When I was a young, just fresh from the RCMP training depot in Regina I thought of things rather simply.     There were good people and there were bad people and my job was to get the bad ones and put them in jail.  That thinking lingered during my initial months at my first posting in St. Lawrence, on the Burin Peninsula in the fair province of Newfoundland.   It was a fairly affluent community of about 2500 souls in 1974 when I first arrived.   It was a mining town and the main employer was a company by the name of Alcan.   The product they mined was fluorspar which was a material which was used in steel and aluminum production as well as production of cooking utensils, and certain types of glass.  There was also a healthy fishing industry where the fishers brought in catches of cod, lobster, and crab.   Today, the population has dwindled to a little under 1300.  The mine has been mostly inactive since 1978 but indications are in recent months that it is due to start up again.  The fishing industry still exists but it is only a fraction of what it once was.

There are three things that St. Lawrence is famous for.   Number one is the heroic efforts of the towns people during a stormy night in February 1942.   Two American warships,  the Truxton went aground at a place  known as Chambers Cove and the Pollux found a similar fate at Lawn point about two kilometers west of Chambers Cove.   When word reached the men in the mining site known as Iron Springs Company, a work site about 3 kilometers south of the town,  they immediately stopped work and commenced to proceed to the disaster site which was about a mile away.   The North Atlantic ocean is not hospitable during the best of times but in February it is downright miserable.   Many of the American soldiers jumped or were thrown into the freezing waters to reach the safety of land, although if you’ve been on the shores of Chambers Cove on a stormy February day you wouldn’t use safe to describe it.   The tiny strip of beach constantly under siege of the ocean’s fury and the almost unscaleable cliffs that surround this cove make it a place to avoid in the summer months let alone the middle of winter.  Many of the residents of St. Lawrence risked there lives to rescue 186 soldiers and transport them to safety.   Many others opened their homes and their kitchens to the survivors during the days following this terrible disaster where two hundred or more soldiers lost their lives.

The number two thing that St. Lawrence is known for is that it is the soccer capital of Canada.   For many years this small town has been able to field teams who have challenged the best soccer teams in Canada.  It is a sport that is fiercely supported by the towns folk.   The tradition continues and even today the mention of the St. Lawrence Laurentians strikes fear in the hearts of their fellow competitors.   The third thing that St. Lawrence is known for is that it is the hometown of my wife who I met a few months after I set foot in this fair municipality.   I was visiting her brother with another young lady I had met in the early days of my arrival.  My future wife came in shortly after we got there.  She walked across the living room floor with her long wavy brown hair swaying with each step and my life changed forever.   Even today all I have to do to bring back this vision of her in her youthful glory is close my eyes.   This third item may not come to mind for many of who know St. Lawrence but to me it is the one that put this town on the map.

The RCMP detachment in St. Lawrence in 1974 consisted of a corporal who was in charge and two regular constables.   The detachment policed an area that stretched from the boundaries of Epworth to a point between Lamaline and Point May, covering a distance of about 73 kilometers of which 60 some kilometers were dirt road.   It included seven communities with a total population of around 8,000 (my best guess) distance about 73 kilometers.  The crime rate was relatively low and crimes consisted mostly of thefts, assaults, vandalism, break and entry, causing a disturbance, impaired driving and smuggling illicit liquor from St. Pierre and Miquelon (a French Island about 16 kilometers southwest of the Burin Peninsula).

The incident that so altered my thought pattern was not a major occurrence by any means. It was more of a routine matter of little consequence in the grand scheme of policing that happened one cold, damp early spring day some 42 years ago.  The senior member was investigating a theft of paint and some other items from a local store in one of the communities we policed.  He obtained a search warrant from the local justice of the peace and asked me to assist him in the search.     I readily agreed as this was an opportunity to catch one of the “bad guys”.  An opportunity which I felt would most definitely give me that good feeling that resulted from stopping a criminal in his tracks.       I waited in anticipation as we travelled the slightly muddy gravel road to the suspect’s house.     On our arrival, I observed an old two story house which was in desperate need of an exterior paint job but otherwise in a good state of repair.   We knocked on the door and a woman answered us.
The senior member explained the search warrant and the woman admitted us into the kitchen.     The suspect, the woman’s husband, was not home, the woman explained as we entered the kitchen.   It was a large open area with a wood stove in the middle of the room.  The wood stove was stoked up good and it was warm and cozy.     This area of the house was nothing fancy but it was clean and tidy with a door on one wall which apparently led to the rest of the house.      Five or six children ranging in age from 10 to 17 years sitting around an old chrome set near the wood stove.     The woman explained to her children what we were there for and everyone became quiet.   We had them, I knew it, it was only to find the items on the warrant to clue this up.      The woman then went to the cupboard and produced three gallons of paint and related this was the stolen property.     “Bingo!!”  I thought jubilantly.     We took the paint and explained that we had to complete the search of the house for the other items.  As we looked around the kitchen, the family was silent.     No one made a sound or movement as we searched through cupboards and closets.
Then we moved toward the door that lead to the rest of the house.     I can’t remember what happened exactly but all of a sudden the whole family was crying and screaming and blocking our access to this door.     I was somewhat startled by this reaction but immediately thought they were only doing this because the rest of the stolen items were beyond that door.      After a few minutes, we managed to open the door.     It was a door that had to be opened, I know, but it is one that I have since often wished had remained closed.
The house beyond the kitchen was only a shell.      All the wall material and parts of the floor had been removed, presumably to put in the stove to heat the kitchen area.     This area was unheated and the wind easily found its way through the gaping spaces in the clapboard.      There was no furniture, no pictures of fond memories on the walls, no mats, nothing.     We continued up the once finely carved staircase, now gouged with spindles missing no doubt to contribute to the search for warmth.    The only thing we found upstairs were some old bed frames with mattresses which had little or no stuffing left in them and in a couple of rooms the stuffing had been replaced with straw.   Now it was our turn to be abnormally quiet.    I was totally shocked by this display of abject poverty.      I had grown up in a family which was not well to do by any means but we certainly had plenty of food, clothing, and lived in a good house.  I realized then, that poverty was only a word to me and how little I actually knew about it.     Reluctantly, we headed back to the kitchen.
It was probably one of the most uncomfortable moments in my life as that door opened and we were face to face with that family.      There was hurt and anger in the children’s reddened eyes as we explained what the procedure would be and that we would be back with a summons for the father at a later date.     The mother humbly listened and respectfully bid us good bye as we left the premises.     The rumble of the tires on the gravel road was the only sound in the police car as we drove back to the office.    Yes, there had been an offence and we had found who was responsible but there was no victory for justice on that day.     It was still wrong, there was no question about that, but knowing that didn’t really help.     It is a harsh realization to discover things  really aren’t the way you thought they were. Black and white makes everything plain and simple but in policing you often have to deal with shades of grey.