Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More

by Brian Peckford

  “You’re damn right,” exclaimed Ben. “We got to reach her, that’s it! She is waiting for us, no time to lose.”

  He stopped and looked at me. “How did you get wet? The water is dripping from your coat.”

  “That’s beer. I fell back there, broke one of the bottles in my pocket.”

  “Well, get the glass out before we get on the ice,” Ben ordered with some impatience.

  I hurriedly got the glass out.

  “The ice is not as tight as last night,” Ben commented, “so we’ll have to copy real careful and stay close in case one of us gets into trouble. Use that gaff carefully—let’s go.”

  Onto the ice we went, copying from pan to pan in as straight a line to the boat as we could go. The pans were fairly large and we could copy to one, pause, get a good footing, and move to the next.

  “Not so fast! You’re not copying in the harbour or walking on Water Street now,” Ben howled at me.

  Slowly, we got closer to the boat. Each minute felt like an hour. The wind was picking up, blowing westerly from the land, but still not very strong.

  “The last hundred yards is the hardest,” Ben said as he turned to me on one of the larger pans. “I don’t think we’ll be able to be together on the pans closer to the boat. They’re smaller—some of the larger ones have broken up.”

  Ben went ahead on one of the first smaller pans. They were no more than three or four feet across. Ben stepped off one. I waited for the pan to right itself from Ben’s weight, then stepped on it.

  Very gingerly we got to within a few feet of the boat; Ben reached his gaff to the gunnels, hauled himself broadside, and shimmied up to the deck of the boat. “I told you I would be back. I heard you calling to me!” Ben said to his boat.

  I had only a couple of pans to go. “Ben,” I shouted, “talk to me.”

  “Yes, boy, yes boy, sorry, I got carried away.”

  In that split second looking up on deck for Ben, I slipped. Flailing in the icy water between the pans, I held up my gaff for Ben to reach. Quick as a flash, he grabbed it and plucked me up over the side of the boat. I collapsed like a sack of flour on the deck.

  “Blessed Lord, we made it,” shouted Ben at the top of his voice. “We saved her, we saved her—hallelujah!”

  I struggled to my feet. We hugged and danced in the frigid air.

  “You go to the fo’c’sle and start the fire. Change your clothes and get warm. I’ll start the engine,” Ben instructed.

  And so we moved, slowly, the ice slid by us out to sea—I, up on the bow with my gaff steering away the floes, taking instructions from Ben shouting from the door of the wheelhouse.

  As we went around Fox Head, the wind was getting stronger, the ice now looser and of little real danger.

  “I think we’ve taken enough risks,” shouted Ben. “We’ll go into Conche until the wind goes down again.”

  We glided up to the government wharf—it was Sunday around 8: 00 a.m. The bells of the local church were ringing for early mass.

  “We’re not Catholic, but I think we should go and give thanks,” said Ben. “It’s been a tough eighteen hours. I figure the Fella upstairs must have been on our side. What do you say?”

  “Good idea.”

  CHAPTER 4: TO TEACH, AND MY

  FIRST REAL TASTE OF POLITICS

  “Under every stone lurks a politician.”

  — Aristophanes

  IN 1966, I GRADUATED from Memorial University. During that spring I was busy investigating possible teaching positions in the province. Given my experiences as a temporary social worker I was amenable to going to almost any place, at least for a few years. I remember that there was a vacancy in Bonavista and I applied and was offered a position. At the same time I was approached by Roger Simmons, the principal of a new high school in Springdale called Grant Collegiate. I was offered a job teaching English, which was my preference. Given that I was getting to teach my subject and that the new school seemed progressive, I accepted the offer.

  Springdale was a bustling town in 1966, what with three small operating copper mines in the area and it being the service centre for several nearby communities. There was a highly motivated staff at the school and this made for a lively and creative experience. I suppose the highlight was when Eric Abbott (I think Roger Simmons, the principal, being of the Salvation Army persuasion, like Eric, assisted in capturing him), a well-known Newfoundland music teacher, was attracted to the school. This bubbly, eccentric, lovable guy proceeded to establish a school band, which excelled in a few short years and became something of a provincial phenomenon.

