Dancing In a Jar

by Poynter Adele

  You will need my help to see this. It’s a funny thing. You think you are in a small, isolated place. I felt like I had been placed inside a glass jar. Then I learned to take a step back so I could truly observe—observe and endure. Oh it was a glass jar all right, but somehow I found room to dance in there.

  Please promise me you will go right to the church and have Father Thorne call for me. I couldn’t bear the thought of you being here in my place without me.

  Love,

  Urla

  245 Hillside Avenue

  Nutley, New Jersey

  November 9, 1935

  Dear Donald,

  Mrs. Crammond and I are quite concerned about Urla’s health. We understand she’s been suffering for quite some time and we would encourage you to bring her back to the United States for assessment. To be fair, we are not just encouraging.

  We will leave it to you to arrange passage. Advise us as soon as this is done and I will make the necessary medical appointments.

  Naturally we all hope this is nothing, but better to be safe. In any event, we will enjoy the company of the three of you for an unforeseen visit.

  I await a timely response.

  Best regards,

  James Crammond

  St. Lawrence, Newfoundland

  November 22, 1935

  Dear Mom and Pop,

  All arrangements have been made and we will arrive in Brooklyn on December 4th early in the afternoon. You can follow the Furniss Line schedule as before.

  I’m sorry you had a brusque encounter with the Crammonds. Urla’s symptoms have been very vague and it was hard to know whether to make a big deal of them or not. Urla herself did not want anything said to worry her parents.

  But things have been going downhill in the last couple of weeks. Yesterday I came home to find her crying and wondering why Barbara wasn’t dressed for school. Her friends here have been wonderful support and someone is with her most of the time. She is frustrated, too, so we are all at a loss.

  Siebert is not too pleased for me to be away, but we will definitely leave on the first. We will stay with the Crammonds.

  I’m anxious to see you all.

  Donald

  1936

  245 Hillside Avenue

  Nutley, New Jersey

  January 6, 1936

  Dear Mrs. G,

  Happy New Year to you and the whole Giovannini family. It was a delight to receive your Christmas card, as well as cards from the Etchegarys and Farrells, among others.

  Urla and I are both quite touched by your concern.

  Events went very quickly once we arrived in New York. Urla’s headaches were getting much worse and she became unsettled and agitated that we were not going to be back to St. Lawrence in time for Christmas. The Crammonds had arranged for her to see a doctor here in Nutley, but he was not comfortable with any diagnosis so referred her to a neurologist in New York City. He, in turn, sent us to see an infectious disease specialist. Just before Christmas, we received a diagnosis of tubercular meningitis, or TB meningitis.

  We are still adjusting to the news and there is much uncertainty over the outcome. It is a form of TB, not that common, that affects the brain more than the lungs. Unfortunately, it is hard to say when she became infected. Of course everyone here says this happened in Newfoundland, and I really don’t have the energy or enough of a case to argue anything else.

  Tomorrow Urla will be admitted to a sanatorium about twenty minutes north of here. They specialize in the treatment of latent TB. It’s a private affair, and costly, but has a good reputation and excellent care. At this stage they have no idea how long a stay will be required. I find it difficult to read between the lines and I’m not sure I can let myself be optimistic given the grim faces that seem to greet us everywhere.

  We have decided that Barbara will stay here in the care of Urla’s parents, with mine helping as they can. I will be returning to Newfoundland after Urla is settled in. Our hope is that after a few months, I will come back to get Urla and Barbara and bring them home to St. Lawrence.

  The doctor says we will know more in a few weeks, so I will leave it there for now.

  Christmas here was rather subdued as you might imagine, although Barbara kept us all in the Christmas spirit. She is a walking, talking rascal. You would smile to know that every time there was a knock on the door, Urla would shout out “mummers!” At first it was amusing, but her look of disappointment was heart breaking.

  I’m anxious to get back as soon as I’m comfortable with Urla’s arrangements. She feels I should be in St. Lawrence too. Of course she feels this is much ado about nothing. Then on other days she is so confused that she looks happy to rest and get away from us all.

  I will send news of my travel plans and I hope I can stay with you until my family returns.

  Best regards,

  Don

  Montclair, New Jersey

  January 30, 1936

  Dear Don,

  I had a wonderful dream about us last night and it comforted me all morning. You were fishing and I was filling my arms with buttercups, wild daisies, and blue flag iris. Your broad smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds.

  I am so tired of being here when I know you need me. I think Sister Mary Borgia might come to pick me up and bring me back to St. Lawrence with her. She knows how it feels to be confined and has promised to come get me.

  You will be pleased to know that I am practicing some new songs for our next party. There is a wonderful radio program on in the afternoon. It’s called The Kate Smith Matinee. She is a wonderful songstress and I particularly love “When the Moon Comes over the Mountain, Every Beam Brings a Dream, Dear, of You.”

