This is a short story I wrote for
Cuffer Award a little while ago


THE NOTE


"Good morning Miss Gale," Father Dunphy would cautiously say to me as I walked down the steps of our tiny Chapel. He was A good man but an arrogant one who longed for the days when he was revered by everyone in our once booming fishing community. Those days were long gone now and had been replaced by a lingering question that hung undeservingly over the heads of many a priest that had given their lives to serve their parishioners.


The creeky steps that guided us to the gravel parking lot outside our church had been repaired many times by the rugged hands of fishermen who still believed that God was watching over them. A belief nurished by fear for the few brave men who still made their living on the unforgiving ocean .Any belief I may have once had was gone however. The loss of my hearing was bad but the feeling of isolation that had followed had amputated any thread of belief I had remaining. So many things in my life were now illusions and the line between fiction and reality was getting thinner and thinner.


So was this it, had I peaked? I had been validictorium of my graduating class when I had left my secure but equaling confining town to attend university, but know I spent my days walking the dirt roads of Anchor Cove. A place I once thought of as a springboard to my future but now the loose gravel beneath my feet felt more like quicksand.



Life seemed pointless to me now and the only island of contentment to me in an otherwise sea of misery was the time I would spend watching the fishing boats leave the government wharf. I would gaze out and once the boats were far enough out, I imagined the hectic pace on them. The distance however made it impossible for anyone on the shore to hear what was being said and it was at this time I felt most normal.



The Morning Mist was the boat I watched with the most interest. It was my brother Jake's boat, and while he and his wife Jen, who was six months pregnant had invited me to work on their boat, I was a proud person and I knew it was an offer spurred by sympathy.



Was this going to be my life's resume? I asked myself. Damm there has to be something else. Maybe I should end it all I thought. What was the point of going on if this was going to be it, there were lots of ways to do it, The shotgun was always at arms reach as Dad was always hunting something and while I was a very strong swimmer, I had not swam since I had gotten sick and the cold unforgiving water of the Atlantic Ocean had made victim of more than one competent swimmer.



That was it then, I had decided. I would end this suffering. I walked home and for the first time in months felt content. My future was decided and questions that moments ago were to excruciating to entertain now became unimportant. I had made peace with my thoughts and all those voices I had been hearing became irrevelent. Tonight, I would even take my medicine.



I hurried home to write my suicide note. I would you this forum to get back at the people who would talked about me behind my back. It would be my masterpiece. I , Brenda Gale would have her legacy after all.



Days turned into weeks and I had gotton into a routine that would have been impossible to follow a short time ago. Any conflict with Mom was small and Dad was delighted I was taking my medicine. I was even spending more time helping Jake with the endless duties required of a fishing captain. People seems friendlier now and even the voices carried on the evening wind outside my bedroom window were not as frequent. And while I would never admit it, the time I spent with my phyciatrist in St. John's had given me some insight into the illness they said I had.




It was early June and Jen had given birth to a healthy baby boy. They had named him Bren, after me and while I treasured the gesture, I prayed that our name would be the only thing that him and I had in common.



Bren was a fast learner so when he stood up at eight months and was walking at ten, no one was surprised. He was an extremely adventurous child and the more relaxed atmosphere associated with outport living gave Bren a perfect playground to explore.



I was feelng alot better now and the suicide note I had penned months ago, while not torn up was a distant memory to me. I had sometimes taken it out from under my mattress to read . It was a type of therapy for me and it reinforced to me how important it was for me to follow my medicine regime, so when I heard the faint voice of a small child screaming outside my bedroom window a panic swept over me. How could this be I thought. I knew the audio hallucinations were symptons of my schizophrenia but my hearing loss was real. I was sure of it. Or was I.



I threw my suicide note on the bed next to me and with the anxiety of a small child checking under his bed for a monster I looked out my window. Oh my God! Bren had fallen in the frigid ocean behind our house!



As my body felt the shock of the cold Atlantic Ocean it became painfully obvious that my past inability to distinguish between reality and fiction was not being tested and while blocking out the numbing sensation of the cold water was going to be impossible, the importance of the situation I found myself in was crystal clear. Bren needed me and I could not help but wonder when the last time someone actually needed me. I was important again, and had a job to do.



The bounty of plankton made visability under the water almost impossible. I had not heard Ben scream in the moments after I had entered the water and the numbness that physically engulfed me had now taken up residency in my mind as I franticaly waved my hands and feet trying to feel Bren's helpless body. Numbness crept into my arms and legs as my blood left them for dead and started focusing on the core of my body. This was not an option for me. Bren was an extension of me and I would not leave him.


My movements became slower and less calculated and it was as if Bren was saving me as I felt his little body brush against my back. I turned as quickly as I could and saw him. Adrenline coursed though my body as I grabbed him and kicked for the wharf.




The crustaceans that had made the posts supporting the wharf their home were cutting into me like razors as I struggled to lift Bren to safety. I prayed, something I had not done for a long time for the strengh to raise him from this hell we found ourselves in and with one strong lunge I lifted him to safety. I had done it, he was now safe. My second wind had saved him but there would not be a third and while my mind said fight, my body had begun to shut down. The violent shivering had now stopped and my thinking had become very muddled as my hyper alertness had been replaced by a
sort of depersonalization and I knew that death was near.



I would die today, but I would be remembered as a hero. Surely they would see what I had done today. There was very little current and when they found my body people would know that I had gave my life to save another.



As my lifeless body entered into a mystical unconsciousness, I felt a shiver done my spine infinitely colder than the icy grave that surrounded me as my last thought was that I had left my suicide note on my bed in plain view when I had rushed from my room to save Bren's life.