  It became obvious that advancement in the school system would be difficult. Those who came before me were well-ensconced in the administrative positions, and being still relatively young they had many years left, and short of some unlikely tragedy or gross misdemeanour, few vacancies for advancement were likely.

  It was during this time that my interest in politics arose as I listened to Premier Smallwood announcing the formation of an organized Liberal Party that would be democratic and to which he would look for advice and counsel. The party would be—like all things Smallwoodian—a great new movement in democracy, establishing associations in each provincial electoral district in the province. Of course, this was really not brought on by some “road to Damascus” conversion on Smallwood’s part, but more by a growing new younger group that he was attracting to the party, personified by two lawyers: John Crosbie and Clyde Wells. And so a new party emerged.

  The local district association was to be formed for Green Bay, the district in which Springdale was located, and Mr. Smallwood himself would be attending, as would John Crosbie, who was now seen as vying for the leadership of the new party. On the afternoon of the event, I suddenly decided that I would attend the organizational meeting, and furthermore, run for president of the new entity.

  Don’t ask me how this all came about, because I don’t know. I was immediately seized with this, and I was intent on following it to the end. I hurriedly composed a short biography and had it copied on the school’s copying machine. At the door of the hall where the event was taking place, I stood at the appointed hour distributing my biography and introducing myself. Of course, I was met with great surprise since it had already been decided, sort of, that the long-serving Smallwood contact in the area would be the new president and that others already associated with Smallwood would fill in the other positions on the executive. So you might say I threw a bit of a monkey wrench into the “planned” gathering. Mr. Smallwood and Mr. Crosbie arrived and, finally, after some confusion by the organizers, the meeting was called to order.

  Sitting near the back, I realized that my urgent business was to get someone to nominate me for president. A sudden shiver went through my body as I realized that in this sham of a meeting, getting someone to nominate me might not be that easy. Why hadn’t I thought of this before the meeting? Anyway, I hurriedly whispered to a person in front of me, “Will you nominate me for president?” To my surprise the answer was yes. I do not remember who that person was. With the meeting’s pleasantries out of the way, nominations were called for the position of president. And, of course, right on cue a person rose in their place and nominated the Smallwood crony. The chair was about to close nominations when I whispered desperately to my agreed nominator to stand and nominate me. Quickly to his feet, he made the nomination. There were no other nominations, and nominations were duly closed.

  Knowing that my competitor was not a good speaker and that his last name began with “C,” I quickly rose to my feet and made a motion. “Be it resolved that the two persons nominated for president address the gathering and that this be done in alphabetical order.” There was some mild shuffling of feet and some grumbling could be heard. I proceeded to address the motion saying that I thought since Mr. Smallwood was championing a democratic party, as he had said in his announcement, I was sure he would endorse, in this first meeting to establish a district association in Gre
en Bay, an open forum for the candidates for president to lay out their credentials and plans. Well, the chair was a little taken back, but there did not seem to be any real opposition. The question was called and passed.

  My competitor addressed the gathering, citing his long association with Mr. Smallwood and his residency in the district and that he thought he could do the job.

  I took my turn and stressed the importance of having young people involved, that this was the future and I knew that this is what the premier wanted, since he spoke of a new and vibrant party. I then spoke of my knowledge of the province, having worked for several summers in Labrador, northeast and northwest, as well as southern Newfoundland. I think I went on a little too long. After the initial few nervous moments, I was enjoying it.

  I had no sooner taken my seat when Mr. Smallwood rose in his place. He had sensed the meeting getting away from its planned outcome. He stressed how youth could be frivolous and immature, that we needed experience and maturity, and so on. In other words, he made it clear what he expected to occur once the so-called free vote was taken.

  I almost did it—I was beaten 54 to 50. Now here was a real taste of politics!