  I love her voice and I can’t wait for you to hear her.

  I really don’t like the food here, but Mother says I must clean my plate. I’m not sure I really like Mother either, but she is trying very hard to be nice.

  The mail boat is coming, so I will get this off to you.

  My love always,

  Urla

  Montclair, New Jersey

  February 13, 1936

  Dear Don,

  I woke this morning feeling full of energy. It’s a very pleasant day outside and the nurses say we will all be out for some fresh air. Some days they tell you that, but it never happens. Some days they say I slept through dinner and you know I would never do that, so I’m not always sure they are telling the truth.

  I keep a packet of nasturtium seeds under my pillow and they are often missing. Someone has promised to take me to see Porgy and Bess, but no one has ever picked me up. Methinks that morals might be quite flexible in this upstanding Methodist institution.

  I have decided that confinement is not at all like isolation. Confinement is always empty no matter what they do to fill it. Someone mentioned the possibility of me engaging in a craft afternoon. I can’t imagine anything worse than sitting around with people I have nothing in common with making things that no one wants. Thankfully, reading is the only thing that takes my mind off my confinement, at least for a few hours.

  Are you coming by today? Please bring me the crossword, a handkerchief, and some blueberry jam.

  Love,

  Urla

  Montclair, New Jersey

  February 20, 1936

  Dear Don,

  I’m hoping you will write soon and tell me if there is a war on. I hear people whispering, but it seems the news is not to be shared with us. They finally moved me away from an older lady from Newark who is so dark and moody I couldn’t stand it. She used to call me Pollyanna, which I don’t think was meant as a compliment.

  I’ve come to believe most people don’t understand happiness. Nor do I believe that most people
experience joy. I’m not sure I did either before the last couple of years. But I’ve learned a great secret and I’ll share it with you if you keep it close: the trick to finding joy is to carry it with you even when life is not going according to plan. I see it so clearly now—even on the days when I’m not seeing anything so well.

  Mother and Daddy came to visit on the weekend. They mentioned something about Barbara, but it wasn’t clear what they meant. I think they are angry with you, but I pay no heed.

  I realize they probably have never understood me, and maybe the same could be said about me understanding them.

  I am so happy, darling, that you have always loved me in precisely the right way.

  Sometimes when I have my eyes closed and my visitors think I’m asleep, I hear their enlightened analysis of my life. I hear how shameful it is that having been isolated in an impoverished corner of the world for the past couple of years, I am now isolated in this hospital. I hear about how much I missed. They act like you and I were running away from something when we went to Newfoundland. Little do they know that we were running TO something.

  Let me know when my rose bushes are in bud. I want to be home in time for the blooms.

  My love always,

  Urla

  EPILOGUE

  OTHER THAN HIS own story, my father’s letters are of interest because of the many other stories wrapped up in them. I felt these needed to be told too.

  First and foremost, Dad’s and Urla’s story is also the early history of the fluorspar mine, the project that would occupy most of my father’s working life.

  The history of the fluorspar mines in St. Lawrence is ultimately one of tragedy. In the 1950s and 60s, many of the miners became ill and died with lung disease, caused by exposure to radiation in the St. Lawrence mines. But in the 30s and 40s, before lung disease was evident, the mines provided income and prosperity to the people of St. Lawrence. This was a period of rejuvenation for that part of Newfoundland.

  Although fluorspar was first discovered in the St. Lawrence area in 1870, mining did not begin until 1933-1934, as described in this book. It continued well into the war years and beyond. The mines received another boost when the Korean War broke out and production continued unabated until 1958.

  There have been several books written about lung disease in the St. Lawrence mines, including a Commission of Inquiry in the early 1970s. So I won’t attempt to summarize the findings here. However, there are a few incontrovertible facts particularly relevant to the story.

  One, working conditions at the St. Lawrence Corporation mine were deplorable in the beginning years. The operation was conducted on a shoestring and should probably have been sold several times to larger interests with deeper pockets. Conditions improved under my father’s management, but it was still the type of environment that would not have been kind to its workers.

  Secondly, it wasn’t until 1945 that radioactivity was recognized to occur in non-uranium deposits (such as calcium fluoride). It would be another ten years, 1955, before it was determined that radon gas entered the St. Lawrence mine through the water, not the air. These discoveries were critical in connecting the high incidence of lung disease in St. Lawrence to the mine, and properly addressing the problem. But they happened over a period of twenty years, not overnight. Not long after the dots were connected, proper measures were put in place to mitigate the health effects. There has never, to my knowledge, ever been evidence of attempts to conceal knowledge or wrongdoing on the part of the mining company. It is sometimes comforting to suggest a conspiracy when tragedy strikes, particularly when it strikes hard working people without many employment options. As the daughter of a mine manager, I would like to think people did the best they could in the context of existing knowledge and resources.

