Going Back Home

           As age descends upon me, I crave to return one more time to the home of my childhood. So, on my 80^th birthday, my son, James, gifted me with a trip to the land of my birth.

           Traveling from British Columbia, Canada, to the small Caribbean Island was like traveling from one end of the world to another. I had forgotten how far it was, having left there when I was just a lad of 10 years. The journey from the small Caribbean airport to the tiny village where I was born seems new and strange to me. Gravel roads have been replaced by paved roads, but the tropical vegetation along the roadsides trigger distant memories.

           The old family home is now a rental cottage. The same structure remodeled - five bedrooms and three bathrooms, a huge living room, and a large dining room. A kitchenette adjoins the dining area. A small office fitted with half a dozen computers and one printer occupies a portion of the living room. The concrete front porch and the wooden back verandah which overlooks a vast gully are just as I remember them.

An overwhelming sense of nostalgia floods my mind as I sit on the back veranda and look around. The mountains and the hills...the horizon smiling in the distance...the valley alive and flourishing...the sky aglow and beckoning, the whole scene, resplendent in its beauty brings back many memories.

I see the clouds, like cotton candy, floating against a background of clear blue sky. I stare across the big valley of crisp vegetation and gaze at the horizon beyond. I cannot see clearly where the sky ends and the ocean begins, for the sky seems to dip into the ocean. And I recall the trips to the beach with my siblings. Those were glorious days.

To my left and right are mountains. Behind me, there is a hill. The mountains, as I recall in my childhood, look like great big panda bears protecting the little hill. The mountain on my right stands majestic and tall. Tiny houses, like little matchboxes, sitting on the mountainside seem to be nervously awaiting a strong breeze that will send them toppling down the mountain slopes. I smile. I am home.

It is evening and the sun has started its descent. Now the great big pandas stretch out their long shadowy arms and wave a sheet of spooky darkness over the village. It is time for an old man to retire for the night.

Morning comes and the sunbeams streaming through the eastern window touch my face and seem to say, “Wake up, old man, you are home.”  After breakfast, James and I take a walk to the coconut grove where I had spent a lot of time with my best friend, Jo-Jo. I want my son to see how boys in my youthful days enjoyed themselves without the modern use of technology.

Jo-Jo was older and wiser than I.  In my mind’s eye I see Jo-Jo scooting up a tall coconut tree. His agility was unbelievable. ‘Bet you can’t do this, Maurice,’ I remember Jo-Jo shouting from about 18 feet up. His dare challenged me. I remember watching Jo-Jo as he descended, his lithe body sliding down the sweeping curve of the long coconut stem. How vivid is the memory!

           “Did you ever climb any of the coconut trees, dad?” James was curious now.

           “Oh, sure,” I have that faraway look in my eyes. “The first time I managed to climb a coconut tree, I got dizzy as I looked down, so I willed my mind to focus on the scene about me and not on a possible fall.”  ‘When you climb a coconut tree, never look down or you may drop on the groun’.’ Jo-Jo’s advice and funny way of speaking came to mind. I smile at the memory.

           “From the top of the coconut tree, I could view the world around me,” I tell James. “It was invigorating to be up so high. I remember I held on tenaciously to a cluster of young coconuts beneath the crown of the majestic palm, my trembling legs lapped around the trunk of the tree giving me major support. I could see the vast expanse of the sea in the distance. I saw little fishing boats bobbing up and down with the waves towards the horizon where the sky seemed to dip into the ocean. James, I felt more fear com­ing down than I did climbing up the tree. Carefully, with my legs and arms clinging to the trunk of the tree, I slid down lit­tle by little until my feet touched the ground. But after that first experience, I climbed many trees without fear.”

           As we walk through the grove I point to the fallen fronds and I tell my son that when we were kids, we used to have lots of fun in the coconut grove. Apart from climbing the trees, we used to slide on the branches, drink the coconut water, and eat the jelly from the nuts and lots of other fun things.

           “You used to slide on the branches? How did you do that?” my son asks, puzzled.

           “Well, son, see those large fronds, which we call branches? We would drag one of them up to the top of a small hill, sit on it, take our feet off the ground and slide down the hill.”

           “Wasn’t that scary? Didn’t you fall off?”

           “No. It was fun. I well remember the first time I did it. It was scary at first. I sat on the frond and held onto the leaves but kept my feet on the ground. The large leaf lay on the steep of a gravel hill not too far from here, which sloped down towards the sandy beach of the north coast of the island. My friend, Jo-Jo, told me to take my feet off the ground. I had no sooner taken my feet off the ground when Jo-Jo gave me a little shove and I was off like a flash down the gravel path. Banana trees, coconut trees, green shrubs and vines flashed past me! The wind stung my cheeks! I could hear Jo-Jo’s laughter behind me, but I dared not look back. I had to concentrate on keeping my balance. My hands were getting sore by the friction caused by the accelerating speed of the coconut slide as it gathered momentum but I did not care. The element of fear and danger was exhilarating.”    

            “Didn’t you feel afraid then?” James asks.

           “Yes, as I disentangled myself from twigs and wild sea grape vines; but I did not want Jo-Jo to know. So, I tried to hide the trembling of my knees as I struggled up the hill pulling the large leaf behind me. I was glad for the brief reprieve when Jo-Jo had his turn sliding down the gravel path. When it was my turn again, I settled myself carefully astride the hard-bony rib of the coconut frond. I took hold of the long slender leaflets which protruded in a fanlike manner in front of me. ‘Don’t push me this time,’ I told Jo-Jo. ‘I want to do it myself.’ Holding tightly to the leaflets for support, I eased my feet cautiously off the ground and unto the frond. I was doubled up, my knees touching my chin. My shoulders hunched forward as both hands gripped the dry­ing leaflets, already crisp and browned from the tropical sun. At first, nothing happened. Then I inched himself forward and the coconut slide gravitated down the slope picking up speed as it descended. Too soon I landed... on a sandy stretch near the beach. Those were good days, son,” I say to James, who is staring at me in disbelief.

