It’s the kind of thing that people say a lot because it’s the kind of thing that happens a lot. It’s a phrase that conveys a ring of emotional truth not found in a more literal declaration. What most people mean when they reference the title of Thomas Wolfe’s 1940 novel is “actually, you can go home again, but you’ll be disappointed.” But who wants to say that?
The power of “you can’t go home again” is: everybody gets it. People know exactly what you’re talking about. Whether it’s biting into a candy bar you haven’t tasted since childhood or listening for the first time in many years to a song you once loved, the experience is a common one. The magical neighbourhood of youth often turns out to be smaller and more ordinary upon re-visitation. Disappointment is almost inevitable. You can’t (so they say) go home again — and that’s why I expected to be disappointed with Newfoundland this summer.
Newfoundland was never “home” but it inhabits the same department of nostalgia for me. That’s because from the mid 1950s, well into the ’60s our family came to Newfoundland for our holidays. I was a teenager before the Macfarlanes stopped showing up so en-masse every summer — in Grand Falls, in Botwood, in Gander, and in the outport town where my mother was born, Carmanville.
My mother grew up in Grand Falls. It’s where she lived until she married my father and settled, not entirely cheerfully, in Hamilton. It was my father’s side of the family who came from Ontario, and it was my father who was always at the helm when we headed eastward every summer. He was always a good sport, but he must have sometimes longed for an annual holiday that didn’t involve a stationwagon full of road-weary children, yet another stop at the Magnetic Hill, and the endless drive from Port aux Basques.
I’ve been back to Newfoundland a number of times over the years, but usually for quick visits and usually to St. John’s. But this summer is different — largely because, in the company of my friend and musical companion, Douglas Cameron, I have been touring the island with a two-man show called “The Door You Came In” that is based on stories from my book “The Danger Tree.”
Our schedule has been geographically rigorous — which is another way of saying that the drive from a show in Woody Point to a show in Spaniard’s Bay is a good long haul. We’ve been from L’Anse aux Meadows to Tors Cove. We did 20 shows before mid July, and we are returning in a few days for Eastport, English Harbour, Cupids and three evenings in St. John’s at “The Rocket.” I haven’t spent so much time in Newfoundland since the summer I more-or-less lived at the Go-Kart track in Grand Falls.
And is it possible? Could Newfoundland actually be as big and as glorious and as beautiful as I remember from my childhood? Could Newfoundlanders be as intriguing, as wise, as funny, and (to me) as unusual as the characters I met on the wharves and along the unpaved, sheep-populated roads of Carmanville? Could strangers be as kind? Could bakeapple jam be as good? Could the swimming hole outside Grand Falls be as terrific as I remember? And the stories — what about the stories that I heard told by my Newfoundland relatives? Could they really be what I remember them being: the best stories in the world?
In a word: yes. Newfoundland, so I am pleased to report more than half a century after it first hove into view for me from the bow of the William Carson, remains larger than life, even now that I’m a good deal larger than I was when I first set eyes on its coast. It’s just as majestic, just as welcoming, and just as … well, unusual as I recall — in fact, I’d have to say, more-so.
Take my grandfather. Naturally, Joe Goodyear seemed a mythic figure to me when I was a boy. Grandparents tend to be that way for grandchildren. But, so it turns out, my childhood impression was entirely correct. After one of our shows this summer I was introduced to Jenny Higgins’ wonderful book, “Newfoundland in the First World War,” and when I opened it, there was a photograph of my grandfather I’d never seen before — the photograph you see on this page. The exaggerations of childhood memory have no bearing on evidence like this. My grandfather is lifting a horse.
Larger than life? Well, yes, as I’ve learned, he actually was. Likewise his friends and his family and his world. Likewise, the tales he told about growing up in Ladle Cove. And likewise, of course, the story of the Newfoundland Regiment — a story that I encountered as a child in my grandparents’ living room on Junction Road in Grand Falls, but that was being told and retold this summer wherever we went in Newfoundland. And if anything, it’s more terrifying now than when I first heard it.
I can remember being tucked into bed in my grandparents’ house after listening to the adults talk in the living room after dinner. And I remember wondering: could the war really have been as bloody and as infuriating? Were men really so brave? Was the calculation of lives-lost for mud-gained so merciless? Was it really such a nightmare?
In a word: yes.
We were in Grand Falls this past July 1. After doing our show at the Arts and Culture Centre the night before, Douglas Cameron and I attended the 4:30 a.m. ceremony at the town’s war memorial. It was an unforgettable moment — a hundred years to the hour of the Newfoundlanders advance. And as we stood in that silent crowd, listening to the Last Post in the cool, still darkness, I realized that Beaumont-Hamel, like Newfoundland itself, is a story bigger than anything a little boy could ever dream up.
David Macfarlane is the author of “The Danger Tree,” published by HarperCollins Canada. Macfarlane and Douglas Cameron present “The Door You Came In — Song & Stories from the Danger Tree,” in Eastport, English Harbour, St. John’s and Cupids Aug. 12-17. Visit www.thedooryoucamein.ca for more information."