  Walter Siebert died unexpectedly in 1958 and his widow immediately set plans in place to sell the mine. All of this was happening at the same time the jigsaw pieces were fitting together on the effects of radioactivity on the miners. My father carried on for several years, filling orders from stockpiled ore and trying to find a buyer. Eventually ALCAN took over the mine in 1964.

  Although my father went on to have a successful career as a civil engineer, nothing would ever match the period he spent at the St. Lawrence fluorspar mines. He started his young professional life and his young married life there. He gave thirty years to that project. My father remained resolutely American, but he also became a loyal, energetic, contributing member of the St. Lawrence community and ultimately married into a St. Lawrence family. Over the years, he lost many people he cared about. The tragedy of lung disease became his tragedy too.

  Like many men of his generation, my father always believed in the power of a handshake. Unfortunately, that is all that existed between him and Siebert concerning the division of shares in the mining company. The promise of an equity position was never put in a formal contract. When Walt Seibert died precipitously, so did my father’s claim to ownership rights. For thirty years he had accepted smaller compensation as manager in the anticipation of an equity position. During the Depression years, he had the added pressure of contributing to his family’s financial obligations back in the United States. So in the end, my father didn’t benefit monetarily, as he should have, from the mines. Moreover, he carried with him sadness over the loss of life, including his own precious Urla. I still suspect he would call those years the best years of his life.

  Although no one knows for sure, it is highly likely that Urla contracted tuberculosis in Newfoundland. The incidence in Newfoundland at that time was much higher than in other countries and regions. By 1940, the TB rate in Newfoundland was thirteen times higher than in Canada. Among other things, this has been attributed to long periods of being indoors together in the winter where highly contagious diseases could run rampant. Although I have no confirmation of this, it appears that Urla had tubercular meningitis. This would account for her headaches and confusion, and ultimately her death. At that time, the United States did not have a policy of inoculating young people against the disease, so Urla would have come to Newfoundland with no protection.

  I have no actual letters written from her while she was in the sanatorium in the United States. I’m glad I don’t since I cannot imagine her pain at being separated from her beloved husband and daughter.

  Their letters also told much about the community of St. Lawrence and the Dominion of Newfoundland. It begins with them falling in love with the landscape of Newfoundland. They were unprepared to have that happen, but it started on the voyage along the south coast and continued throughout both of their lives. Many of us are familiar with this pull—where the air, ocean, rocks, and trees of Newfoundland put a spell on the visitor and the love affair begins.

  How different this would have been from the landscape they had left. Nutley was, and is, a bedroom community of New York City, located just across the Hudson River in northern New Jersey. It is flat, with straight tree-lined streets and a middle-to-upper middle class population. My father and his parents were born in Brooklyn. They followed a wave out of the city in the early 1900s to smaller towns more suitable for raising a family. Nutley was primarily Methodist, conservative, and its people were moving beyond their heritage to embrace the American dream.

  Although St. Lawrence felt very Irish to my father and Urla, in fact its Irish ancestry had evolved into its own particular Newfoundland version. In addition to this Irish heritage, St. Lawrence was influenced by classically trained religious orders, Italian and Basque families, and the proximity of the French islands of Saint Pierre and Miquelon.

  The church played a pivotal role in all Newfoundland communities. That role was exaggerated in the more isolated places, like St. Lawrence. One priest, Father Thorne, was a fixture there for forty years and was a man of many interests. His passion for soccer and music kept his parishioners at the
leading edge of both. Equally important was the role of the Sisters of Mercy. Their high standards of education and their focus on literature and music encouraged the natural talents of the population.

  All of this was secondary to providing spiritual leadership to the people of St. Lawrence. The result was, and is, a community united in faith, a characteristic that has served it well through all the tragedy that St. Lawrence has faced.

  Although St. Lawrence had its own share of people on the dole during the Depression, it also had a population of entrepreneurial, hard-working people. As everywhere in Newfoundland, the strenuous work involved in fish harvesting and drying is testament to the strength of these men and women. Mining,

  especially in these conditions, was hardly for the faint of heart. More importantly, the people of St. Lawrence were risk takers. Every man who left the harbour on a fishing boat, went down in the mine, or transported liquor to the United States during prohibition took enormous risks in order to support his family. Every woman who planted a garden in such an unforgiving climate, laid fish out to dry, and gave birth year after year challenged fate.

  Their letters also illustrate well the special relationship between St. Lawrence and the French islands of Saint Pierre and Miquelon. Smuggling was common, although never easy. Although we call the islands close, the journey there and back involved thirty-five miles in an open boat often in rough seas. Basic goods smuggled from the islands at much lower prices helped people survive during the Depression. The variety of goods possible from Saint Pierre added an element of luxury at a time when even staples were hard to come by. There’s something satisfying to picture the people on that isolated coast enjoying fine French brandy and good pipe tobacco that likely would not have been available to even the rich merchants of St. John’s.