tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53787016029476629982024-03-13T08:45:12.164-07:00Fishing for TraditionA Memorial University graduate field school documenting the fishery in Keels, NewfoundlandGerald Pociushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09845461161015975104noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-74183087073747111982012-10-03T06:25:00.003-07:002012-10-03T06:25:50.818-07:00And we're backWell, that's it. Field school is over and we're back in St. John's. Saturday night's sendoff was a great success - our presentation was well received, and a time was had by all. Thanks to Rick Pardy for getting the music going, and to all the fiddlers and accordion players and mummers (yes, mummers!) for making it a night to remember.<br />
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And now back to the books, to the rain, drizzle and fog of town, to city shoes, traffic and bus rides. To classrooms, libraries and grocery stores.<br />
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Thanks to everyone who made the first Keels Field School such a success.<br />
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We'll always have the music... <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wince playing Alvin Hobbs' accordion. (Photo: Jerry Pocius)</td></tr>
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<br />Mz. Whitneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16795252523182627852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-18197534437359696392012-09-29T11:33:00.003-07:002012-09-29T11:33:52.454-07:00Avoiding Snares in the Field: Reflections on FieldworkFieldwork is not some static line in the sand defined by the absence of any shifting tides. You can't just wake up in 'the field' and say "...now I am going to do fieldwork", and in the next moment "...now I am finished with fieldwork." Fieldwork doesn't end. Today, just when I figured that I had finished collecting data for my paper, I found myself gathering vital information this afternoon.<br />
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Rodney Byrne showing me the rabbit trails. </h4>
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One moment, I was returning a photo of young Rodney Byrne's first hare. The next, I found myself drinking a cup of tea; followed by mussels, lasagna, and bread. Before I can grasp the importance of these exchanges, I am off with Keels' own wilderness expert, Rodney Byrne, on a tour of the rabbit trails near Harbour Pond. In only an hour, Rodney taught me how to spot rabbit trails, where to look for them, how to place the snare, and prepare the slip. He also demonstrated some moose and coyote calls from on top of a ridge. Rodney invited me to record and photograph our trip this afternoon, and as a result I gained even more useful information for my own use, for archival use, and for any other future users of this data. All this, in an afternoon which I had previously planned to eat some left over rice porridge in the fridge and look at an Excel spreadsheet. <br />
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Perhaps this misconception of a 'finite fieldwork' comes from the assumption that because the written product pours forth from our pen, fieldwork must then stem from us. Well, it doesn't. Fieldwork emerges in that <em>liminal </em>space of the interaction between ourselves and the outer environment, whether they be people, places, or things. While we do hinge on the assumption of the <em>self</em> when conducting fieldwork to identify the 'outer' from the 'inner', we often forget that all life is in motion. Our lives spin like whirlwinds gathering experiences, emotions, and beliefs as we make our way through time and space. As we cross paths with one another, they intensify each and leave in their wake a base of information: fieldwork. In this way, fieldwork constantly expands. </div>
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Will our fieldwork here end when we leave Keels?</div>
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Well, I guess that is the big question all this raises. Does fieldwork end when we leave the field? </div>
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I wouldn't make it as a rabbit. </h4>
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The simple answer to that is, I don't know and I don't dare to answer. <br />
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But I hope one day I will have the clarity and sense of mind to approach the answer.<br />
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Perhaps I could ask Rodney Byrne to help me find the path...and hopefully I won't be the one snared. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17989688559216187094noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-22123378817484772552012-09-29T11:28:00.000-07:002012-09-29T11:31:44.991-07:00Ethnographic Lesson No.1: Expect the Unexpected<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the <span style="background-color: white;">community stage and wharf</span> in Keels, NL<br />
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Throughout high school and university I was taught the importance of planning ahead - of keeping on schedule and working toward a solid goal. Well, after three weeks in an ethnographic field school I think that I now have a new perspective on goal setting. I am not saying that planning and goal setting are not important - because they most certainly are - but in fieldwork you have to expect the unexpected and be prepared for deviations. Ethnographic research is about everyday life, people's beliefs, values, and lived experiences. When you enter a community you ultimately become part of that pattern of daily life, and you can never really know what is going to happen. </div>
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You never know who you are going to meet on the street, or who is going to invite you in for tea or unexpectedly invite you to join them on an afternoon fishing trip. This is the reality of ethnographic fieldwork: you think you know what you want to know, and your informants have their own idea of what they think you should know. After three weeks my advice so far - go with the flow and be as flexible as possible, because the insights gained from these impromptu meetings can really help you adjust your approach and improve the questions you ask. </div>
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My problem now, however, is what do you do when you have embraced the unexpected and suddenly the end product of your research - the essays, floor plans and metadata - demand immediate completion. It seems that even when you set aside a good block of time to work on those last few paragraphs someone knocks of the door with an opportunity that you just cannot refuse. As a result, you have to slot in work time whenever you get the chance and hope that you can meet the deadlines at the end. In hindsight, I did not mind the busy work schedule or moments of frustration in the midst of trying to finish some assignment, because these past three weeks have been full of great experiences and important lessons, and without question, flexibility is one of the most important things I have learned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17263896162528020007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-22502359578341698202012-09-28T16:16:00.000-07:002012-09-28T16:16:05.479-07:00A Fond Farewell<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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Hard at work on our presentation</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tomorrow is the day we students make our presentation to the Keels community and show them just what we’ve been doing since we arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The six of us have been sitting together for hours, going over photos, videos, and interviews. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is, in short, a time for summing up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve spent quite a while thinking about what I should include in this, my final blog post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honestly, I’ve been struggling to make a decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The last three weeks have been so full of new places, new faces, and new experiences that it would be impossible to create a complete picture in the space that I have here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could focus on the people I’ve met…</span></div>
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A gathering at Jerry's place</h4>
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(Photo: Jerry Pocius)</h4>
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Revelry at the beach in Keels</h4>
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(Photo: Jerry Pocius)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or the sights I’ve seen…</span></div>
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Bonavista lighthouse</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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Keels shrouded in mist</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could write an ode to the mighty codfish, in all its forms…</span><br />
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Cloth cod created by Hope Clark, Ryan Premises, Bonavista</h4>
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Our day's quota for the food fishery</h4>
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Cod tongues and cheeks</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could wax poetic about the past…</span></div>
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A historic fish stage in New Bonaventure</h4>
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An abandoned root cellar in Keels</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or pose questions about the future…</span></div>
