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 somehow 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 rock walls and fences separating the individual ‘fields’ (patterned after the English). It must have been particularly beautiful for I remember more than 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 thing in the same little space instead of using all the expanse of the area they 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 liked 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 an out-house (latrine) 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 were the hotel, and that was a place of business, so it was off limits for me, and my Grandfather’s place, a house called 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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Growing up in Grove
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 led up to the episode. Still, I distinctly remember being pulled apart as one parent hanging onto one half of me and 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 aisle 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 Hil, l and the stop was where the local road from Jeffery Town (I think) met that main road. Having had to catch the same bus there 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 buses with bright colors (browns, reds, and yellow) with a carrier on top. It had two seats on each side and an aisle in the middle, but it was not full as my parents seemed to have had full use of the entire aisle in the middle.
I am trying to remember who won the tussle or how the incident even ended, but the altercation and the uproar it caused on the bus was etched in my mind and has stayed there forever.
Who would have thought that with such a violent beginning to my life that memories of Jamaica would have been happy ones.
Stay tuned for more….