            “Dad, you have such a clear memory of your childhood and I am impressed, but you are getting tired now. It is time to return to the cottage. You need to rest,” James holds my arm and takes me back to the cottage. I am tired but the memories are stimulating.

           Nighttime is quiet and relaxing. Supper is served early, and then James and I sit on the back veranda. A soft light glows from the ceiling. In my days we used lamps fueled by Kerosene oil. Each bedroom had a regular kerosene lamp with a shade. One of my chores was to wash the lampshades.

           “After supper, we would sit out here,” I told James, “and tell stories. I can see Grandpa now with his pipe in his mouth rocking away in his old rocking chair. Grandpa knew a lot of Duppy Stories, but Granny did not want him to tell them. “Full up the children’s heads with nonsense,” was what she used to say. Then she would go inside the house mumbling. Grandpa would tell the Duppy Stories anyway. They fascinated Jo-Jo and me, even though they could be scary.

           “Jo-Jo told me that there was a real ghost on the property. It came out on moonlight nights, he said. I did not believe in ghosts, but I did not argue with him. One moonlight night Jo-Jo and I went for a walk on the beach. It was cool for a summer night. The moon was full. It sent beams of multicolored lights across the ocean. The sand looked golden and a soft glow of purple blanketed the mountains. ‘Do you think heaven is like this?’ I had asked Jo-Jo. ‘It’s too spooky to be like heaven,’ was his reply. When Jo-Jo suggested that we catch fireflies, I knew that the subject was over. We got a little jar to put them in. After about 15 minutes, we had caught about 12 fireflies. You would be surprised at how bright the light was that came from the jar especially in the dark. Jo-Jo was so afraid of the dark. He said that when the moon got high in the sky, the duppy would come out. 

           On our way back to the house, we heard a scraping sound. ‘It must be the duppy,’ Jo-Jo said. He sounded scared. ‘We have to hurry.’  I told him that there is no such thing as ghosts, but to tell you the truth, my heart did a flip when a long black shadow crossed our path. I remember Jo-Jo dropping the jar of fireflies and shouting, “Maurice, run, Man. Don’t let the duppy catch you.” My commonsense told me that the shadow came from the tall coconut tree that grew by the path, but I had no intention of stopping to check it out.” I chuckle at the memory. James is staring at me impatiently waiting for me to continue.

           “We were breathless when we arrived at the house. Grandpa and Granny were sitting on the front veranda. You look like you saw a ghost,’ Grandpa said. Jo-Jo was so frightened he could not talk. ‘Jo-Jo thought he heard a ghost,’ I told Grandpa. ‘We heard a sound and saw a tall dark shadow on the path. Jo-Jo said it was a duppy.’ Granny looked at Grandpa. ‘I told you not to pack up the children’s head with nonsense,’ she said.

           “Grandpa told us to sit down. Then he told us that in a coconut grove, you may hear strange sounds at nights. Sometimes it is a donkey scratching its back on a tree, or the night wind blowing its whistle through the leaves. Sometimes big branches break under the strain of their own weight, giving a crackling sound. As they fall to the ground, they may a sound like thumping and bumping. In the dark of night, sounds are exaggerated. Small things seem huge. And shadows stretch and turn on moonlit nights. He said that young lads’ imaginations take them to places that don’t exist and show them images that are not real. When we went to bed that night, Jo-Jo slept with his head under his pillow. But I drifted off unafraid, to the sound of the ocean making a comforting lullaby.

           It was a tradition in our village to have an annual church picnic. The church picnic was held in the schoolyard. It was about a ten-minute walk from our home. Granny would pack a picnic basket with fried chicken and Johnny cakes to take and all kinds of goodies to share with ‘other folk’. We would hurry up to get there so we wouldn’t miss the fun. Deacon would be waiting for us boys to ‘tun the ice-cream bucket’.  We made homemade ice cream at the church picnic. The ice-cream bucket had a paddle that fits inside the canister which held the ice cream mixture made from coconut milk. It also had a crank handle to turn. Jo-Jo and I took turns turning the handle. We cranked the bucket until the mixture inside the canister began to harden. When the ice cream was ready, Deacon would put some in a cone for each of us, and then he told us we could go have fun.”

           James sees that I am beginning to droop, so he puts his arm around me. “What kind of fun did you have at the Church picnic, Dad? Was it singing and preaching?”

           “Oh no, James, it was not like a service. We played games and had races. My favorite race was the Egg and Spoon Race. There was a lot to see and do at the picnic. We had a great deal of fun; but when night began to fall and the sandflies started to bite, we were more than happy to pack up and leave.  And that is just what we are going to do now. I am not that young lad I used to be.”

           “I can see that, Dad. Come let’s get you back to the cottage.”

           The next morning, we say goodbye to the little village I once called home. I know I will never return. I turn to James and say, “Son, you have given me the best gift anyone could give me, a return home. Now I will have fresh memories to take me to the grave.”

           The minibus driver waits patiently as James helps me up the steps. There was no minibus in the village when I was growing up. We walked most of the time, sometimes hopped on a banana truck going to town. But I won’t burden James with that memory. Maybe when we get back to Canada, I will ask him to write my memories on the computer. It might be interesting for the next generations to come. He could title it, “Going Back Home”.