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John Ducey's speedboat, Keels Harbour</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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The Twine Loft restaurant in Trinity</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The truth is, though, I’ve yet to make sense of it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no grand statements to share…and if a picture is worth a thousand words, this post is already far too long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What I can say is that I’ve met some wonderful people, and been welcomed warmly into a community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have seen many beautiful sights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have enjoyed cod in many different forms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have learned a little bit of the rich history of Keels and the Bonavista Peninsula.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have heard people speak about their fears and hopes for the future. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It has been edif</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">ying and exciting – a true privilege, and a wonderful adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you Keels!</span></div>
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Sunset off Keels</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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Claire McDougallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13011404645395963458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-5354675282053652152012-09-28T16:05:00.002-07:002012-09-28T16:05:32.536-07:00Rooting Around in Keels<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bbaysn02-iE/UGYp4PSBQMI/AAAAAAAAAHg/XRwh3K2N3so/s1600/IMG_1121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Bbaysn02-iE/UGYp4PSBQMI/AAAAAAAAAHg/XRwh3K2N3so/s400/IMG_1121.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Who knew such a small, humble structure could cause so many headaches? <br />Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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When it came time to choose which buildings we wanted to
measure, I originally had my heart set on documenting one of the fishing boats
used in Keels. When that was no longer possible, I decided I wanted to measure
a root cellar. Another student wanted to do the root cellar as well, and it
came down to a knock-down, drag-out, nail-biter of a draw. I drew #1 out of the hat, while the other
student who wanted to measure root cellars got #2. I carried my sense of
victory around for the next day or so, until we arrived at the cellar in
question and I realised what a nightmare it was going to be to measure. I had
thought measuring individual 2X4 studs in stores was bad, but that was a walk
in the park compared to trying to figure out how to accurately measure a building
which is composed in large part of a big pile of dirt overgrown with grass and
trees enclosed by four uneven walls of vertical boards.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, in a posture of defeat while trying to draw the cellar. Photo: Edward Millar</td></tr>
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Thankfully, my teammates, Erin and Ed, knew what they were
doing, because I certainly didn’t. Perched on a board wrapped in an old potato
sack atop a prickly juniper bush, I had never felt like a bigger loser as I
tried to do basic math to figure out how to get the lines to meet on the
drawing board. I was definitely regretting that #1 I picked out of the hat by
the end of the day. However, several frustrating hours later, I had a drawing
of a root cellar, and it even looked semi-presentable. Despite the difficulty
of documenting the building, I am now very glad that I did get the chance to do
it. I was finding measuring buildings the most challenging aspect of the field
school so far, and I still don’t feel like a “natural” by any means, but after
the crash course presented by the root cellar, I feel much more confident about
my ability to measure buildings, so much so that I’m considering writing my
thesis on a topic that would include a lot of measuring of difficult buildings.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The final result. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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And through all the frustration, I had a lot of fun working
with Ed and Erin, and I can only hope they did, too. With a bit of good humour
and an acceptance of less-than-comfortable working conditions, spending the day
outside measuring an old building is actually a wonderful way to learn, all the
while doing the important work of documenting a historical artifact. </div>
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I also feel that the root cellar, by definition a humble
building, is an archetypal example of vernacular architecture. We have been
learning here in Keels the importance of vernacular architecture in that it
reveals much about a culture’s ideals, beliefs, means, and desires at a given
time. Dr. Pocius refers to vernacular buildings as “fossilized thoughts.” Root
cellars are buildings that hold the produce necessary to feed a family through
the winter. If one digs a little deeper, more questions are raised. Why was
this root cellar built above ground, while others were subterranean? What kind of vegetables did it hold? Where
did the vegetables come from? If grown locally, who did the gardening, and
where? Why aren’t there many gardens around anymore? </div>
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In a way, “rooting around” in a root cellar is a sort of
metaphor for fieldwork in Folklore. We dig around in unexpected places. People
may wonder why we’re so interested in that old fish store, or that house which
is "just an ordinary house". But we want to dig deeper, to show that “old things”
and “ordinary things” are very important, that they tell us a great deal about
a certain place, a certain time, a certain way of living. They tell us about
people, and what was important to them. And after a bit of rooting around, it’s
inevitable that we can find something extraordinary. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the road, one would have no idea that such an extraordinary structure exists in this grassy hollow. This root cellar, built by the Fitzgerald family more than a century ago, evokes a sense of the medieval in modern Keels. <br />Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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Kristin http://www.blogger.com/profile/07429446116556549329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-70361541374716983882012-09-27T16:24:00.000-07:002012-09-27T16:24:25.875-07:00Ocean GoodsI love being on the water! Somehow, I manage to forget that love often, and go months or years without stepping foot in a canoe or boat. The fact that I'm not much into fishing--or fish--is partly to blame for that. My extensive reading in adventure stories and Reader's Digest real-life horror stories is also to blame for that.(I've definitely read enough terrifying accounts of freak accidents, drownings that shouldn't have happened, storms that weren't expected, waves taller than skyscrapers, angry/capricious sea-gods, disgustingly large fish [read: Jonah and the Whale] and badly timed undercurrents.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alicia (me) on the water--a little windswept<br /><br />Photo: Alicia Farnham</td></tr>
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But once I'm out there on the water my naturally fearful nature, like the stink of decaying fish, is blown away by that pure wind you only ever come by on an open body of water. It's a glorious feeling. It makes me feel invincible, like I'm accomplishing something magical--I'm on the surface of a liquid! And not just any liquid! It's sparkling in the sunlight, or shadowed in mysterious ways by a cloudy sky. It (generally) exudes latent power and strength; there's a mixture of adrenalin that I'm risking my life with such an unpredictable entity, and rush of freedom and camaraderie with the vast world around me. The last time I was on the ocean was two years ago, whale watching with many good friends on my birthday. The last time I was on any water at all was this summer, canoeing with my parents. Remembering these times, I'm amazed that I could forget how awe-inspiring and exciting it is to be on the water.<br />
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Yesterday, all of that came back to me, taking a trip out of Keels Harbour with June Fitzgerald and my fellow student, Kristin Catherwood. The intention was to jig for cod, since this week is the food fishery. I'm [only a little] sorry to say I soon lost interest in this particular ocean good. I couldn't help but feel bad for the stupid fish that swam so thickly below the surface of the water that they could be caught within seconds of lowering a line. They didn't even fight! But all of this was lost in my enjoyment of the boat speeding over the waves. It was a beautiful sunny day--so sunny it even got fairly warm on the water. The spray brought up by our boat cooled my face on occasion and the breeze whipped through my hair. It was a glorious feeling!<br />
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Being out on the water elicits something beyond freedom, something more like blissful trust in the elements. Having gradually gotten more and more panicked about the page-long list of things to do before Sunday morning, I felt like an hour-glass, the sands of stress gradually pouring out of me to be replaced by the empty gleefulness that comes from literally throwing my fears to the wind. What a cathartic experience for my last week in Keels!<br />
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And speaking of my last week in Keels, this happens to be my last scheduled blog post, so I want to take my last sentence to thank all the residents of Keels for their kindness and hospitality. Thanks for letting me (and my class) invade your home and helping us all learn the art of fieldwork! I've had a wonderful time! Alicia Farnhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11134315745261448127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-40863467345348419122012-09-27T16:10:00.000-07:002012-09-27T16:10:56.158-07:00Fishing for information
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It occurs to me that
conducting interviews is a lot like cod fishing. You put
some bait on a line, throw out a question, and hope that you pull in
something interesting. What comes up can be a bit of a mixed bag.
