Where I Belong
Page 1
Praise for WHERE I BELONG
“A rolling, jaunty, whiskey-laced ballad, an ode, if you will, that will have you thirsting for more. When I turned the last page, I honestly felt sad. I didn’t want it to end.”
Jann Arden, author of Falling Backwards
“Excellent adventure. I feel like I’ve lived another’s life.”
Russell Crowe, actor/musician
“As Great Big Sea’s frontman, Alan Doyle is exuberant, irreverent, hilariously funny and a heart-on-the-sleeve Newfoundlander. As a writer, he’s all that and a bag of chips. Doyle’s description of growing up on the hills and wharves of old world Petty Harbour is intimate, saucy and note-perfect. In his own words: Deadly.”
Michael Crummey, author of Galore
“Funny, wise, and self-deprecating, this book is hard to put down. Alan is a truly great storyteller and his life in a small Newfoundland fishing village is a story dying to be told.” Jim Cuddy, musician
“If you’re lucky enough to have spent any time with Alan, then you may have heard one or two of these stories before. If you haven’t, this book is the next best thing.”
Ed Robertson, of Barenaked Ladies
“There are great big smiles to be found on nearly every page. A beautiful memoir of heart and place.”
Linwood Barclay, author of A Tap on the Window
“To many people, Petty Harbour’s geographic isolation, bleak surroundings, and limited economic opportunities would have placed limits on their lives, limits from which they would have never recovered. To my friend Alan Doyle, they were just a challenge to overcome, and this strange and eccentric village would offer a well of experience, enough to fuel a lifetime of creativity.”
Bob Hallett, of Great Big Sea
“Stratocasters, goalie pads, skin mags and cutting tongues, Alan’s charming and sometimes uproarious tale of growing up in Newfoundland has it all.”
Edward Riche, author of Rare Birds
“Doyle [is] a master storyteller in a land rich in that resource. Where I Belong brought back some amazing memories of growing up in a small fishing community and what was to be life outside our hometown. From the first time I laid eyes on him, Alan’s been that guy, the funny, charming dude cursed with charisma, with the talent to back it up. This book gives great insight into that super-talented, creative and insightful mind of a true entertainer.”
Perry Chafe, co-creator/writer of Republic of Doyle
“Alan Doyle the writer, like Alan Doyle the person, is charming, funny, a natural storyteller who can be sweet without sliding into sentimentality, who can be honest without tumbling into darkness. The book breezes along the path that leads to Great Big Sea, and couldn’t feel more authentic. If you know the place, you know these fantastic characters are real.”
Stephen Brunt, author of Gretzky’s Tears: Hockey, Canada and the Day Everything Changed
“In Where I Belong, Alan uses his natural ‘master storyteller superpower’ to draw you in as a reader in much the same way he does while holding court in the pub or in his own kitchen. This book shines a light on a very particular place and time in Newfoundland’s history, as seen through the eyes of one of the province’s greatest talents.”
Allan Hawco, co-creator/star of Republic of Doyle
Copyright © 2014, Skinner’s Hill Music Ltd.
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher—or in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.
Doubleday Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited
Library and Archives of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Doyle, Alan, 1969-, author
Where I belong : from small town to Great Big Sea / Alan Doyle.
ISBN 978-0-385-68036-3 (bound). ISBN 978-0-385-68037-0 (epub)
1. Doyle, Alan, 1969-. 2. Musicians—Canada—Biography.
3. Great Big Sea (Musical group). I. Title.
ML420.d755a3 2014 782.42164092 C2014-903147-5
C2014-903148-3
Photographs on the cover, endpapers and this page, this page, this page–this page, this page, this page–this page, this page, this page, this page (right), this page–this page, this page–this page, this page, this page, this page, this page–this page, this page and this page
Copyright © Brian Ricks Photography, www.brianricks.com
Photo on this page Copyright © Robert O’Brien
Cartoon on this page Copyright © Kevin Tobin
Photo frames, celtic knot and paint texture from Shutterstock.com
Cover and interior design: Kelly Hill
Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company
www.randomhouse.ca
v3.1
For Mom and Dad
Contents
Cover
Praise for Where I Belong
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Foreword, by Jann Arden
Author’s Note
Prologue: Boy on Bridge
PART 1
CHAPTER 1: Rough Side Out
CHAPTER 2: The Way Things Were
CHAPTER 3: Breaking Bread
PART 2
CHAPTER 4: Ye Bastarding Doyles
CHAPTER 5: Cutting Out Tongues
CHAPTER 6: Selling Tongues and Picking Capelin
PART 3
CHAPTER 7: Old Woman’s Gulch
CHAPTER 8: The Taste of Salt
CHAPTER 9: Transubstantiation
PART 4
CHAPTER 10: The Doyles from Petty Harbour
CHAPTER 11: First Attempt
CHAPTER 12: Petty Harbour Dog
Epilogue: Boy on Bridge
Glossary of Terms (Mostly for Mainlanders)
Acknowledgements
Where I Belong, song lyrics
Foreword
by Jann Arden
What I want to do right now is tell you everything that happened in this book. I want to load each and every person I meet into a bus and drive them to a lovely little place called Petty Harbour in Newfoundland. I want to go to the Protestant grocery store and order a giant roast from the owner, Herbie, and take it to Alan Doyle’s mother’s house and have her cook it for us, with a mound of mashed potatoes and gravy made from rocks and sea water and a whole lot of love. (Maybe we should fly? That would be quicker.)
