpectedly and he got the position which came with the house in Kellington.

At Shaw Park he married Mertella Beckford in 1945. She was 22 and he was 65. Mertella (Sista Mert) was originally from Lucky Hill and had known Dadda there but she grew up in Three Hills, St Mary. Not much is known about Sista Mert’s parents too as she was raised by her grandmother. In fact, when Dadda wanted to marry her he had to get the consent from her grandmother as there were no parents to go to. Apparently Sista Mert was already working at Shaw Park Hotel when Dadda asked her to marry him. Her memory was that he was pretty lonely at that time as his first wife had been dead for a while and most of his children had married and moved away. Together they had seven children:

Dadda - Murtella Beckford (1923 - ) Married in 1945:
Lloyd (Dixon)
Hugh
Annette
Lee
Fred
Hayden
Micah

With such a populous beginning it is no wonder the Davis family became so large. But, however many generations removed we are, Dadda is still the focal point of our lineage and for now the oldest source of our Davis lineage. Dadda died in 1965.

Passion for Bicycling

2008-09-26T18:21:00.002-04:00

Sorry for the long break. It was summer and summer is my prime biking time, the two wheel type, the one where your only power is your legs.

I like to bike. I am convinced that it has something to do with the genes passed down from my father. It’s not that I am very good at it. I am neither a very good climber nor am I super fast or anything like that. I just love to be out there on some lonely country road just clicking away at the miles. And that sounds very much like my father for he was a big time biker. I remembered him telling me of races he did where they raced around the entire island. They did not have a SAG wagon (a vehicle following you} so you ate when you could, sleep when you can and just keep going. It sounds like something I would have enjoyed.

But riding for him was mostly from necessity (it was his only means of transportation for much of my young life) and not so much for sport. When we lived in Grove, Bay (Ocho Rios bay) was a long way off and a bicycle made the trip easier and a trip to Lucky Hill was doable in a couple of hours instead of days. Then when we moved to Bay, he was then working at Tower Isle (hotel) or some where out that side and the bicycle was the way he commuted. In fact a major accident in his life was when he was hit from his bike, while on this commute. He was hit in one of those sharp curves just west of White River. He was knocked from the road down a steep rocky ravine and had to be hospitalized. The scars in his forehead that remained through the rest of his life were from this accident.

In our early years I remembered him always having a bike and he was constantly truing it or repacking the little ball bearings into the wheel or bottom bracket. The bike I remembered most was a green Rudge, with fixed wheel, no fenders and no breaks. I remembered it because it was the one I learned to ride on; under the bar (top tube) because I was too small to fit over it! At our house at Grove and when we moved to the house in Ocho Rios Bay he always had a bicycle fork turned upside down and stuck in the ground in the yard. This was his ‘truing’ (a process for making sure your wheel was not wobbly) fork.

Weather it is from association or by genes, I love to bike. It is something I left since childhood but in recent years I have found the sport again and look forward to it each summer weekend. But I am getting ahead of myself. I want to first investigate some more of my heritage by telling about the paternal half of my ancestry so next post I will begin that journey.

My Brother Bill.

2008-07-07T21:32:00.007-04:00

This has been a difficult post. It has been through several re-writes and it still does not feel right, but here goes...

Of all of my siblings Bill’s childhood was the worst. He happened to have been born darker than the rest of us. Our father, in his infinite wisdom, or was it ignorance, prejudice or just plain anger, declared that he was not the father and Bill was not his child. He totally disowned him accusing our mother of infidelity. It was probably what caused the rift which became a part of my earliest memories (see my first post). Bill was literally banished from our house, though our mother was not. For the most part he was raised by our Grand Mother, Aunt in Lucky Hill. There were periods when he lived with us but these were not very frequent and I do not remember him staying with us very long for any one period. In fact, although we are only a year or so apart I can only remember two periods when we attended the same school. For the most part Bill grew up away from his family.

I can only imagine the hurt, resentment and animosity he must have felt growing up.