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After Claire and I
finished our last scheduled interview yesterday, we went out
handlining with John Ducey. It was a sunny afternoon, a lovely day to
be out on the water. John steered us to our first shoal, baited up
our hooks and we were off. Not long after, John was reeling in
his line. Sculpin! An ugly, spiny fish. Not the face you want to see
on your hook when it's cod that you're after. Try again. John got a
couple of codfish, and Claire got her first. Nothing for me. Off to
the next spot. And then the next. And the next. Sculpin were
outnumbering the cod at least 2 to 1. I was having a hard time
figuring out when my line had hit bottom, and what did it actually
feel like when there was a fish on the other end of the line. I
pulled it in a couple of times thinking I had something, only to find
my forlorn bit of bait looking back up at me. Finally, I was sure I
had something. Sculpin. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first catch - a spiny old sculpin. (Photo: Claire McDougall)</td></tr>
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Determined to make our
quota before the sun went down, we headed back to the place that we
started. And all of a sudden, the cod were there. We made our quota
in no time (I caught 3!) and got to see a beautiful sunset as we sped back to Keels.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now that's more like it. (Photo: Claire McDougall)</td></tr>
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I've made my interview "quota" for the course so to speak. My Minimum Allowable Catch of audio recording minutes. But there are a few sculpins in there. A few places where I wasn't sure where my line was or if I'd gotten anything. I'd love to have a few more days out on the water, testing out the grounds, and trying my chances for the big one. But our time grows short and I will likely have to make do with what I've got. We'll see if I can make a good sculpin stew out of it.</div>
Mz. Whitneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16795252523182627852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-50412605508958454592012-09-26T17:51:00.001-07:002012-09-26T17:52:52.772-07:00Hauling the Lobster and Jiggin' the Cod: A Landlubber's Odyssey<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seasick.</td></tr>
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I get seasick. Even on the Prince Edward Island ferry. But I figured this was my once in a lifetime opportunity to jig for cod, so I popped a gravol and took off in Ster Welcher's speedboat. Merrily I hummed a Rankin Family tune --- "Fishermen's Son" as we bounced along, pleased in my seafaring adventure.They tell me it was calm seas, a beautiful day, but I was turning green and wishing for solid ground the moment we threw the line over side and started to bob on the water. I caught a cod fish almost immediately, managed to haul him to the edge of the boat, but refused to touch him, promptly turned around and remained in the bow of the boat, my head over the side, ridding myself of lunch. Sprays of brownish gravy-like fluid blew by the side of the boat as we motored around. I was in utter misery. Junior Fitzgerald was having a good laugh from across the way in our companion boat, Ster was concerned about having to potentially clean up vomit.</div>
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I guess I am a disgrace to Bluenoser's everywhere. The farmgirl from SASKATCHEWAN(!) was jiggin' cod like a pro, and me, a born and bred Nova Scotian, was a wobbly, vomiting mess. </div>
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I was reassured when we pulled up to the wharf that lots of folks get seasick, even fishermen's sons. Perhaps so. But I failed miserably in my fishing expedition. Ster took pity, hooked a cod on Jerry's deep sea rod, and said I could pose with it. I'll go to sea no more. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kristin, Junior Fitzgerald and Alicia jig for cod.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My trophy fish.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Cod and Alicia</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The farmgirl and Mr. Cod.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MmKP6JiFan0/UGOfnDgqsmI/AAAAAAAAADI/zxM4GizCA0w/s1600/DSC_0503.NEF" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" kea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MmKP6JiFan0/UGOfnDgqsmI/AAAAAAAAADI/zxM4GizCA0w/s400/DSC_0503.NEF" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The perils of cod jiggin': tangled lines.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Junior and Annie Jane gut and fillet our cod.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Glamour shot. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making waves in Junior's speedboat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jerry, looking windswept, and Ster</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ster and Rodney at the wharf.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ster, with John Ducey, splitting the fish. Ster says its near impossible to buy a splitting knife now. </td></tr>
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Ster and Jerry managed to haul in 10 fish, and our companion boat the same. The food fishery for cod lasts until Sunday. Those who wish can head out in their boats, catch 5 cod per person or 15 cod per boat, per day. Usually, the fish is filleted and frozen or split and salted, and eaten throughout the winter months. </div>
Meghannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896265079046956394noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-36446183093521927082012-09-26T17:26:00.002-07:002012-09-26T17:36:38.981-07:00Netting for Cod<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jEiRmCQPqv4/UGOcRjq-UWI/AAAAAAAAACM/xMw_ian00UI/s1600/IMG_3130.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" kea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jEiRmCQPqv4/UGOcRjq-UWI/AAAAAAAAACM/xMw_ian00UI/s320/IMG_3130.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tools of the fishery, including a needle used for <br />
net making (centre) (Photograph: Noah Morritt)</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I decided what I wanted to study in Keels, nets and net making seemed like a straightforward topic, but after some preliminary research I realized what I was in for: I was about to receive a crash course in the cod fishery. Net making, as I soon discovered, is a fundamental skill for any inshore fisherman in Keels, connecting the modern fishery with the traditions of the past. Although the hand knitted cotton nets and traps used before the mid-twentieth century have now been replaced with nylon twine and pre-made mesh, traditional net making techniques continue to play an important role in both the cod and lobster fisheries. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nlQ0RKhZY-s/UGOcjgwFt3I/AAAAAAAAACU/MctV5GNtXQM/s1600/IMG_3044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" kea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nlQ0RKhZY-s/UGOcjgwFt3I/AAAAAAAAACU/MctV5GNtXQM/s320/IMG_3044.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lobster Traps in New Bonaventure, NL (Photograph: Noah Morritt)</td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the past, fisherman would spend the off-season winter months knitting their nets from cotton twine purchased from local merchants. This was time consuming work, but the nets and cod traps they produced were the fundamental tools of the trade. This pattern of net making and repair during the winter is still very much part of the Keels fishery. Today, however, twine is made from nylon, and machine made mesh is cheap and widely available. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Net making and net repairs continue to remain an important part of off-season preparations, and these traditional skills are being applied to the modern fishery in interesting ways. With the decline of the cod and squid fisheries, catching lobster has become an important source of income. Local fisherman prefer to make their own traps rather than buying commercially made ones, and often build new ones as older traps become damaged. This process involves knitting the mesh to fit semi-circular frames made from local timber, and lining the openings in the netting. This continuity in net making skills demonstrates the resiliency of local fishing traditions, and how they have been adapted and incorporated into contemporary fishery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17263896162528020007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-29965982900324847522012-09-26T17:20:00.000-07:002012-09-26T17:43:15.709-07:00Worry for the Future: Peering Beyond the Horizon<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What do you plan to do once you finish here?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I dread answering that question,
and all like variants of it. It has less to do with the question itself, as it
does with the answer. I don’t know. It seems that all my aspirations for the
future always find themselves firmly lodged in the back of my throat when I
attempt an answer. This morning I was asked that question, and my broken record
squeaked out an anxiety-laden “I don’t know.” Some days I find that answer to
be comforting; other days, it is petrifying. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HdSlHcBOeXM/UGOcORDkoeI/AAAAAAAAAEk/6UlKirkg5-U/s1600/kfs2012_millar99_ph258.jpg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HdSlHcBOeXM/UGOcORDkoeI/AAAAAAAAAEk/6UlKirkg5-U/s320/kfs2012_millar99_ph258.jpg.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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You can't see past the horizon: </h4>
<h4>
Do clear skies or stormy waters await?<br /> (Photo: Ed Millar) </h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">This morning, I was faced with that question before the dreaming sickness had fully left my body. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I try to imagine myself a
year, two years, three years, or any other time down the line, I tend to see
only where I hope to be. I know what I want to be, but I am afraid in providing
that answer, as both I, and the inquirer, know that will most likely not be the
case. Maybe that is what the question really means; “Where do you hope to be?”
Yet we, including myself, tend to phrase that question in the expectation of an
affirmative answer. Well the truth is I don’t know if I will ever have an
answer, and if I did, would it be one worth giving? Or would I be too embarrassed to admit I ever had one? I know for certain some parts of that answer,
but I will never know all the parts, and I don't believe I ever will. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As our last week in Keels is
winding down, we have spent the majority of our time in interviews, and
wrapping up whatever work is left. Today while chatting with John Ducey after
our interview, we spoke for a bit about the future of the fishery. John is
worried that it won’t hold; certainly not in the direction that it is heading
now. This morning in Noah’s interview, Phonse showed us how they made cod traps
and nets, and stated that soon there won’t be anyone left who remembers how these
things were made. Last night in Trinity, Jerry mentioned that traditional outport
life is collapsing all around us. Many of these fishing communities are gradually becoming subsumed into the world of gentrified summer residences. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everyone’s worried of what the future might hold. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yet in spite of this worry, we find
ourselves soldiering on towards whatever dark and foreboding future we fear.