Where I Belong is such a wonderful, interesting, crazy, desperately beautiful journey back through time. Every single page holds so many treasures. I have been a long-time fan of Alan Doyle. I have always loved his music and his heart and his passion for everything he does. This book is no different. I had to keep reminding myself that this was a memoir and that each and every unbelievable event was indeed true. I often felt like I was in some sort of strange and whimsical movie complete with heroes and damsels and wicked nuns who cast dreadful spells over their innocent young flocks.
Alan writes words that are soaked in sea air and salt and, sometimes, a lovely, quiet solitude. You can taste them on the tip of your tongue. You can see and feel and hear everything he so meticulously describes.
This book really does feel like a song. Alan’s musicality seeps through his prose, giving every tale a touch of his poetic soul. Where I Belong is a rolling, jaunty, whiskey-laced ballad, an ode, if you will, that will have you thirsting for more. When I turned the last page, I honestly felt sad. I didn’t want it to end.
I want to track down Mr. Doyle and buy him a glass of whatever in the world he fancies and dance a jig. I want to celebrate his life and his accomplishments. It’s not often that you want to meet every single character you’ve read about in a book. But that’s what I would do if I could. I’d sit at a giant, long table with everyone Alan has introduced me to over these hundreds of pages, and I’d smile and eat and drink with them for hours on end.
—Jann Arden
Author’s Note
I am from Newfoundland. Therefore, I am a bit of a storyteller. The stories of Newfoundlanders are often confused with fairy tales and the stuff of fiction, as the people, places and events in them seem exaggerated or outright invented.
But in Newfoundland, truth really is stranger than fiction. All of what I have written in this book is true. All the people are real. All the places did or still exist, and all of the events actually occurred. The names of some of the people have been changed for reasons that should become obvious. Events of several days may be condensed into one, and events from several places may be presented here as having occurred at a single location. But no people, places or events have been imagined.
This is a true story.
I could not have made this stuff up if I tried.
Thanks for reading.
Cheers,
Alan Doyle
PROLOGUE
Spin the planet like a globe. Stop it with your finger when you see blue. There’s a good chance you stopped in the Atlantic Ocean. Look up to where the ocean narrows a bit and find the Old Country of Ireland. Follow west through the deep blue until you come to the New Country of Canada. If you are clever enough, you’ll spot an odd-shaped island. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll visit it one day.
Look closer. On the eastern edge of that island, you’ll find a little piece of land that sticks out closer to Ireland than any other piece in all of North America. Just below that you’ll come to a bay with one wide-open cove and one very protected harbour.
Look closer again at the little harbour, that safe haven sheltered from the winds and isolated from everywhere else by its steep hills to the north, south and west. To the seaward east, the hills open ever so slightly to the cold Atlantic and all Her gifts and gales. Tiny fishing boats and fishermen journey onto her waters, and for the most part, She brings them back home again.
Look closer still and you will see a little town. You’ll see how it’s fed by a river, a perfect little river that splits the town in half. You’ll see houses on either side, and two tiny schools, one on each side. You’ll also see two small fish processing plants and two convenience stores. Also, two churches.
You’ll notice the only thing that joins one side of the river to the other: a simple, single-lane bridge. In a bit more now and you’ll likely see a boy on that bridge. He’s got his hands in his pockets to keep them safe from the chilling winds off the water. His foot is tapping to a song in his head. Some might think this young fella seems happy enough to stand right where he is, but if you look just close enough, you’ll see his eyes tell a different story.
He looks up and down; his gaze travels to the river below him and way up to the top of the hills beyond the town. He appears to be wondering which way to go. His eyes follow the valley to the road that leads out of town, past the harbour and into the great big sea.
There was once a boy who lived in a tiny fishing village on an island in the middle of the ocean.
That boy is me. This is my story.
CHAPTER 1
When I was a boy, I had no idea. About many things. I knew a few facts here and there, but I was absolutely sure about very little. I had more questions than answers. I was more curious than certain. Here is a list of the few things I knew.
I knew I lived in Petty Harbour, a postcard-perfect, traditional fishing community, just twenty kilometres or so away from St. John’s, the capital city of Newfoundland. I knew I was Catholic and not Protestant like that dubious crowd from the other side of the river. I knew I loved music and the Montreal Canadiens. That’s about it. I was certain about very little else. Come to think of it, even these facts were cause for confusion.
I knew what town I lived in but was not totally sure what country. I thought I lived in a country called Canada, but my grandfather insisted I lived in a country called Newfoundland. I thought Newfoundland was my province, and Mom said that was the truth of it. But then she also said we should never say that out loud when Granda was on the whiskey.
