Wesleyville, a small community on Newfoundland and Labrador’s northeast coast, was one of my favorite postings as an RCMP officer. I served four years there from 1981 to 1985. People were easy to get along with and my wife, Sharon and I made many friends there. It seemed like there was always someone at our house or we were off to another friend’s home for coffee or something else. We transferred out in 1985 and sometime after we returned for a visit. We went out with friends to a dance at one of the local clubs and while we were there someone requested a song from the band for Sharon and Wayne who were ‘home’ for a holiday. That is how Wesleyville was. It was not home for us, but it felt like the next best thing. Good memories were made there.

These days due to amalgamation, it is known as New Wes-Valley. Over forty years have passed since we left that place nestled into the sea and we have made St. John’s our home. We still see friends from the Wesleyville area now and when we meet it is like we are just picking up where we left off. Transfers tend to separate the old from the new. You have every intention of keeping contact but your life in your new community gets in the way. I do regret not maintaining the ties, but I am glad for the time we shared with those people who made our lives better with their friendship.

The story I want to tell you about takes place in Lumsden, another great little community not far from Wesleyville. It was in the fall of the year, and I was working on the files I had for this area. The cool, crisp days of autumn bring the hustle and bustle of people gathering their berries, fish, and other things in preparation for winter. The sound of axes splitting wood and chainsaws sputtering through thick fog are commonplace. One of the files I had involved a minor motor vehicle accident. I had to obtain a statement from an elderly gentleman as he was a witness to this accident.

I rolled up to his door around quarter to four in the day. The missus was hovering around busily as I entered the kitchen. She ushered me into the parlour (it was an old-fashioned Saltbox home) where the old fellow was sitting on a comfortable sofa, reading. I explained why I was there, taking out my statement pad, but before I could get started, the missus knocked on the parlour door. She asked to speak to her husband, and he went out in the kitchen to see what she wanted.

I was left behind while they conversed in the kitchen. I looked around at the surroundings, the old furniture, and other antiques in the room. There were lots of pictures on the wall and as I was examining them, I noted peculiar one. It portrayed an older man with his eyes closed and his arms crossed across his chest lying in what appeared to be a coffin. I guess they did not have an opportunity to take a picture before he died. I was interrupted by the mister returning. He asked me to come out to the kitchen.

When I entered the kitchen, I was assaulted by pleasant smells and sights of the wonderful assortment of breads, cookies, cakes, and other home baked delicacies on the table before me. The mister advised me it was time for tea, and I was invited to join them. I protested politely (not too politely) and said I only came to take a statement from him. He waved his hand saying we could get that after we ate. I gladly gave in to his demands and sat into this great feed. I immediately started to help myself, but I noticed the old fellow was sitting with his hands, on his lap watching his tea. The missus was standing by his side with her hands folding waiting.

I realized at that moment that I was witnessing tradition. Newfoundland had a lot of English; Irish and Scottish ancestry and the people of this province were no doubt heavily influenced with their customs. I had read about this but never witnessed anything like this firsthand. I watched intently as the woman stood patiently until the old fellow nodded his head. The missus spun into action, picking up the spoon from the place setting and squeezing the tea bag and removing it from the cup. Then she added some sugar and some milk and stirred the mixture. She laid the spoon on the saucer and stood back waiting with her hands folded.

The mister sat tolerantly until she finished and then he picked up the cup bringing it to his lips. He sipped some tea, savoured it and with a quick nod of approval he laid it back down. Then the missus buttered some biscuits for him and cut up a bit of hard(cheddar) cheese to go with it. Then she went to her place and fixed her own tea.

Well, that was certainly something for a young husband, like me, to see. This old guy was the king in this household. Quietly I paused, realizing I had observed a valuable lesson before I continued with my very enjoyable luncheon. I thanked the missus once finished and I returned to the parlour with the old fellow to take his statement. I could not stop smiling as I drove back to Wesleyville to finish my shift.

I went home and told Sharon about my day, including in detail, my encounter with this older couple and the afternoon tea. Sharon was quiet as I described this wonderful example of married life. When I finished, she smiled, and rising from her chair she went to the kitchen. Thinking my story had the desired effect, I sat back contented to wait for her return. A few moments later, I heard the back door open, and Sharon cheerfully sang out.

“I’m going to Gert’s for a visit. See you later, honey.” 

Without making any comment on my story, she had made her point. Later that evening as I sipped on a cup of tea (which I made myself), I realized some traditions were never coming back.