Because we are not made of the sort of stuff which would bend so easily under panic,
stress, and worry, that we would throw up our arms and proclaim our surrender. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Donna Butt stated: there will always be people who want
to live here, and there will always be people who want to reach that future. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KYdssP7sXdM/UGOcrJr0S4I/AAAAAAAAAEs/vnthuOZZuOM/s1600/kfs2012_millar99_ph101.jpg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KYdssP7sXdM/UGOcrJr0S4I/AAAAAAAAAEs/vnthuOZZuOM/s320/kfs2012_millar99_ph101.jpg.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Not all paths reveal their end, but I think</h4>
<h4>
I know where this one leads. (Photo: Ed Millar)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Life will show us where it will.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope it is the one I had in mind.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17989688559216187094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-26305674335012362442012-09-26T16:59:00.000-07:002012-09-26T16:59:32.576-07:00A View of the Ocean
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve grown up with some very romantic ideas about the ocean,
loving tales of adventure on the high seas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A view of open water is magical to me, completely humbling and
completely beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From childhood
I’ve seen the ocean as a place of mystery and wonder, somewhere the imagination
can roam at will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the last couple of
weeks, I’ve heard these sentiments echoed; I’ve encountered more than one fisherman
who spoke of his love of being on the water – of the sense of freedom it brings.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DbXIjrx1YLY/UGORyUW7luI/AAAAAAAAADc/UGv91whjKCM/s1600/DSC00644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DbXIjrx1YLY/UGORyUW7luI/AAAAAAAAADc/UGv91whjKCM/s320/DSC00644.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
Boats moored at New Bonaventure</h4>
<h4>
(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Things are never simple, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In communities that are closely tied to the
ocean, and dependent on it in many ways, relationships with the water are
necessarily complex and multi-layered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
conversation I had a couple of days ago really brought this home to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two women described their intense aversion to
the water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One cannot bear to watch when
her son goes down to the wharf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
other has lived in Keels for thirty-eight years (her husband was a fisherman
for twenty-one of those) and, in her time here, she has been out in a boat
twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span> </div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B9C_j9RAm6g/UGOROVWsqtI/AAAAAAAAADU/vwisRi2_JQ4/s1600/DSC00585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B9C_j9RAm6g/UGOROVWsqtI/AAAAAAAAADU/vwisRi2_JQ4/s400/DSC00585.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h4>
Keels Harbour</h4>
<h4>
(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Their comments struck me very deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been trying to imagine living my life,
constantly facing something that was a source of intense fear, and I’ve found
it very difficult.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ocean has the
power to provide (great bounty at times) but it also holds the power of life
and death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems this power is easier
to accept when it is being faced directly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As in so many things, that which is unknown is the most frightening… it
is the waiting and not knowing that is difficult to handle. </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My time in Keels has given me plenty to think about so far</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">, and a new way of looking at the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
Claire McDougallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13011404645395963458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-73537861202336109542012-09-25T09:06:00.000-07:002012-09-25T09:06:35.437-07:00Going Away/Wanting to Stay<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Going away” is a common phrase here in rural Newfoundland.
People here often leave for lengthy periods of time to work elsewhere. This is
not a new phenomenon. During the nineteenth century, many people left their
home harbours to work in the Labrador fishery, sealing or catching fish in that
most rugged of locations. During the twentieth century, several men around here
left to go work on the “lake boats” – cargo vessels hauling various commodities
back and forth across the Great Lakes. Several local people still do that. And
now, there is a great exodus of people who head West to work in the oil and gas
and mining industries. If one goes on the websites of WestJet or Air Canada, he
will find that it is possible to get a direct flight from St. John’s to Fort
McMurray, Alberta. What is notable about many of these people is that they
choose not to relocate permanently to the places where they earn the majority
of their income. Instead, they maintain their homes here, with money earned far
away.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It seems to me that many people go away so that they can
stay in the places where they were born and raised, in their homes. It is
probably also true that many of them simply don’t want to pay the higher price
of living in other parts of the country, and find that they can stretch their
incomes further by maintaining a permanent residence here. But certainly there
are some people who simply cannot bear the thought of going away permanently.
To go away is a means to an end, that end being the ability to stay in the
places they call home. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Ux_Sx5FRxk/UGHUKy8uk0I/AAAAAAAAAHI/Tp83uPUJFvU/s1600/IMG_1170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6Ux_Sx5FRxk/UGHUKy8uk0I/AAAAAAAAAHI/Tp83uPUJFvU/s320/IMG_1170.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the living room of my host house in Keels. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
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This is not merely one of my romantic visions, influenced by
my own close attachment to the place where I was brought up. I witnessed it
firsthand on my flight to Newfoundland (a direct flight from Calgary to St.
John’s). The passengers were overwhelmingly Newfoundlanders, most young men,
returning home from several weeks or months of working in Alberta. As the plane
finally touched down on the runway of early morning St. John’s, the sense of
happy homecoming was palpable in the stale air of the cramped airplane. Several
people craned their necks for a peek out
the window, a glimpse of their home soil. I heard several comments like “feels
good to be back” and “it feels like forever since I’ve been home.” In the
airport terminal, there were many happy reunions, young couples embracing each
other, fathers being accosted by their young children. <i> </i>I couldn’t help but compare
their happiness with my own sadness. I was coming to a foreign place, far from home.
I wondered if how I felt was the way they felt on the other end of these
cross-country trips, when they arrive out west for another stretch of work.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The folks who picked me up at the airport remarked upon the
phenomena, commenting on how happy these people must be to be home. In my
pre-KFS ignorance, I thought this practice of going far from home to work was a
new one, something that had grown out of the collapse of the cod fishery and
the booming of the oil industry in the west, developments that rather neatly
coincided. But here in Keels, I’ve learned that “going away” is not new at all.
Newfoundland families have long faced the reality of leaving home to find work.