  Smallwood was quick to his feet after the vote was announced, and proposed that someone should immediately nominate me for the vice-president position. I was nominated and won by acclamation, along with the other positions on the executive. I never did discover who the planned nominee for vice-president was supposed to be.

  Of course, the whole thing was just a Smallwood exercise to give the appearance of an organized democratic party, when in reality he was organizing for the eventual Leadership Convention against John Crosbie. He could then claim his democratic bona fides.

  Of course, it was not long before the leadership of the new party became the central feature of politics in the province, and, finally, Smallwood announced a Leadership Convention for the fall of 1969. John Crosbie was, of course, the major opposition to Smallwood, even though, early on, Smallwood had implied that he was stepping down, a pledge that few people believed. He said he changed his mind because he was afraid the party would fall in “the wrong hands.” A contest between the new up-and-comer and the only living father, Smallwood, ensued.

  In early 1969, Crosbie contacted me as he was organizing his leadership campaign and seeking to get people on his organizing team. I was teaching at the time, and after a number of trips to St. John’s I finalized a deal with Crosbie, whereby I would come to work for the campaign as soon as school finished in June and work until the convention in October. There was one hitch: What was I to do if Crosbie lost? I would have relinquished my teaching job and would be out of work. On a verbal promise from Crosbie, I would be paid for the rest of the year the same monthly remuneration as if I was teaching, that being the same income I would get during the campaign plus expenses and a car. My job was to organize Crosbie supporters in the districts from Baie Verte to Clarenville, to try to get as many people to the nominating meetings as possible so that we could elect delegates who would vote for Crosbie at the convention.

  Although John and his leadership team had some idea of the Smallwood strength, I do not think they realized the depth of that strength—how Smallwood, in electing a new grassroots party, had ensured that the vast majority of district executives, who are automatic delegates to the convention, were his supporters. They did not realize that in rural Newfoundland, generally, Smallwood support was still very strong and he could get his old cronies in many communities to organize to have the right people elected at all the delegate election meetings. And, of course, that is exactly what happened. Travelling around the area, it was difficult to mobilize a group to campaign openly for Crosbie. Even those people who had written Crosbie expressing their support for his leadership bid proved to be reluctant to do anything more. Essentially, most people were afraid. Such people would be ostracized in their community since, almost without exception, the leaders in the community were pro-Smallwood. To be anything else at that time was suicidal. There was no public tendering act and the government highway services were completely partisan, as were taxi licenses, beer outlet licenses, and the list goes on.

  The other problem that people today do not realize is that at that time John Crosbie was a terrible public speaker. I know this is hard to believe for those who have seen Crosbie speak in the House of Commons or at other political events. But this is all a learned art, if you will. I remember when the leadership organizers brought in mainland speech people to help Crosbie hone up his speaking prowess. One of the big problems we organizers had was getting Crosbie to be more passionate and emotional when we had him attend various rallies. His family history was one of businessmen and not orators.

  I remember well a particular Crosbie meeting we had organized for Glovertown. We were pretty sure we would get out a couple hundred people. But it was essential that Crosbie be seen as personal and articulate. Many had already known of his lack of warmth since some had met him when he was minister of Municipal Affairs and minister of Health. He had this habit of closing his eyes when he spoke!

  It was necessary for the organizers to try to get him roused up before the speech. That afternoon we all met at Caleb Acreman’s house. Knowing the Crosbie family’s love for rum, we ensured that a number of full dark rum bottles were available and that Crosbie had a few good swigs before the meeting. Well, lo and behold, he was animated and the crowd loved it. Unfortunately, this was not replicated that often in the campaign, so this one promising event was not a prelude to the rest of the campaign. The Botwood region was one area where Crosbie was strong mainly due to courageous citizens and the brave support of a small businessman, Ben Elliot, and his wife, Jean, who was a local town councillor and teacher.

