Harold died in his early 90s. Born Harold Hilary Lewis at the turn of the 20th century, Harold was the eldest child of Robert Lewis and Sarah McIsaac of Cable Head. I am unsure who the Harold was that he was named after, but the “Hilary” component of his name was after his grandfather Hilary McIsaac – a well known and respected man in St. Peters Bay. Of the other six other children Robert and Sarah would go on to have, Harold was the only one to have a studio photograph taken of him as a child. I have loved this photo of him from the moment I saw it. I once asked his sister Hilda (aka Auntie) about the photo. She chucked with that sweet little laugh of hers and said something to the effect that Harold had been a ‘favourite’ of his Aunt Dean (Robert’s sister), who had taken Harold on the train to a studio in Charlottetown to get his photograph taken.
I do not know many of the details of Harold’s early life or how much formal schooling he had, but recall Auntie saying that you could not stick with him geography. I also remember that he read the daily newspaper cover to cover every day. What I do know is that in his 20s, Harold travelled to western Canada three times. Twice he worked on harvest excursions and once he went to British Columbia to work in a lumber camp. I recall seeing two mounted photographs of this lumber camp and Auntie saying that Harold treasured these photographs.
Harold eventually returned to the Island and his father Robert helped set him up on a farm on the Greenwich Road. Robert purchased property directly behind his own and there was at one time a well travelled road between the two farms, which has since largely grown over with bush. Harold built himself a lovely four-bedroom home, equipped with a dining room, parlour, large old fashioned country kitchen, and a balcony on the second story. Like most young men, I suspect he eventually had plans to marry and settle down and have a family of his own. I heard much later in life that he actually did ask a woman to marry him – but she said no. Marriage was not in the cards for Harold. But in a tragic twist of fate, he would in every sense ultimately become a father to a ready-made family of four – the children of his sister Mary.
Harold’s sister Mary is my paternal grandmother. In a previous post, I explained how both her and my grandfather Eugene died tragically young, thus leaving behind their four children. Mary’s dying wish had been (1) that the children remain together and (2) that her sister Hilda would raise the children. After Mary’s death on January 7th, 1944, my father and his siblings were brought to the old Lewis homestead in Cable Head and at some point that Spring a decision was made that Auntie and the children would more in with Harold.
From all accounts before their arrival, Harold had been living in his home as a typical bachelor. There was a wood burning stove in the kitchen, he had a bed in his room, and Auntie arrived to find the parlour full of grain. The furniture and possessions from Mary’s home in Morell were moved up to Greenwich and it is the furniture that fills the house to this day.
In every respect, Harold was the patriarch of our family. He was a father figure to my Dad and his siblings and a grandfather in every respect to us six grandkids. Typical of his Scottish nature, Harold was a quiet and unassuming man, yet was capable of letting a zinger go at the most unexpected moments much to everyone’s amusement. He was a successful farmer and having lived through the Depression, he knew the value of a dollar. Over the years, he saw the value in land and purchased many surrounding farms when neighbouring families left for urban centres. The majority of this land is now owned by my father and will eventually be owned by my brother – thus enabling them to continue farming. The legacy of this land they owe completely to him.
Growing up, I spent as much time next door at Harold’s as I did at home. But I can honestly say Harold was not a man who was easy to sit and have a conversation with – it was generally Auntie and their other brother Joe who asked us questions and inquired about our activities. But we knew Harold cared for us all. One thing Harold and I had in common was our sweet tooth. I knew all his hiding places for his candy and chocolates and he never once complained and said a word when I got into it – although he knew it was me that was into “his stash.” Nor did he complain when I drank his beer...I can’t believe they let me do this – and then took a photo of it!
One thing I remember about Harold is that he was an amazing gardener. Every year as a child, I recall him putting in an enormous garden that he took great pride in. Although vegetables were not my favorite item to eat as a child, I loved going to the garden to pick various items – my favorite being the string beans. We all loved corn and ate fresh corn out of his garden every summer. As he got older and well into his late ‘80s, Harold became very feeble and poor on his feet. But this didn’t stop him from going into his garden. When he got tired he would rest – and sometimes have a nap in the drills if necessary. This of course scared the shit out of people who drove into the yard and saw him lying in the garden and of course assumed he was dead. We were so used to it we’d just say “No, he’s just having a nap.” Poor Auntie had a lot of washing to deal with as his clothes were always filthy after these “naps” in the garden.
They could not keep him out of the garden – nor could they keep him off his tractor. Technically it was a red “Farm All Super H tractor” that Harold purchased new for $2,500. By the time I was a child, it was a tractor that the sun had faded to a dull shade of pink and whose stand out feature was a seat that was supported by a visible set of enormous springs. I can still see Harold bouncing along driving the tractor with a straw hat on his head. Harold drove this tractor well past the time that he should have. Because of a slight stoke he had in his early 80s, Harold had difficulty turning his neck – something necessary for safe driving. Pulling out of his driveway, he never looked – because he couldn’t. The neighbours knew well enough to slow down and keep out of his way if they saw him coming. He should not have been driving but he did what he wanted and no matter what Auntie said, they couldn’t keep him off the tractor. Eventually Dad said enough was enough as he could no longer ignore the danger Harold presented to both himself and others driving the tractor. Dad took the coil wire off the tractor (thus disabling it) and threw the wire it into our neighbour Gordon Hayden’s hay field. I took a black and white photo of this tractor (below) that I’ve had hanging in my apartment for years.
In Frank Ledwell’s Island Sketchbook, he references Harold in a short story entitled “School Christmas Concert:”
The Grade Fives were on next and sang, a bit off-key, but nonetheless vigorously, the song “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” They sang “harold” rather than “herald” because Harold Lewis was a farmer in the community, and they were more familiar with this rendition of the word.
I am not sure how Harold would have felt being referenced in a literary work by such a well known Island writer. Although he was such a shy man, I think he would have gotten a kick out of it. I certainly did and after reading it, wrote Frank a letter to thank him for referencing Harold.
Because I am the only one in my immediate family who lives “away”, I naturally think of home a lot. I remember taking the train overnight from Halifax to Montreal in February of 1996 for my interview for the JET programme. I of course had a lot of time to think on the long train journey. I was in my last year of undergraduate studies and I couldn’t help but wonder what the next few years of life held in store for me if I did end up going to Japan as I had hoped. And for some reason on that train ride, I recall thinking of Harold and wrote the poem below. Harold had such an impact on my father’s life and subsequent generations. I will always be grateful for all he did for our family.
The Past and the Future
Two toots past Bathurst.
Looking at my hands as they hold the water bottle,
I feel his presence.
We were both the same age
As we set out on our excursions.
His to the West – mine to the East.
Harvest excursions and BC lumber camps –
these stories and memories now unattainable.
Perhaps it is his presence urging me on –
To follow this path of adventure and excitement.
And to learn from his wisdom,
Of always following the path back home.
MJR
February 1996