It does make one wonder: why not just move away? Why not leave permanently and
find stable employment somewhere else? Some have, and do. But many choose not
to. For them, some of them right here in Keels, this place is home, and there
is no other like it. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CQwsmQTeFsU/UGHVOEuMLYI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/KgdpeyKoByo/s1600/IMG_1016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="417" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CQwsmQTeFsU/UGHVOEuMLYI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/KgdpeyKoByo/s640/IMG_1016.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Keels from the west. Several people from Keels must go much further west to find work. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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Kristin http://www.blogger.com/profile/07429446116556549329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-55565893827173502032012-09-24T16:18:00.000-07:002012-09-24T16:27:21.481-07:00Actually Facing the FieldLet me just start with: Conducting an interview is<b> <u>hard!</u></b><br />
<br />
Today saw my induction into the art of the successful interview. I wouldn't say it went badly. The recording device didn't run out of batteries. The memory card was definitely big enough. I didn't forget my notes, and my informant didn't clam up from nervousness. I was lucky that my first interview was with a friendly man who has been offering since our group first arrived to tell me anything I need to know for my fieldwork. There were certainly no disconcerting disasters, but there are many aspects of it I really wish I could do over.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Interview Setup<br />
Modelled by Kristin Catherwood<br />
<br />
Photo: Alicia Farnham</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The challenge lay in holding myself in check, trying to remember and follow all of the tips I'd been given repeatedly in the last two weeks of classes and conversation with experts in the field. I have discovered, as of this morning, that where many people nod or make some sound of agreement in regular conversation, I <i>giggle</i>! After listening to twenty minutes of it, I now despise giggling! It was painful to listen to myself as I wondered, if I had stayed quiet at that moment would he have said more? If I hadn't made that horribly corny joke (that he <i>did</i> laugh at), would he have said something himself much more worthy of the memory space? If I had braved that awkward silence for two seconds more, would he have thought of something else to add? Did I take over the flow of the conversation too much with my giggles and prompts? Did I let him tell his own story, or did I shape it too much with leading questions? Reviewing the resulting audio is proving to be a roller coaster of self-confidence, doubt, and criticism.<br />
<br />
My conclusion? Interviewing in the field is not for the faint of heart. I wish I could snap my fingers and go instantly from a green graduate folklore student reading about interviewing skills to being an experienced fieldworker who speaks little, listens much and comes out of an interview with a treasure trove of information and only half the self-recrimination. Only one more reason to be thankful for the Keels Field School experience: I can start out in a less informal atmosphere as a newbie making mistakes and work toward excellence without the pressure of a thesis or a doctorate hanging in the balance. What a relief! Alicia Farnhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11134315745261448127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-35969444386144973882012-09-24T16:15:00.001-07:002012-09-24T16:29:12.605-07:00Baydreamin'<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EnnSCUIBHtM/UGDgLcd9zWI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/9K56DBgLoUs/s1600/IMG_1416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EnnSCUIBHtM/UGDgLcd9zWI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/9K56DBgLoUs/s640/IMG_1416.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fog of lace. (Photo: Erin Whitney)</td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I could spend hours
looking out through these lace curtains. A different view through
each small hole – a patch of grass, a pink clover, the tip of the
wharf, a lazy soaring gull. Shift focus back and a fuller picture
emerges but not quite clear, fuzzy clouds of lace obscuring my view.
It's a drizzly day, the air warm and close, wrapped around me like a
blanket and keeping me from feeling fully awake. I drift along the
roads and paths of Keels, walking right through the puddles, rubber
boots sinking into the soft wet grass.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's a day that is
resisting getting things done. A few doors knocked on this morning,
appointments made for interviews tomorrow, one set for this afternoon
already put off. Tomorrow will be busy, but today remains soft and
open, keeping afloat in milky tea, reading, writing, preparing,
thinking. Maybe I've still got some fog in my lungs from my hike
along the Skerwink Trail in Trinity East yesterday morning. The
springy comfort of forest floor underfoot, gulping in the scent of
pine, moss and juniper like an addict, fog so thick it would catch
you if you lost your footing on the cliff.
</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One more week - do we
really have to go back to town? To the concrete and crosswalks and
coffee and classrooms? I want to offer my surrender to the bay – to
the boats and bogs and berries and bonfires. Maybe I'll bring these
lace curtains back with me. Wear them over my head like an errant
mummer, a fine foggy filter between me and that dirty old town. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qsQedmySbVs/UGDgZHIFsdI/AAAAAAAAAeY/yjOVrNdyVqY/s1600/IMG_1425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="326" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qsQedmySbVs/UGDgZHIFsdI/AAAAAAAAAeY/yjOVrNdyVqY/s640/IMG_1425.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A day obscured. (Photo: Erin Whitney)</td></tr>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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Mz. Whitneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16795252523182627852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-87844670250623289892012-09-23T17:54:00.000-07:002012-09-24T16:45:12.277-07:00Facing "The Field"<div style="border: currentColor;">
Our time is quickly slipping by. During this last week, we are all working at linking place and people, faces and friendships, insiders and outsiders. We learn about these dichotomies, we sometimes try to keep boundaries clear, but realize they often become blurred. Ethnography becomes that messy business where we end up wondering about this field work. Work that is play, work that is learning, work that is frustrating, rewarding, exhilirating, terrifying, or fun. We are in a place far from the familiar, a place different. But soon the reality of this place will become memory, and our memories of these three weeks will be of sounds and conversations and faces. We will write about our time in academic ways, but we will know how inadequate that way of writing often is. What will remain will be these faces from our field.</div>
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<h4 align="center" style="border: currentColor;">
All photos Jerry Pocius</h4>
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Ed, Kiyomi, Kayla and Ster</h4>
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Kristin, Erin, Claire and Wins: accordion heaven</h4>
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Alvin with treasures</h4>
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John supervising Kristin, Ed and Erin</h4>
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Noah getting the details from Alicia and Claire</h4>
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Alicia and friend at The Cape</h4>
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Percy and another kind of fish at the Ryan Premises</h4>
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Wilson Hayward remembers: three pies</h4>
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Phonse at the nets</h4>
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Noah records, Phonse describes</h4>
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Bonavista Social Club: the new NL</h4>
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Gerald Pociushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09845461161015975104noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-56779404410472154902012-09-22T14:00:00.004-07:002012-09-22T14:01:49.776-07:00Learning from the Field<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a special place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If any mantra has swayed
to and fro within the empty space where my mind should be, it is those words. I
keep trying to imagine what it felt like to be the ‘me’ of yesterday; the one who
had never experienced today, who had never learned what I learned, or seen what
I’ve seen this day. The one who still held today in yesterday’s wonder and
worry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It may be a fruitless
struggle to imagine myself then, but it is a vital conflict. If we never
reflect or acknowledge how little we knew yesterday, we could never truly
appreciate all we’ve learned today. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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My wife Kiyomi and her first cod </h4>
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(Photo: Ed Millar)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, my wife and I
joined Ster Welcher and Kayla Hobbs on Ster’s speedboat to go catch cod on the
first day of the fall recreational cod fishery which will close on September 30<sup>th</sup>.
Ster used landmarks on the shore to position the boat. Kayla told us that
earlier the shoal was where the cod could be found, but later heard that they
may have moved to deeper areas. Once we were in position, Ster and Kayla showed
us how to cast the hand lines (each with a Norwegian jig) and how far to let
the line down before reeling it in a little and jigging the line. If there were
no bites within a few minutes, Ster would move to the next mark and cast again.