For my part I never really thought much about it while I was growing up. It was the way things were. I lived in Ocho Rios with our mother and father and Bill lived in Lucky Hill with Aunt. Ocassionally I had to spend time with Aunt in Lucky Hill and Bill spent time with us in Ocho Rios, and that was that. Then when my parents finally divorced the separation became more permanent. But even then I never thought about it. I never thought of it as unfair, wrong or unjust, it was just the way things were. Yes I was glad that I was living in the town of Ocho Rios and not in the bushes of Lucky Hill. But that was the extent of my perception of any inequity.

It was not until I became a grown person that I saw the injustice. It was not just that he had to live in the country with its seclusion, no running water, no electricity and the never ending chores while I lived in a fairly suburban area with all the amenities of a Jamaican middle class life style. It was more than that, much more. I can only imagine the exclusion, the feeling that you are not wanted, of being left out, excluded from your own family, a throw away, of being forced to live as a part of another family for most of your childhood. His hurt and resentment must have cut deep. I know Iit would have been for mr. If the shoe was on the other foot, and I am keenly aware how easily that could have happened, I would have been a total delinquent, with a chip that would have landed me in a grave or a prison a long time ago.

Surprisingly Bill became the ultimate gentleman. I have never heard him mentioning a hurt feeling or derogative sentiment against our father. Throughout his life he gave him utmost respect. He visited him often even when he was a grown man and did not have to. In fact, I think Bill was the last one of us to have visited him before he died.

Now that I have grown I have a lot of emotional feelings surrounding this issue that I am still trying to sort through. This bolg is a part of that. I canmot undo anything that has happened nor love my father any less but I do question his action.

The good news is that Bill is still my kin and a finer gentleman, a more caring person, a more devoted father and a more loving brother would be hard to find!

My First School Fight

2008-05-13T20:41:00.002-04:00

I don’t remember how it all started or what it was about really or even who won for that matter. I just remember that the gauntlet was thrown, my pride was at stake and the whole school was turning out to see me muster up and defend myself or turn tail and be forever known as a coward. The latter was simply out of the question so I had to muster up. The danger was not so much the fight but how could a God fearing Jehovah’s Witness who went out every Sunday to his neighbors to preach of the benefits of peace be caught in a fist fight. Somehow if I was to do this I couldn’t let Aunt (my Grand Mother) know as I would get a whipping when I get home and worst I could never let my father get even wind of it for I would get an even more terrible whipping. The latter was a tough one as a little ways down the road from where the fight was to take place was the grocery store owned by my aunt (real aunt, Aunt Lila, my father’s sister) and my father regularly stopped there on his visits to Lucky Hill. My fear of my father was tremendous as a kid and it was a close toss up weather to back down from the fight versus running the risk of my father hearing about it. But my pride was at stake and goaded on by my friends I chose to fight and face the consequences

I don’t remember my contender’s name but we agreed or more likely dared each other to show up after school out on the main road just outside of the school premises. This was the established arena for settling through physical combat differences that were too big to ignore or to reconcile through words. Ours must have started in the morning for I remember that by lunch time the whole school was abuzz with the news of the evening entertainment of my ensuing fisticuff. Secretly I was hoping that the whole thing would not happen so I was devastated when by lunchtime friends started asking me about this upcoming fight. I had figured that contender (he was the Headmasters son) would not risk engaging in a fight anywhere near to the school for surely he knew that his father as the Headmaster (principal) of the school he would have to come down on him pretty hard to dispel any show of favoritism. I guess I figured wrong. I remember that by evening the whole school was talking gleefully about this fight. I might have put up a good front but internally I was devastated and would have welcomed any out.

But evening did come and the big school bell signaling the end of the school day did clang not with normal sonorous clang of celebrating ‘school is over!’ but more the daunting clank of a church tower warning of an impending disaster. My stomach did churn and I was sure everyone could see beyond my posturing front to the fear in my face and the trembling in my knees. I think that day I felt that if the earth could have opened up and swallowed me it would have been a good thing. But non such happened and the inevitable moment did arrive. I had to leave the class room.

Walking outside I remembered being surrounded by my supporters. It was like the entire school was equally divided into two camps. I could see like half the student body was already outside of the school gate and the other half was waiting patiently for me to emerge from my classroom. Then on queue they surrounded me and escorted me out the school gate and into the arena. The moment of truth had come!