Who we are

Time to give thanks, thank-you Danny, you have helped secure a future for my daughter and the youth of this province and for that I will always be gratetful. Elected officials normally mirror the will of a people. you reflected the soul of a people. Thank-you for giving Newfoundlanders a new found reason to be proud. Thanks for bringing home the oil but let us never forget it was the hardened Newfoundlander who fueled this great rock and the dept of our spirit lubricated it. Thankyou for the lower churchill but the unstopable unrelenting force of our character is what has made Nl so great. Thank-you Mr. Premier for your leadership but you've been leading a great army, a supporting cast so too speak that carries on its weathered shoulders a unfinching toughness normally reserved for great gladitars and combatants...and our local rugby players. Our natural resources that had given us prosperity we have never seen but never forget our most valuable natural resource, our gritty fellow newfoundlanders have always been here supporting one another and will be here long after our non renewable resources start to faulter. And thanks most of all for the families who are slowing coming home though for years were forced to leave their homes, not with guns and grenades fighting foes overseas but with degrees and determination, to provide for their families.



My long winded point is this. We are a humble group who need to shed this skin of inferiority we are known for, as recently reveiled compliments of wikileaks. While our neighbors to the south panic as certain states see an unemployment rate of fourteen percent, we have consistantly survived with unemployment rates of twenty-five percent. If you count the under employed, it was closer to fifty percent. We have done this by doing what we take for granted but what foreigners consider, well foreign. We leaned on each other. We babysat our neighbors children, we mended each others fences we hunted and fished to fill our bellies. We burnt wood for warmth and knitted for clothes. We are one generation removed from wondering where the next meal is coming from and were taught to finish all our suppers, to not leave a crumb on our plate because food was never taken for granted.

I sit here trying to clothes my thoughts in words but words do not do jusictice , We survived sicknesses without proper medicine and weather that has kept away all but thirteen native animal species to this rugged place. a place where you had to be an accomplished horticulturist just to grow some potatoes.

We still go out in the woods and kill eight hundred pound Animals for food but while our prosperity will no doubt make us softer let's celebrate how we got here, by fighting everyday. No wonders we were so celebrated during war times. We faked our ages to go fight in a war because we needed boots to wear and a petticoat to keep us warm.

So as we starting to reap the rewards that are so deserving give thanks, God knows we want it but we don't need anything but each other. Give thanks for ancestors that handed down the genes that have made us undefeatable and always walk with your head high. We have an unbreakable bound similar to soldiers that have seen battle, I feel It when I meet a Newfoundlander abroad. I feel it each time a newfy does something great on a world stage and I feel it when I walk down Water street, give the newfy head fake to a stranger and get one back or a warm hello. We are truly unigue; outlast, outwit, outsurvive. That's us. Power goes in many cities, a state of energy is called, here we just put on a sweater and cook over some propane. 30 cm of snow and metropolitans call in the national guard, we don't stop clearing a path til every neighbor's driveway is cleared. Sure I'm as townie as it gets and I can still start a fire in the wettest conditions, build a lean to for shelter, know what berries you can and can't eat and can catch a feed of trout using a branch, 6 feet of cat gut and a piece of worm, which appartantly are not native to this place either. And when hurricane igor struck September 21st, we did what we have always done we proved why we are the most generous people in Canada. My point is don't ever take for granted how we got here unlike most mainlanders who are specific industrialists, we are plural industrailists we are resislient, compassionate, intelligent great people!

I love George Street, and with great bars like The Dock and The Martinin Bar complimenting staple watering holes such as Trapper Johns and the good old reliable Sundance it ranks right up there with my love for Ron Hynes music, Chess' or our rugged coastline. It is a part of our culture and history and its reputation for music, laughter and entertainment has solidified it on the list of must see places on any excursion to St. John's. I worked there, socialized with life long friends there, and danced my butt off there. Whether it was to Matchbox 20, Meatloaf or Kenny Login's classic Footloose, George Street provided the perfect backdrop for some of my most memorable nights.

George Street is the exclamation mark on St. John's claim as being a great place to party with the friendliest people around. However, our bragging rights do not come without a price. A price highlighted around 3 am when the many haunts that make up George Street politely announce last call and begin to usher a group of intoxicated, highly voilatile people out onto the streets or our flagship of places to party. As one police officer has told me, George Street becomes one of the most dangerous one tenths of a kilometer in the country after the clubs close. This exasberation of violence in this achohol and drug driven social setting turns George Street into a type of ultimate fighting cage match where far to often one or more of the participants are unwilling to "get it on." Although this behavior is not isolated to George Street, it is still an unacceptable, overtolerated occurence that needs to be addressed.

So what is the answer? what has to be done to ensure downdown is a safe place to be or to bring a friend? Could closing the bars earlier be a partial solution? I know this would be a hard sell to bar owners who would protest that closing earlier means less money in the till at last call, or will it just have the violence starting earlier. Is staying open till three or four just plain ludricious or is it a neccessity to keep the economic engine or George Street running.

Bottom line, there is no quick fix but if former New York City mayor, Rudy Giuliani could clean up New York City's five Borroughs by putting a uniformed officer on practicely every corner, making George Street more user friendly can't be an impossible task. With this said however I can't help but feel empathy for the police and ambulance drivers who but themselves in harms way especially since the hoodlums who are parisites to George Street are no longer armed solely with alcohol as their fuel but are now high on a range of drugs that turn them into fighting machines with much higher pain theseholds and who know longer fall flat on their faces in a druken stupor after the first punch is haphazardly thrown.

Yes , I do love George Street, but until the senseless violence against unsuspecting male and female patrons stops, my advice for anyone who includes George Street in their repertoire of most visits on a busy night downtown, be home before the bell sounds at 3 am. you'll hail a cab alot quicker, and the hotdogs will be fresher!