Memories of All Saints Village?1950’s – 1960’s
I was born on August 10th, 1949, in the village of All Saints. I moved with my mother to Swetes in 1952. I moved back to All Saints in 1956. I was seven years old at the time. The move was not my choice. My grandmother Gertrude Michael was the proprietor of a bake shop in All Saints Village, and she needed a male to assist her. My elders decided that I would be that person.
Back in the day, the village of Swetes was very different from All Saints. Villagers from Swetes would travel to All Saints to conduct business, to shop, or to be a part of the hustle and bustle. The telephone exchange was in All Saints; so was the Police Station. All Saints was exciting.
To say that my family dynamic was untraditional would be an understatement. My father Dennis Jarvis was the eldest of my grandmother’s children. He was an adulterine – or an “outside” child, as they would say. While my grandmother eventually got married and started her new family, my father was sent to Swetes to live with his grandmother. Although my father was not “accepted,” my grandmother made sure that he was independent. My father always worked for himself and was self-sufficient. Years later, my grandmother’s husband left for Aruba. He never returned. Slowly, my father returned to his mother’s home.
My mother Rita George was a beautiful woman – at least, so I heard. I understand she was quite the head turner, and she was fiercely independent. My grandmother disliked her because of her independent spirit. She didn’t think that my mother was good enough for my father.
My parents loved each other. Though they never married, they produced three children together. However, the stress from my grandmother eventually caused the relationship to become strained, and my mother eventually left Antigua for England in 1959. She resided in England until she passed in October 1999.
Growing up, I remember always having a longing for my mother. She never wrote or called, but I longed for her. Even as a youngster, I knew something was missing from my life. What I was missing became more apparent when my aunts started having children of their own. I realized that I was missing my mother.
When my mother left Antigua, my siblings and I were dispersed among other family members. I was already a part of my grandmother’s household, my brother Jerome was sent to live with my aunt in Bethesda, my younger sibling was sent to live with my father in Golden Grove, and the youngest child was sent to Sea View Farm to live with my mother’s family. We were truly scattered. But my great grandmother, Nancy Nathan, made sure that I never lost ties with my siblings. She insisted that I visit all of them every Sunday after church. I traveled by donkey to visit my siblings. This was my Sunday routine.
In my grandmother’s household, I had a job – make and deliver bread. I attended All Saints School during the day. After I got home from school, I would ride my donkey to gather wood for the oven. I returned home and unpacked the wood. My next chore was to mix and knead the dough, and then set it aside to rise. I then ate, went to bed, and then my grandmother would wake me at 2 am in the morning to help cut the dough and bake the bread. The bread had to be ready by 6 am, at which time, I would start my deliveries. I would walk throughout the village and hear people call out to me for bread.
“Yuh Boy For Ms. Michael Dat Does Carry The Bread On The Bread Pan Yuh Head…” That was what I always heard.
School was important, but not a priority. It was about survival. It was important that I deliver the bread. This was my daily routine. I would be relieved at times when my father would get a tractor and cut enough wood to give me a break for a week or two, but then the routine would start up again. This continued from the age of 7 until I left Antigua at age 14.
My donkey was my best friend. We traveled everywhere together. The villagers knew if they saw me, my donkey would not be too far behind. At night I would let him roam free. I wanted him to experience the freedom that I didn’t have. Unfortunately, this would usually result in him trespassing on someone’s property, and my grandmother would have to pay to have him released from the pound.
Despite my chores, I had, and still have, a deep love for All Saints. I traveled to every corner of the village. As a youngster I participated in many events in All Saints. I remember being a part of the first carnival troupe from All Saints. I remember the first steel band, which won first prize. I even remember when Saints Brothers, a local band, was formed. The band became synonymous with All Saints Village. There was our first village queen. All Saints was also famous for its dances. People would travel from all over the country to attend an All Saints dance. The village offered a lot.
I remember the first set of guys from the village that traveled abroad to St. Croix, St. Thomas or Florida to cut cane on contract. They would leave for six months. When they returned, they would parade like proud peacocks throughout the village in their suits and ties, tacked to rags, their pockets bulging with cash, and the village people would look at them with great pride. We called them men of distinction.
Saturday nights at the Crossroad in All Saints was almost like Carnival. On Boxing Day, there would be a fete. As a youngster, I was just fascinated with the pulse of the village. Although I was burdened with chores, it was the village that sustained me. I had a level of independence that most children my age didn’t have. I traveled by myself to every nook and cranny of the village, I delivered to everyone, so I was known throughout the village, and I would even deliver to adjoining villages.
When I was about 14 years old, my younger brother Junie came to live with me in my grandmother’s home. I had to show my brother how to complete my chores – how to chop and gather wood, how to knead dough, and my delivery route. Soon he took over the reins of Kenny, my donkey. You see, the decision had been made that I would travel to St. Thomas to assist my Aunt Aleitha. My aunt had migrated to St. Thomas years earlier, got married, and needed help with her children.
When I learned that I was leaving, I was happy. My only regret was that I was leaving my brother behind. My great grandmother knew what I had to endure. She told me to grasp this freedom and don’t look back. She knew that if I stayed, my future would not be promising.
The day came for me to leave. It was a Monday. I don’t remember if there was a formal goodbye, but I remember my grandmother saying to me, “Your things are packed. Your aunt needs you.”
There was no time to tell my friends goodbye. Ruben was called. He was the only one with a car in the village. Arrangements were made for him to pick me up and take me to the airport. Just like that.