Sorry folks but I honestly do not remember much more of the fight itself or the eventual winner and looser. I think I must have one or fought valiantly for after that I was no longer a part of the background scenery but was allowed to now play with the bigger boys.

That was my first school fight and I can only remember fighting two more times, once at Ocho Rios Elementary school and that was against my best friend at the school, both before and after the fight; the second time was against my older brother, I had to show him who was boss, he was a year younger than me.

Next time I will try and fill you in on him.

My Time At Lucky Hill

2008-04-22T21:53:00.003-04:00

My times at Lucky Hill were mostly day trips with an occational summer vacation here and there. But one time I had to spend a whole year there for I remember going to Jeffery Town school there and in fact getting into my first school fight.

I can’t remember the circumstance under which I was sent to Lucky Hill to live but such was the life for myself and my nearest sibling. We both had episodes where we spent a lot of our childhood living away from our parents. His periods in Lucky Hill were much longer, more frequent and emotionally daunting than mine. But none the same I found mine was non the less vexing. Even as a child you realise that Lucky Hill life was not attracting. It was bush; there was no electricity, no running water, only an out door latrine and the kitchen was a shack with dirt floor and only wood fires, no stoves. I think I must have been about the age of 8-9 years old then and in fourth or fifth grade/class. I don't know the exact age I was then or what grades the school covered (it more than likely covred everything that was considered elementary or primary education) I only remembered that I was not old enough to play with the bigger boys but also was not in one of the younger grades.

Life in Lucky Hill meant hard work. A typical school day meant getting up before the sun comes up, and doing your chores around the house. This could mean going to the river to get water, chopping wood for fire for the day, finding the goats or donkeys or whatever animals that were tied out in one of the fields closer to the house and moving them to newer and fresher pasture or helping out in the kitchen to get the morning meal going. These were the chores for the smaller kids, the older ones had to go father and do a lot more. Only when your chores were all done that you could you could then wash up and put on your school clothes and go to school; which was a good three mile walk. When school was over there was no staying back for sports or any extra activities. You expected to hurry home to get your evening chores (planting, picking, weeding, feeding, etc.) done before night fall.

Then on Friday all activities reached a new frenzy as the final preparations were made to get ready to go to market on Saturday. All the stuff that you would be selling had to be gathered from the different fields and the hampers packed and ready for next morning. It was also the night that you did your cooking of coconut oil. This was our main cash crop so all hands were needed. Everyone would be up half the night grating, straining and boiling the extracted coconut milk down into oil. Then early next morning while it was still dark out you would be awaken to get the donkeys loaded and your bundle that you would be carrying on your head ready and then off to market you would go, trudging behind the donkey. And market was no 'round the corner, it was miles away.

Going to market to sell was not a favorite time for me. I was never any good at it and felt totally out of palace. It was not my thing then and is still not today. I am not sure why but I saw no thrill in it nor was I any good at it. Fortunately, either because of my resistance, demeanor, performance or simple ineptitude but I was not frequently selected to go to market. To this day I still find the task of selling very daunting. My wife just has to mention her intention of having a garage sale and I will find every excuse to disappear for the day.

But what I found even uglier than going to market was walking behind the donkey. This felt like the lowliest of the low and this feeling has stuck with me through the years. It became my point of reference for every disappointment. When I was in high school and could not afford football boots or track shoes or just lunch money for that day I always felt that things were still not so bad for at least I was still not walking behind a donkey. And even today when I am passed over for a promotion or endured some perceived slight my knee-jerk reaction is to turn the situation into a positive and commend myself on my accomplishments of how far I have come… from walking behind a donkey.

Do not get me wrong, Lucky Hill was not all that bad. For one, you were never alone. There were five of us kids there, so you were never doing a chore alone and being kids you could make a game out of anything. Even the night before market when you would stay up half the night boiling coconut oil would be fun. We would all be sitting around the fire, husking, grating, straining and cooking; everyone would be working but at the same time we would all be talking and telling stories and before you know it the night went by. We did not know it then but it was quality time, a bonding that cemented the family structure. I guess it is a part of what I am trying to recapture in these bloggs.

Oh, I forgot to tell you about my first fight. I will save that for next time.

