My Great Grand Mother

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.

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Nemiah Taylor (Daddy)

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!

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Amy Davis Taylor (Aunt).

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!

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I Will Always Love My Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Pimento Picking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Kellington - a fun place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Shaw Park Hotel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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