After some unsuccessful casts, the cod started to bite, and within two hours we
caught our limit for the day. Back on shore, Kayla showed me how to correctly
gut cod and cut the tongue, which I then proceeded to do, while Ster fileted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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My first cod (Photo: Ed Millar)</h4>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday,
while I certainly imagined what it might feel like to go out on a boat to catch
cod, I remained oblivious to what it <i>actually</i>
came to feel like, not to mention being unaware of the nuances involved. While we had
read and learned about the catching process, seeing it in person removed the
filters brought on by my unfamiliarity, resulting in a clearer overall picture.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I
am so thankful for having been given this opportunity to go out and meet some
truly incredible people, who have taught me so much in these last few weeks.</span></span><br />
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Phonse Ducey showing me the technique for mending a net<br />(Photo: Ed Millar)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Every
day, I come to realize the basic importance of what it means to be a folklorist:
to meet, record, and learn from others. </span><span style="line-height: 20px; text-align: center;">Over time, that realization progresses into the notion that everyone, everything, and everywhere, is special. Regardless of which corner you turn, there will be people worth talking to, things worth doing, and places worth seeing. </span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Keels
is that special place. </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17989688559216187094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-4370843866126032982012-09-22T13:24:00.000-07:002012-09-22T13:44:58.664-07:00A Saturday Afternoon StrollOn the rare chance that I find myself with a few moments to spare I like to take time to reflect on the weeks events. For me a leisurely stroll through Keels provides this much needed time for rest and contemplation. I think about what I am here to do and how I am going to confront my fear of that first interview, which is now looming closer and closer. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Street view of Keels from beside the Anglican Church<br />
(Photograph: Noah Morritt)</td></tr>
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These walks, however, are not often moments of solitary reflection. Even in what I think are the most remote and removed parts of town I will stumble upon someone ready to chat. Over the past two weeks I have had some of the most interesting chats with people from Keels and other Newfoundlanders who are either from other communities or visiting from other parts of Canada. It is amazing how readily they are prepared to talk, and their stories often frame Keels life in very different perspectives. Upon reflection, these serendipitous meetings along the ATV trail or beside the berry patch are some of the most important. Often questions such as "when did you leave Newfoundland," or "were you ever involved in the fishery" result in a wealth of information. Perhaps I am more prepared for my first interview than I give myself credit for, but I do not think that anything can fully alleviate the recurring worry that I am going to completely mess up. After the final "goodbye" and "nice chatting to you" I go on my way, now with something completely new to think about. <br />
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As I finally begin to approach Keels I often find myself thinking about the people I meet and the buildings that I see. They seem to have become more familiar. What used to be just the quick friendly "hello," and "nice weather we're having" have become full length conversations and questions about the field school and our progress. I have read all about the process of building rapport in ethnographic fieldwork, but these guidebooks seem like some confusing mind maze. Instead, my entry into the world of ethnographic fieldwork seems to have begun with a simple Saturday afternoon stroll. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An ATV trail in Keels (Photograph: Noah Morritt)</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17263896162528020007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-72029480661614010592012-09-21T12:47:00.000-07:002012-09-21T12:54:36.543-07:00In Strange Terrain: Berries and FairiesI never realised how woefully ignorant I am about berry-lore until spending time in Keels these past couple weeks. I've always been comfortable in my perception that Saskatchewan's berry, the saskatoon, was the best around, that it was pretty much unique to the prairies, and that my saskatoon berry pie was delicious. Then I got to Newfoundland, and found out that lots of people have saskatoon berry bushes growing in their yards, but here they're called chuckley pear. I also discovered that there is an abundance of wild berries growing all over Newfoundland, and any preconceptions I had of the "Rock" being a barren, berryless wasteland went out the window.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Juniper berries growing around Keels. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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There are berries everywhere here. Much of the landscape around Keels is covered with juniper and its bluish berry (I was told that some of these bushes, which grow close to the ground, may be as old as a century). Then there are blueberries, which I had never seen growing in the wild before. There are also partridge berries, a local favourite. While picking them the other day with Claire and Erin, I came across another berry, which Claire said was called crow berry. Cranberries grow here, too, though I haven't seen any yet. Then there are bake apples, which I didn't realise were actually a berry at first until Erin filled me in on the supposed entymology of the name. Apparently, French settlers called the berry "baie qu'appelle", meaning basically "whatchamacallit berry." Over time the name became anglicised and distorted.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Partridge berries, known as lingonberries in other locales, are<br />
a Newfoundland favourite. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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The importance of berries to Newfoundland culture is something you just can't really know about until you come here and witness it firsthand. Historically, berries were very important in the diets of fishing families who mostly ate fish, meat, and root vegetables like potatoes. Berries would have provided essential nutrients. Thus, berry-picking was an important past-time, probably carried out mostly by young women. And this leads me into the next part of my post: fairies.<br />
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I'm currently reading <i>Strange Terrain: The Fairy World in Newfoundland</i> by Barbara Rieti, which resulted from her PhD thesis in Folklore at MUN. Many of the stories in her book centre around strange experiences in the woods when out picking berries or doing other important tasks like cutting wood or hay, or tending gardens. This was another part of Newfoundland culture of which I had no knowledge before arriving here: the pervasiveness of folk belief in fairies and other elements of the supernatural, though this belief is apparently mostly a thing of the past.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A thicket of an unidentified berry, possibly marsh berries,<br />
overlooking Keels harbour. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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The other day, I walked alone out to the old slate quarry (see Claire's past post about it) to meet Claire and Erin to pick partridge berries. The walk took me through some "strange terrain", an area that I had not yet explored. In the quiet of the wooded path, I kept thinking about the fairy book, and almost expected to see tiny figures perched among the berries in the bushes on either side of the path. We came to Keels to learn about the fishery, and we certainly are, but the great thing about being immersed in the community about which we're learning is that we get a deeper experience of the overall culture. I haven't yet spoken to any locals about fairy belief, but in Rieti's book there is one excerpt that notes that in decades past, residents of Keels left woolen socks and mittens out on All Souls Night for the fairies, so clearly there was some belief here in fairies historically.<br />
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Any map of Newfoundland will show clearly that most of the settlement in the province was along the coast because of, you guessed it, the fishery. But Newfoundlanders' lives were influenced just as much by the woods and bogs at their backs as they were by the sea in front of them. Fairy stories (not to be confused with fairy tales) are often indicative of the awe, and sometimes fear, the woods inspired in those who dwelt near them. You just never knew when an afternoon of berry-picking might get you "into the fairies."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An expedition to pick berries could take one into "strange terrain." Who knows<br />
what could be around the bend. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</td></tr>
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<br />Kristin http://www.blogger.com/profile/07429446116556549329noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-14060706653639796682012-09-21T12:14:00.000-07:002012-09-21T12:14:36.574-07:00Work and Play
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"La bonne cuisine est la </h4>
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base du véritable bonheur."</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’ve all been working hard the last week and a half, learning about photography and audio recording, metadata and interviewing techniques.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As yesterday’s posts made clear, our current focus is on measuring and documenting buildings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Learning new things is thought-provoking, exciting and, at times, exhausting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Developing new skills in a group context always presents its own challenges, but I have found the experience here in Keels incredibly rewarding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re going through growing pains together, quite literally; we really did have to stretch for some of those measurements. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is nothing quite so satisfying as working towards, and accomplishing, a common goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When achieving that goal involves exercising both brain and body, though, it can make for a long day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the working day is jam-packed, I always like to take a little time, to allow myself to unwind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over the course of this field school, I have found that time and space in the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erin (roommate extraordinaire) and I have been cooking up a storm… </span></div>
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Fried Cod Tongues</h4>
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Fish Chowder</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">…and there seems to be a theme developing…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not all cod all the time, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tonight we’re going to enjoy a barbequed meal at Rosie Welcher’s place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re unlikely to have fish in addition to our sausages and chops (and there’s a part of me that worries I might go into withdrawal without it).</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are, however, guaranteed good company and the same overwhelming hospitality that has been extended to us since our arrival.</span></div>