Amy Davis Taylor #2

2008-03-22T21:55:00.003-04:00

I can’t believe that almost two months have passed since my last entry. Keep this up and this effort will turn into one of those great start but no follow-through and that is not me. I want to keep this going for a long time but to make it easier I will make each entry shorter, relax the chronological order and write as the spirit moves me.
With that said, I want to go back to Aunt (my grand mother Amy Taylor) for a while.
My last entry was more an introduction but one of the things that I have been rolling around in my head for the last two months was how formidable that woman was.
I can still picture Aunt in her work boots and probably with a basket on her head, a switch in one hand and in the other a rope tied to the donkey before her. The donkey would be loaded; two hampers across its back filled with yams, cocos, dasheens coconuts, bottles of coconut oil, maybe some fruits, a couple of eggs and definitely a couple of bunches of bananas. It would be Saturday morning and she would be on her way to market. There would be one or two of us children in tow to help her. Now someone looking at this picture might think poor woman, how unfortunate her life was, especially knowing that she hardly had an elementary education.
But reflection on it over the last few weeks I have come to the realization that Aunt was pretty well off, at lease compared to her peers. Her house was not a mansion but it was one of the few concrete houses in the district. She might have been cash poor but that was because ever extra penny she could get she would invest it in purchasing land. I don’t have a good count but from memory she had several tracks of land sprinkled all over the district.
One in particular, in an area called Halifax was several acres and was exceptional in the variety of food it produced. She cultivated mostly bananas and coconuts there but it was the first place I saw coffee beans, the only place I ever picked cacao and worked through the whole process of turning it into chocolate (which she sold in the market); she also planted yams, coco, dasheen (which she turned into Bami) as well as a number of fruit trees that just about grew wild. Then there would be one or two cows tied out there, often in calf or getting ready for market. Halifax was a beauty. The only problem with it was that it was a hike to get to. This was tough especially if it was your chore to go there to milk the cow before school. But once in Halifax the pickings were great interms of variety and bounty.
Aunt might have looked like a poor higgler woman eking out a subsistence living but the more I think about it I realize that she was a shred business woman. Until now I always saw her as this basic country woman with a love for wearing men work boots and doing hard manual labor but she could well have been one of the wealthiest of my ancestors! Still, living in Lucky Hill with Aunt was no panacea; it was work, work and more work. I will try and tell you a little about that next time.

My Great Grand Mother

2008-01-21T18:40:00.002-05:00

Directly across the street and about a mile away and also on the very peak of an even higher hill lived Aunt’s mother, my great grand mother (Gran Mumma, I think is what we called her). I remembered very little about her and it's only recently that I re-connected the lineage and realized that she was my Great Grand Mother. She was pretty old, frail and very much inside most of the time so I did not see much of her. She must have been pretty old by time I was born and I saw so little of her so nothing significant stands out and now I can't put a picture of her back in my brain as much as I would like to.

The house I remembered though. In the back, that was the side facing the road, we played cricket, with bats made out of coconut bough and a ball from anything you can device. On the other side of the house was the front door. Next to it was a great big wooden barrel or steel drum for catching the run-off rain water from the roof. One time this drum got infected with mosquitoes laying their eggs so a thin layer of kerosene oil was poured on the surface of the water to kill the mosquitoes (it prevents them from breathing). So in order to get to the water below the this film of Kerosene oil you were suppose to dip your container below the surface and full it before bringing it back to the surface. That way you would not get the kerosene oil on the surface in your container. Try as I might, I could never do it right so every drink I took I would get the taste of kerosene oil. That taste have stayed with me all these years and that is what stands out now in my memory when I think of my Great Grand Mother.

You see, at Lucky Hill water was a precious commodity. For everyone in the district, my grand mother and great grand mother included, water had to be carried from a river on your head. So you treasured it. To get water from the river you would take a container (one that would be fitting for your age and size) and you would go down to this river (it must have been more than a mile away) and you would fill it up and get it on your head and trudge all the way back. Heaven help you if you spilled it for you had go all the way back and do it all over again. I remember a particular part of the trail where the soil was a very red clay (much like my now beloved North Carolina soil) which became very slippery when wet. Invariably, someone would loose a load and that made it slippery and before you know you had a domino effect. It was especially treaterous when it rained for then it was not unusual then for several of us kids to loose two or more loads before successfully negotiating all the way home. That was just some of the hardships of Lucky Hill but I have to come back to that later as I am sort of getting ahead of myself.