I knew we were Petty Harbour folk. We lived around the Bay, and as such, we were Baymen. I did not live in town, so I was not a Townie, which is what most Newfoundlanders call St. John’s people. Townies agreed that I was indeed a Bayman. But as far as my Baymen cousins from more rural Newfoundland were concerned, I may as well have been a Townie because I lived so close to the city. Also, most of the Petty Harbour Doyles worked in town and none of the Doyles were fishermen, as Baymen typically are. So this made me wonder if we were actually Baymen or Townies after all. Confused? So was I.
I did know I was Catholic and not Protestant. But I also knew that no matter how closely I looked at those strangers across the river, I couldn’t see much difference between us and them. They went to a different school than we did, but they wore the same clothes and did the same jobs and liked the same sports. On rare occasions when I attended the Protestant church for weddings or funerals, their church services didn’t seem to be that different from ours. Why, I wondered, didn’t we just make one big church? Or why didn’t we go to their church or they come to ours? I was told in no uncertain terms that I was most definitely a Catholic, but I honestly could not figure out why I had to be part of one religion or the other.
I knew I belonged to a musical family and I loved music more than anything, but not just the kind my friends at school liked. My parents and extended family were well versed in Newfoundland and Irish music, especially the Clancy Brothers, and beloved singer-songwriters like Johnny Cash, Cat Stevens and Kris Kristofferson. My uncles, who I idolized, played in a rock ’n’ roll band. They played live covers of artists like Buddy Holly and Elvis and Creedence Clearwater Revival and the Beatles. They had records of heavier bands I loved like Led Zeppelin and Cream. From a young age, I was surrounded by music of all kinds, but I really had no idea what kind of music I was supposed to like.
I knew that hockey was a big deal in Petty Harbour, and just about everybody around me cheered for the Detroit Red Wings. Gordie Howe had made such an impression on his generation that children born into a Red Wings household had no choice but to follow suit. My father was a Wings fan, but in a gesture of true open-mindedness, he did not insist that I follow him down the Gordie path. When I was around ten years old, the Montreal Canadiens won four Stanley Cups in a row and I fell in love with the Habs. I was the only Canadiens fan in the extended Doyle family, and folks insisted I must be cracked. So I knew in my hockey heart I loved the Habs, but I was made to feel like that was a terrible mistake.
Somehow, through all this, I knew I belonged to Petty Harbour. There was never a doubt about it. I was a Petty Harbour Dog, born and bred. Now don’t get me wrong. When I was young, I didn’t spend a lot of time dwelling on who I was or what I was, whether I was a Canadian Newfoundlander or a Newfoundland Canadian. But there were times when I did feel that even though I knew where I was from, I didn’t quite know how I fit in. Here was wee Alan Doyle, son of Tom and Jean, neither Townie nor Bayman, not quite a true Catholic but certainly not a Protestant, a music lover who wasn’t sure what music to love most. And all I really wanted to be when I grew up was a rock star or the goalie for the Montreal Canadiens, but I was pretty sure neither of those careers was achievable.
So what was I was supposed to do? How was I supposed to act? I really had no idea.
And that was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.
I was born on May 17, 1969, in St. Clare’s Hospital in St. John’s, North America’s oldest city, in Newfoundland, Ca
nada. My parents and I were born on the same island, but while I was born a Canadian, they were born Newfoundlanders. In 1949, Newfoundland joined Canada, or Canada joined Newfoundland, as so many of our citizens say to this day. Many still believe that vote was rigged, but the statistics say that 51 percent of Newfoundlanders were for the union and only 49 against it. I can still hear my grandfather, long after the fact, explaining his opinion on the matter.
“They picked the right day to sign that declaration, April first. ’Cause they were all a bunch of fools to join up with the Canadian Wolf. Well, I did not suck the Wolf’s tit and I’m not going to start today or any day. I am a Newfoundlander like my father and his father before that.”
Once he got started on this subject, he’d usually stay on it awhile, and if he was really riled, he’d start invoking the Devil himself.
“I swear to ye all that the Daemon Canada will one day take away everything that is ours, including the very fish in the bay that brought us all to life. I just hope I’m not alive to see it, b’y.”
My paternal grandparents, Bernard and Frances Doyle. But to me, they were Granda and Nan.
Granda was a staunch Newfoundlander (and not at all a Canadian) to the day he died. I remember him asking one of my older cousins about a recent trip to Toronto.
“So you were up to Canada, were ye?”
“Uh … yes,” my cousin answered, trying not to stir the dragon.
“What are they like up there?” Granda asked with honest curiosity.
“They are quite nice, actually.”
“Yeah, I heard they were.” Granda grinned and went back to watching the news.
Canada puzzled me as a kid. It seemed like a faraway land we saw on TV or read about in the newspaper, but it had very little to do with us directly. It may as well have been Sweden or Malta for all the connection I had with it. Yet somehow, I knew I did not agree with Granda’s assessment. I would never say it out loud, but I kind of liked Canada. What I knew about it, anyway.