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Claire McDougallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13011404645395963458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-2485887654541744192012-09-20T16:44:00.001-07:002012-09-20T16:44:20.822-07:00Taking the Measure of Keels<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
When I was a kid, I dreamt of houses with secret passages and curvy, elegant stairways. I was obsessed with an imaginary, mysterious, rock wall, several storey home, encircled by humongous, leafy trees and a black wrought iron fence. The more Canadian Gothic it was (if I may coin the term) the better it suited my fancy. Now, in the "grown-up" world of the Keels Field School, my dream is much simpler. Now I dream of walls covered in gyproc so I don't have to measure each and every exposed stud. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">As I'm sure you've gathered already, I spent the day of Thursday, September 20, 2012 measuring buildings with an eternity of exposed studs. An "eternity" <em>might</em> be an exaggeration, but not a big one. We work in teams of three, and each person in the group is responsible for measuring one outbuilding (not to be confused with outhouse, thank goodness). My team spent the morning measuring a storage shed, called a store in Keels; the afternoon was spent measuring a fish store--similar to a store, but used to store all things fishing-related. As two people called out the measurements, the third person drew the floor plan to scale on jumbo graph paper. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noah Morritt and Claire McDougall take the measurements of the studs in Phonse Ducey's fish store.<br /><br />Photo: Jerry Pocius</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Don't mistake me when I say "two people called out the measurements." This was not a simple task, and it warrants more than six measly words. Those two people became, for the space of several hours, ingenious acrobats and contortionists, pulling on every bodily resource available to them. Those two people are modern day heroes. Seriously. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noah Morritt, Alicia Farnham and Claire McDougall<br />taking the measurements of a 5' x 6' bathroom.<br /><br />Photo: Jerry Pocius</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">The same can be said of that thrid person, drawing the floor plan, minus the acrobatics. This task involved miniscule markings the likes of which someone with 40/40 vision would have trouble with; it involved the most strategic labelling one can imagine. And all in a generally cramped, crouched over, body-stiffening-by-the-second position, to be held for upwards of half an hour at a time. Or more. No joke. </span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carefully drawing my floor plan.<br /><br />Photo: Jerry Pocius</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I paid to learn how to do this. This afternoon, as I made the calls on my own outbuilding, which detail to include in the floor plan, and which to leave out, I had to remind myself why I was bothering with such a tedious, mind-twisting/numbing task. A few times I almost forgot. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">When I backed up, took a look at the whole picture, I'd remember the pleasure I used to take in discovering a floor plan that existed in my imagination. As it gradually took form in perfect ruler-straight lines on my paper, I would imagine myself living in this home, enjoying all the various intrigues required of a house with secret passageways. And I would remember how much I loved, as a child and as a young adult, to explore every nook and cranny of the historic homes preserved in Kings Landing, a historical settlement in my home province of New Brunswick. If I didn't draw that floor plan correctly, to scale, with the details, how would any child ever be able to examine with fascination the intricacies of a fish store in Newfoundland, when, decades down the road, there is nothing left of an original fish store in the province except what has been rebuilt in a provincial historical settlement or something similar? I want that sense of awe and delight to carry on past my own lifetime. And as disconnected as those two points in time might seem (my floor plan of 2012, and a restoration effort of c. 2092), that's what kept me drawing those tiny 1" x 3" studs on my 1' = 3/4" plan. And believe me, I needed the inspiration!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally Finished! <br />(Alicia Farnham, Noah Morritt, Claire McDougall)<br /><br />Photo: Jerry Pocius</td></tr>
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Alicia Farnhamhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11134315745261448127noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-13784116033854779802012-09-20T16:33:00.000-07:002012-09-24T16:27:34.246-07:00Living in Heritage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We are currently measuring and drawing plans for houses and outbuildings in Keels. Before setting out, Jerry talked a bit about the study of vernacular architecture. He described architecture as “fossilized thoughts”. I remember earlier this summer, walking around Montreal and thinking about all of the houses and apartment buildings in my neighbourhood. I was living in a working class neighbourhood, that I suppose was built up in the 1950s. There is a particular style of apartment building that is commonly nestled in amongst the brick duplexes, usually three story brick buildings that contain about six or seven apartments, all with matching balconies jutting out the fronts. Many of them have faded gold painted lettering over the entrance ways with grand building names like “Chateau Brebeuf” or “El Presidente”. Today the buildings are dirty and faded, but I imagine their beginnings as shiny and full of promise. Another style common in that neighbourhood was a one story brick house that was designed to have another story added above as the family established themselves and grew. I thought of these buildings as embodiments of hope, once fresh and new, ripe with possibility. </div>
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I think of the houses in Keels somewhat differently. Many of them go back to the beginning of the 20<sup>th</sup> century, but you'd never say it to look at them from outside. Clad in vinyl siding and mounted with satellite dishes, they live firmly in the present. And yet, when you examine them from the inside, you can see the traces of their former lives. They have sheltered families which expand and contract through generations, and are subdivided or opened up accordingly. Roofs are raised, bedrooms are joined, and extensions built. They contain many layers of fossilized thoughts. </div>
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A couple of the houses in Keels are designated heritage homes, adorned with a plaque to prove it. They are a reflection of a past aesthetic, one that recalls the “good old days” when everything was homey and “authentic”. As far as I know, these houses are owned exclusively by “summer people”, that is, the ones who don't require that their homes function in the same practical way that the permanent residents of the town prefer. They are full of antiques and old things, while the houses I've been in that are inhabited by year-round Keels residents are a mish mash of tastes, much more modern and clearly reflective of the lives that have most recently been lived within the walls. Photos of grandchildren, plaques with religious and sentimental phrases, and the occasional lewd joke.</div>
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There is a sentimentality about Newfoundland, about the loss of a traditional way of life and a forced entry to the modern world. It is reflected in songs like “Saltwater Joys” by Buddy Wasisname and the Other Fellers. I don't believe it's a sentimentality that prevails over the lives of the people here. Sure, we all get nostalgic and misty eyed from time to time, but I think people here are inextricably linked to the past, to their family heritage, and they are unlikely to forget that. But they are mostly engaged with the business of the present, and with the constant desire to shape the world around them to suit their needs, just as their ancestors did. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John Ducey's house, built 1901. (Photo: Erin Whitney)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Mz. Whitneyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16795252523182627852noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-82199074329579312652012-09-19T13:17:00.002-07:002012-09-20T15:44:01.030-07:00Riding Around Keels<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road sign in Keels (Photograph: Noah Morritt)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">How do people in Keels get around? How do they access other communities and get supplies? In Keels, like in many other communities, the automobile and all of its various forms provides the essential mode of transportation. A quick trip in the car can get you to Selby Mesh’s shop for supplies or to Bonavista for a more extensive shopping trip. Local roads weave through the community and help people move from one side of the community to the other. Most importantly, the road from Keels through Duntara to King’s Cove provides an essential link to other communities on the Bonavista Peninsula. The vital importance of this single roadway out of Keels became especially apparent if the aftermath of Hurricane Igor in 2010, which washed out the this roadway, severing access to supplies and services. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While many people in Keels own a vehicle, many others also own boats, snowmobiles and ATVs. The paved asphalt roads of Keels are undoubtedly one of the first things you notice, but after walking around you realize that a series of ATV paths also link these roads to the outermost areas of the village. These paths are almost completely inaccessible to cars and trucks, and are used on a regular basis to access gardens, ponds, berry patches, cabins, and lumber. In the past these resources would have to be brought back by foot or sled, and it was often easier to haul lumber in the winter months when the fisheries had shut down for the season and snow made it easier to pull the sleds. Today, however, the ATV has imprinted itself on the local landscape in ways that are similar, but yet distinctly different from cars and trucks. The people of Keels have an important relationship with the outlaying forests, which provides lumber for their wood stoves and berries for jams and baking, space for hunting moose and snaring rabbits, as well as swimming and fishing. It is also not uncommon to also see people driving around town on their ATVs, visiting friends or getting supplies from Selby’s shop. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This transportation system that the people of Keels have created that makes sense for the way they live and the resources that they need to access. While cars and trucks are vital for access to communities outside of Keels, they are also limited to roads and paths not blocked by enormous rocks and steep, uneven hills. The ATV is therefore as much a part of Keels life as is the automobile or boat, and it is very unlikely that you will got for too long without seeing one zooming along. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17263896162528020007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-31450075066505629162012-09-19T13:14:00.000-07:002012-09-19T13:19:08.438-07:00Reading Space<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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Keels Field School measuring Reg Hobbs's house (Photo: Edward Millar)</h4>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> September 18<sup>th</sup>, 2012 marked the end of the anticipation. We were ready to test the waters of measuring and documenting architecture. While wandering through Keels on a general building survey in the morning, Gerry spoke of the importance of analyzing ‘space’. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In interacting with one another, we develop this concept of the ‘mental template’, and project our expectations and desires into the landscape. In architecture, this translates into the development of similar forms, shapes, and uses for the interior and exterior of buildings. Everything has deliberately been conceived and laid out; forms, shapes, and uses influenced by a combination of internal and external factors. While the forms and shapes of a space can and do vary, the greatest variation concerning space seems to be in its use. For example, although this space in the living room sprawled out before me was organized and designed to be an area for relaxation and leisure, it is currently being used as my workspace.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The soft sofa cushions and the coffee table, coupled with my own expectations about workspace, led to my decision to work from the sofa. I could just as easily set up the laptop on the bed, which is even softer than the sofa; or I could sit in the dining room and work there. But the boundaries of a bedroom uncomfortably position me on the edge of the social fabric of a shared house, and the kitchen area is a space for cooking or eating. The living room as a space for entertaining and relaxation reflect my personal concerns in finding somewhere to work: it should be comfortable yet functional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether I realized it at first or not, my choice to work in the living room was influenced by a web of different factors. My friend Peter always taught me that a relaxed, clear, and meditative mind is necessary to deeply engage your thoughts. I like to think of my current situation as arriving at the ‘coziness of mind’: the living room sofa, where I can relax, and work stress-free. Or at least approach being ‘stress-free’ with little baby steps. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Over these next few days we will be measuring and documenting both homes and outbuildings. It is extremely vital that I improve this skill of reading a room not only for how I myself might use it, but also for how others use theirs. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“What has happened has happened, and what will be, we’ll see.” – Langhorne Slim</span></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17989688559216187094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-14865739820480704312012-09-18T14:52:00.000-07:002012-09-18T14:52:01.700-07:00Kitchen Partyin' in Keels<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The makings of a delicious meal. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my previous two posts, I wrote about the differences and
similarities I’ve been finding between fishing life in Keels and farming life
in my home province of Saskatchewan. I may have found many similarities, and
have felt very at home in Keels’ small town community, but I’m always aware of
how very far away from home I am. The distance seems especially great on
certain days, and none moreso than on my birthday. Fortunately, the weekend of
my birthday ended up being full of good times and good people. We worked all
weekend, but that didn’t stop us from letting our hair down after hours,
especially on Saturday night when we bade farewell to Dr. Guha Shankar. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We made a group meal of fish chowder with freshly caught
cod, courtesy of John Ducey, and a vegetable soup. Everyone contributed their
bit to the meal, though most of the credit goes to Erin and Claire for the bulk
of the ingredients and preparation. It was a fabulous meal, made even better by
the congenial company of erudite folks. All in all, I think it was pretty close
to a good ol’ fashioned kitchen party. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Homemade seafood chowder with every</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">one's new best friend, cod. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: left;"> </span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Though it wasn’t officially my birthday yet, the celebratory air really made me feel better about turning the big 2-4. After the party moved from our house, things got a little wilder (though “wild” by folklorist standards may be fairly tame). Dr. Pocius has already described the events of our induction ceremony in excruciating detail, so I won’t comment on that, but let me just make one thing clear: I was coerced into everything, especially donning the “sou’wester.”</span> <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A few hours after the induction, we had to wake up and
venture out into the cold and wind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I was pretty homesick on my birthday, and
it didn’t help that I had my first taste of nasty Newfoundland weather that
day. We spent most of the day standing outside in the cold and wind learning
how to measure buildings, the details of which you can read about it in a
previous entry. I had been really hoping to have a bonfire that night to
celebrate both my and Alicia’s birthday, but the weather did not cooperate. So,
by about 9 o’clock, I was starting to throw myself a pity party.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then, Ed and Meghann came in, and we chatted a bit. I was
checking the fire, and telling Ed about the nuances of fire tending when I
walked into the kitchen to be greeted by all of the KFS crew who immediately
started singing “Happy Birthday” and presented me with glowing candles on top
of a blueberry cheesecake. It was a wonderful end to what had been turning into
a woebegone evening. Although I was far from home, and my family, I realised
that I was surrounded by friends, a new family of sorts. We’ve only known each
other (with the exception of Jerry and Meghann) for a couple of weeks, but
already I feel a bond forming among all of us. Experiences like the one we’re
having in Keels have a habit of creating long-lasting friendships, but what’s special
about our group is that all of us are part of that. We are a community. It is
early days yet, and there is still the likely possibility of a few frayed
nerves and some temper flare-ups, but I honestly believe that since we survived
10 hours of metadata for three days straight, we can make it through anything. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thank you so very
much to Alicia, Claire, Ed, Erin, Jerry, Meghann, and Noah for making my
birthday so special. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There's a quote written on the plaque which can be seen to the left of this photo </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">which reads something like: "Of all the places I entertain, my guests seem to like </span></div>
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my kitchen best." That was certainly true on Saturday night in Keels. Photo: Kristin Catherwood</div>
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Kristin http://www.blogger.com/profile/07429446116556549329noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5378701602947662998.post-49902104193995229992012-09-18T14:43:00.002-07:002012-09-18T14:43:20.304-07:00Between a Rock and a Hard Place<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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Coastline near Keels</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I’m sure readers of this blog are coming to know, the landscape in and around Keels is beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is wild and rugged and rocky—very rocky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is impossible not to be struck by the rock formations; they are powerful when viewed from a distance, and intriguing when seen close up</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The variations in colour, shape and size boggle the mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not a geologist, but I’ve found myself increasingly drawn to the subject since my arrival in Newfoundland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine I’m not the only one to feel this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sheets of slate</span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Photo: Claire McDougall)</span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Upon asking I found that much of the rock in the Keels area is slate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When approaching Keels on the highway, there is a clear view of a slate mine, which operated here for a short while in the 1990s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is rather jarring to see, simply because it is in such marked contrast with the rest of the coastline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a walk out to the mine yesterday afternoon to get a closer look.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are beautiful views from the spot, but I found it sad, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is something very strange about finding total stillness in a place created by and for activity and industry.</span><br />
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Infrastructure at the abandoned slate mine</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wanting to know more about the mine, I spoke to Keels resident, Selby Mesh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The project was started in the early 1990s, shortly after the cod fishery was closed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Federal funding was obtained (by Basil Power), to help create a viable alternative to the fishery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mine employed former fishermen and plant workers from all over the Bonavista Peninsula, training them in the use of mining equipment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were high hopes that the mine would provide the economic revitalization needed in the area; however, no market for the slate ever materialized.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After only a couple of years, when government funding ran out, the mine was shut down.</span><br />
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The remnants of mining activity</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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An unlikely oasis</h4>
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(Photo: Claire McDougall)</h4>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were some, mostly people who have holiday homes in the Keels area, who were against the mining operation from the beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They argued that the mine would permanently mar the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no doubt that flattened piece of coastline does draw the eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my mind, though, it is more raw than unsightly, a physical reminder of a difficult time. </span>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have already mentioned the stillness of the mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite my mixed emotions about the site, I did find it intensely peaceful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Erin, Kristin and I spent a long while by the spot where most of the quarrying happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a small pool there now, full of crystal clear water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a lovely, sunny afternoon and the water was totally calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a reminder for me that beauty can be found in the strangest places.</span></div>
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Claire McDougallhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13011404645395963458noreply@blogger.com0