Nemiah Taylor (Daddy)

2008-01-21T18:14:00.001-05:00

Aunt was married to Nemiah Taylor (my grand father). We all called him Daddy. He had two other children before the marriage (their names I do not remember) but my mother was the only child from the marriage. He was always a quiet man, in the background but hardly ever heard. He was a carpenter by trade in his early years but became more of a cultivator with Aunt later on. I do not know if he built the original house (two rooms) in Lucky Hill but I knew he did all the additions.

The house sits on the very top of this steep hill about a quarter of a mile from the road (the main road running from Jeffery Town to Gayle). The hill was so steep that not even my father who prided himself on his driving expertise with a Land Rover, could ever get a vehicle up there. To get up there you had to negotiate this very curvy and narrow trail that was filled with rocks and roots and stumps and sheer drop-offs that was just plain scary. But as kids we made it up in the middle of the darkest night without a lamp, and in the days you would come flying down at break-neck speed with only a few skinned knees now and again.

The unusual thing about Daddy was how homely and quiet he was. He was not a Jehovah Witness but he never got drunk, never swear, never stayed out late and I never hear him raise his voice, better still, I do not think he ever ventured beyond the parish of St. Mary. As a carpenter he hired people so in the mornings there would be several people waiting on him and they would go to the job site, him carrying a wooden tool box. They would be back before night fall but he would stay home and did not go out until next morning. That was Daddy, quiet and homely. That sounds very much like me today! That is scary!

Amy Davis Taylor (Aunt).

2008-01-21T08:24:00.001-05:00

Aunt was not my real aunt, she was my grandmother, my mother’s mother; but everyone called her as Aunt, even non relatives. How she got the title I do not know, for she was an only child so she could never be a real aunt to anyone. I guess the title was a Jamaican form of showing respect and at the same time showing appreciation or gratuity. But it was in no way a sign of familiarity for Aunt did not allow familiarity from anyone. She was a strict, bible quoting, no nonsense of a woman.

I have no dates on Aunt but I remember her being old from I was a kid. She never seemed to have aged more as I grew older; only her hair, it got a little whiter. She was a strapping woman, big bosomed and round, with strong hands and ample girth, but not fat; she was all muscle I think. She would work from sun-up to sun-down in back breaking man’s work of cultivating and clearing bush and caring for cows and donkeys, and still come home and cook. Although there was never a contest I am sure she could out-work most men. Aunt was a woman, but she was also a farmer, cultivator, ’higgler’and a mother to varying number of children. She was a special woman. She would plant and cut bananas; dig yam, coco and dasheen; and husked, grate and cook coconut into coconut oil; and she could keep going all day. Then on Saturday it was off to market behind a donkey to sell her wares and on Sunday it was to Kingdom Hall. Those were some of my most poignant memories about her. But the most memorable part was her attire.

For the most part she dressed like the typical Jamaican women from thr 'country parts' of her day, cotton dress, often with a apron around the waist or hanging from the neck and a cotton scarf tied around her hair which was always neatly plaited beneath the scarf; a typical attire But on her feet would be a pair of men’s black leather working boots! I all my years I do not remember ever seeing Aunt in a pair of ladies shoes or even slippers, the boots were a constant. If she was going to the fields she would wear the boots but if she was going to Kingdom Hall or to market she would still wear the boots, but then they would be highly polished. At home she would wear the older ones and without laces, that were her slippers. The truth is though; men’s boots never looked out of place on her!

I Will Always Love My Mother

2007-12-05T21:10:00.000-05:00

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!

Pimento Picking

2007-09-12T21:44:00.002-04:00

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.

Kellington - a fun place

2007-08-21T16:01:00.000-04:00

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.

Shaw Park Hotel

2007-08-06T20:47:00.000-04:00

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.

Growing up in Grove

2007-07-15T15:08:00.000-04:00

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.

Earliest Recollection

2007-07-15T15:02:00.000-04:00

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….