  Of course, Smallwood easily won the convention. However, it was at a cost. He had first talked of stepping down and the convention would choose a new leader, only to change his mind. He had helped to get a whole new generation of young people involved in politics, which later became instrumental in the PC victory and defeat of Smallwood only three years later. I thoroughly enjoyed my time visiting the many communities and meeting new people interested in the politics of our province.

  We all went away and licked our wounds the first few days following the convention. A week or so later, I returned to St. John’s to see John Crosbie and determine what he wanted me to do for him for the next several months. His campaign had an office on New Gower Street, and that is where I was to see him.

  I was in for a shock. John had no recollection of our talk in which he had promised to continue my compensation until June of the next year if I stayed with him until the convention. I had arranged, therefore, for someone else to take my teaching position for the year.

  I was devastated. I could hardly speak. I just looked at him. And then, suddenly, I became angry. I told him that I found this forgetfulness was not a characteristic of his, rather he had an excellent memory and that I had arranged, on his promise, to have someone take my teaching position for the year and that I had no intention of breaking my agreement with that teacher. I said he had to keep his word. I was recently married and needed an income. Furthermore, if this promise was not kept, I would have no recourse but to make it public.

  He was taken back with the ferocity of my reaction and seemed visibly uneasy. He backed away from his earlier position and indicated he would have to see what he could do. Though somewhat relieved, I reiterated my point that it was absolutely necessary for him to keep his promise, no ifs, ands, or buts.

  It was a couple of days before things were arranged; I was to be paid out of the Crosbie Empire. And so I worked out of the New Gower Street office assisting Crosbie and his Liberal Reform Group, the loose association of Crosbie (as chair), Clyde Wells, and Bonne Bay MHA Gerry Murden. Most of my time was spent keeping in contact with the many Crosbie supporters around the province, and from time to time doing research for his work in the House of Assembly.

  The next year saw m
e back in South Brook, teaching that fall at Grant Collegiate. Of course, I was now much more a political animal than I had been when I first ran for the presidency of the Liberal District Association. In 1970, I wrote a letter to the St. John’s Evening Telegram in which I said the following:

  As a new decade approaches can we say that we shall have a province whose politics will be one of involvement, a province where two political parties shall present leaders and policies so that a true democratic, two-party system can function?

  The new Liberal Party had not changed since the Leadership Convention. It was still the same. I began to realize that my days as a Liberal were numbered. This realization, buttressed by what I had witnessed on the leadership campaign, convinced me that Mr. Smallwood had outlived his usefulness and that the Liberal Party itself needed time to change and become democratic “on the ground” and not just the fiefdom of one person still glowing from Uncle Ottawa’s money. The new, younger voter wanted a more accountable political party and a province that was not just a backwater of Confederation, with an Ottawa dependency.

  The year 1971 was momentous. I joined the small band of Conservatives in Springdale—just about all were small business people (Ford Rolfe, Neeta Spencer, Roy Manuel, Guy Croucher, Harold Parsons)—and got my first taste of district (Green Bay) politics. Frank Moores had become leader of the Progressive Conservative Party, and it was making headway. Smallwood called an election in the fall and I became the campaign manager for the PC candidate, local garage owner, and overall great guy, Ford Rolfe.

  This was getting to be a desperate time for the Liberals, who were seeing their fortunes plummet and were trying all kinds of tactics to hang on to power. Cheques were showing up in the hands of party hacks and threats were everywhere. Out of the blue I got a call from Mr. Smallwood’s campaign manager in St. John’s, Mr. Andrew Crosbie, telling me that the premier wanted me to get to Gander as soon as possible— “Forget the teaching, just tell me how much you want!”—to manage the campaign for the Liberal candidate, the local mayor, Doug Sheppard. I refused, saying I was already with another party and going to manage the campaign in Green Bay District for the PC candidate. This was met with a barrage of comments on how silly I was to leave the Liberals and that I should rethink that decision immediately. “I mean, do you know what you are doing? Think about it.” The phone went silent.