It’s the kind of thing that people say a lot because it’s the kind of thing that happens a lot. It’s a phrase that conveys a ring of emotional truth not found in a more literal declaration. What most people mean when they reference the title of Thomas Wolfe’s 1940 novel is “actually, you can go home again, but you’ll be disappointed.” But who wants to say that?
The power of “you can’t go home again” is: everybody gets it. People know exactly what you’re talking about. Whether it’s biting into a candy bar you haven’t tasted since childhood or listening for the first time in many years to a song you once loved, the experience is a common one. The magical neighbourhood of youth often turns out to be smaller and more ordinary upon re-visitation. Disappointment is almost inevitable. You can’t (so they say) go home again — and that’s why I expected to be disappointed with Newfoundland this summer.
Newfoundland was never “home” but it inhabits the same department of nostalgia for me. That’s because from the mid 1950s, well into the ’60s our family came to Newfoundland for our holidays. I was a teenager before the Macfarlanes stopped showing up so en-masse every summer — in Grand Falls, in Botwood, in Gander, and in the outport town where my mother was born, Carmanville.
My mother grew up in Grand Falls. It’s where she lived until she married my father and settled, not entirely cheerfully, in Hamilton. It was my father’s side of the family who came from Ontario, and it was my father who was always at the helm when we headed eastward every summer. He was always a good sport, but he must have sometimes longed for an annual holiday that didn’t involve a stationwagon full of road-weary children, yet another stop at the Magnetic Hill, and the endless drive from Port aux Basques.
I’ve been back to Newfoundland a number of times over the years, but usually for quick visits and usually to St. John’s. But this summer is different — largely because, in the company of my friend and musical companion, Douglas Cameron, I have been touring the island with a two-man show called “The Door You Came In” that is based on stories from my book “The Danger Tree.”
Our schedule has been geographically rigorous — which is another way of saying that the drive from a show in Woody Point to a show in Spaniard’s Bay is a good long haul. We’ve been from L’Anse aux Meadows to Tors Cove. We did 20 shows before mid July, and we are returning in a few days for Eastport, English Harbour, Cupids and three evenings in St. John’s at “The Rocket.” I haven’t spent so much time in Newfoundland since the summer I more-or-less lived at the Go-Kart track in Grand Falls.
And is it possible? Could Newfoundland actually be as big and as glorious and as beautiful as I remember from my childhood? Could Newfoundlanders be as intriguing, as wise, as funny, and (to me) as unusual as the characters I met on the wharves and along the unpaved, sheep-populated roads of Carmanville? Could strangers be as kind? Could bakeapple jam be as good? Could the swimming hole outside Grand Falls be as terrific as I remember? And the stories — what about the stories that I heard told by my Newfoundland relatives? Could they really be what I remember them being: the best stories in the world?
In a word: yes. Newfoundland, so I am pleased to report more than half a century after it first hove into view for me from the bow of the William Carson, remains larger than life, even now that I’m a good deal larger than I was when I first set eyes on its coast. It’s just as majestic, just as welcoming, and just as … well, unusual as I recall — in fact, I’d have to say, more-so.
Take my grandfather. Naturally, Joe Goodyear seemed a mythic figure to me when I was a boy. Grandparents tend to be that way for grandchildren. But, so it turns out, my childhood impression was entirely correct. After one of our shows this summer I was introduced to Jenny Higgins’ wonderful book, “Newfoundland in the First World War,” and when I opened it, there was a photograph of my grandfather I’d never seen before — the photograph you see on this page. The exaggerations of childhood memory have no bearing on evidence like this. My grandfather is lifting a horse.
Larger than life? Well, yes, as I’ve learned, he actually was. Likewise his friends and his family and his world. Likewise, the tales he told about growing up in Ladle Cove. And likewise, of course, the story of the Newfoundland Regiment — a story that I encountered as a child in my grandparents’ living room on Junction Road in Grand Falls, but that was being told and retold this summer wherever we went in Newfoundland. And if anything, it’s more terrifying now than when I first heard it.
I can remember being tucked into bed in my grandparents’ house after listening to the adults talk in the living room after dinner. And I remember wondering: could the war really have been as bloody and as infuriating? Were men really so brave? Was the calculation of lives-lost for mud-gained so merciless? Was it really such a nightmare?
In a word: yes.
We were in Grand Falls this past July 1. After doing our show at the Arts and Culture Centre the night before, Douglas Cameron and I attended the 4:30 a.m. ceremony at the town’s war memorial. It was an unforgettable moment — a hundred years to the hour of the Newfoundlanders advance. And as we stood in that silent crowd, listening to the Last Post in the cool, still darkness, I realized that Beaumont-Hamel, like Newfoundland itself, is a story bigger than anything a little boy could ever dream up.
David Macfarlane is the author of “The Danger Tree,” published by HarperCollins Canada. Macfarlane and Douglas Cameron present “The Door You Came In — Song & Stories from the Danger Tree,” in Eastport, English Harbour, St. John’s and Cupids Aug. 12-17. Visit www.thedooryoucamein.ca for more information."