Memories of All Saints Village?1950’s – 1960’s
I was born on August 10th, 1949, in the village of All Saints. I moved with my mother to Swetes in 1952. I moved back to All Saints in 1956. I was seven years old at the time. The move was not my choice. My grandmother Gertrude Michael was the proprietor of a bake shop in All Saints Village, and she needed a male to assist her. My elders decided that I would be that person.
Back in the day, the village of Swetes was very different from All Saints. Villagers from Swetes would travel to All Saints to conduct business, to shop, or to be a part of the hustle and bustle. The telephone exchange was in All Saints; so was the Police Station. All Saints was exciting.
To say that my family dynamic was untraditional would be an understatement. My father Dennis Jarvis was the eldest of my grandmother’s children. He was an adulterine – or an “outside” child, as they would say. While my grandmother eventually got married and started her new family, my father was sent to Swetes to live with his grandmother. Although my father was not “accepted,” my grandmother made sure that he was independent. My father always worked for himself and was self-sufficient. Years later, my grandmother’s husband left for Aruba. He never returned. Slowly, my father returned to his mother’s home.
My mother Rita George was a beautiful woman – at least, so I heard. I understand she was quite the head turner, and she was fiercely independent. My grandmother disliked her because of her independent spirit. She didn’t think that my mother was good enough for my father.
My parents loved each other. Though they never married, they produced three children together. However, the stress from my grandmother eventually caused the relationship to become strained, and my mother eventually left Antigua for England in 1959. She resided in England until she passed in October 1999.
Growing up, I remember always having a longing for my mother. She never wrote or called, but I longed for her. Even as a youngster, I knew something was missing from my life. What I was missing became more apparent when my aunts started having children of their own. I realized that I was missing my mother.
When my mother left Antigua, my siblings and I were dispersed among other family members. I was already a part of my grandmother’s household, my brother Jerome was sent to live with my aunt in Bethesda, my younger sibling was sent to live with my father in Golden Grove, and the youngest child was sent to Sea View Farm to live with my mother’s family. We were truly scattered. But my great grandmother, Nancy Nathan, made sure that I never lost ties with my siblings. She insisted that I visit all of them every Sunday after church. I traveled by donkey to visit my siblings. This was my Sunday routine.
In my grandmother’s household, I had a job – make and deliver bread. I attended All Saints School during the day. After I got home from school, I would ride my donkey to gather wood for the oven. I returned home and unpacked the wood. My next chore was to mix and knead the dough, and then set it aside to rise. I then ate, went to bed, and then my grandmother would wake me at 2 am in the morning to help cut the dough and bake the bread. The bread had to be ready by 6 am, at which time, I would start my deliveries. I would walk throughout the village and hear people call out to me for bread.
“Yuh Boy For Ms. Michael Dat Does Carry The Bread On The Bread Pan Yuh Head…” That was what I always heard.
School was important, but not a priority. It was about survival. It was important that I deliver the bread. This was my daily routine. I would be relieved at times when my father would get a tractor and cut enough wood to give me a break for a week or two, but then the routine would start up again. This continued from the age of 7 until I left Antigua at age 14.
My donkey was my best friend. We traveled everywhere together. The villagers knew if they saw me, my donkey would not be too far behind. At night I would let him roam free. I wanted him to experience the freedom that I didn’t have. Unfortunately, this would usually result in him trespassing on someone’s property, and my grandmother would have to pay to have him released from the pound.
Despite my chores, I had, and still have, a deep love for All Saints. I traveled to every corner of the village. As a youngster I participated in many events in All Saints. I remember being a part of the first carnival troupe from All Saints. I remember the first steel band, which won first prize. I even remember when Saints Brothers, a local band, was formed. The band became synonymous with All Saints Village. There was our first village queen. All Saints was also famous for its dances. People would travel from all over the country to attend an All Saints dance. The village offered a lot.
I remember the first set of guys from the village that traveled abroad to St. Croix, St. Thomas or Florida to cut cane on contract. They would leave for six months. When they returned, they would parade like proud peacocks throughout the village in their suits and ties, tacked to rags, their pockets bulging with cash, and the village people would look at them with great pride. We called them men of distinction.
Saturday nights at the Crossroad in All Saints was almost like Carnival. On Boxing Day, there would be a fete. As a youngster, I was just fascinated with the pulse of the village. Although I was burdened with chores, it was the village that sustained me. I had a level of independence that most children my age didn’t have. I traveled by myself to every nook and cranny of the village, I delivered to everyone, so I was known throughout the village, and I would even deliver to adjoining villages.
When I was about 14 years old, my younger brother Junie came to live with me in my grandmother’s home. I had to show my brother how to complete my chores – how to chop and gather wood, how to knead dough, and my delivery route. Soon he took over the reins of Kenny, my donkey. You see, the decision had been made that I would travel to St. Thomas to assist my Aunt Aleitha. My aunt had migrated to St. Thomas years earlier, got married, and needed help with her children.
When I learned that I was leaving, I was happy. My only regret was that I was leaving my brother behind. My great grandmother knew what I had to endure. She told me to grasp this freedom and don’t look back. She knew that if I stayed, my future would not be promising.
The day came for me to leave. It was a Monday. I don’t remember if there was a formal goodbye, but I remember my grandmother saying to me, “Your things are packed. Your aunt needs you.”
There was no time to tell my friends goodbye. Ruben was called. He was the only one with a car in the village. Arrangements were made for him to pick me up and take me to the airport. Just like that.
(Source http://antiguastories.wordpress.com/village-life/charles-jarvis/)
