A story spills forth

By John M. Angelini

While leaning on the railing of the ferry taking me from New Brunswick to a tiny island in the Bay of Fundy, I felt a sense of freedom.

Grand Manan Island was to be my escape for two weeks. I didn't know what to expect.

As I approached Mrs. Johnston's place, I felt slightly apprehensive about the aging farmhouse standing tall, like something out of a gothic novel. My discomfort increased when I met my host. Mrs. Johnston had piercing blue eyes, half hidden by loose strands of gray hair, and a sharp nose that contrasted with round and rosy cheeks. She wore an apron and sneakerlike shoes.

Mrs. Johnston escorted me to an upstairs guest room that had all the charm of a country inn. A quilt lay across a brass bed, horticultural herbal prints hung on papered walls and a basin and ewer sat on the sideboard. From the window I could see the simple cottage where Willa Cather stayed to write some of her novels.

The early morning crowing of Mrs. Johnston's rooster, the aroma of frying bacon, biscuits baking and the coffee percolator sounding like a sheriff posse's hoofbeats pursuing a bandit across the western plains gave me a hunger I had never felt before.

I was developing a warm feeling for Mrs. Johnston during our casual strolls around the farm, her pet crow, Rebel, by her side.Rebel was the occasional victim of sweeping assaults by the flock it had abandoned. Mrs. Johnston repelled the spurned birds with a thick branch, suffering several minor bruises. I stood by helplessly.

"During one of our walks I noticed the rain barrel was covered," I said.

She paused, her face saddened, and she explained that the lid was put on after Mr. Johnston died. I waited for some connection between the two events and soon learned that he was an incurable alcoholic and forbidden to drink inside the house.

"However, Mr. Johnston was a clever little devil," she said and described how he hid a bottle of scotch in the rain barrel and took a healthy swig when returning from fishing trips. One night, while he staggered up the road, she quickly retrieved the bottle and from a hiding place inside the house watched him fumbling inside the barrel but coming up empty and scratching his head in bewilderment.

Months later, she recalled, on Mr. Johnston's birthday, her dining room full of family and friends went dead silent when Mrs. Johnston placed the bottle of scotch on the table and asked if he wanted a drink. He lowered his head and declined the offer.

I sensed that putting the lid on the barrel was the closing of an unhappy chapter in her life.

I spent many evenings sitting in an old stuffed armchair in Mrs. Johnston's parlor exchanging stories. She served tea while I described my day's activities, once interrupted by a mournful cry coming from upstairs. As if she knew what to expect, Mrs. Johnston donned a pair of garden gloves and dislodged a bat caught in the ceiling grille. She opened the door, set it free and, without a pause, told me that despite her distaste for alcohol she occasionally took a mug of beer to Mr. Johnston while he tended the fields on hot days. That ritual ended when he came home one night, "as drunk as a skunk," and she decided to teach him a lesson. Soon after, she spiked his beer with a laxative and waited to watch him squirm. She held the door open while he rushed into the house and headed for the bathroom.

"Did he ever stop drinking?" I asked.

"Nope," she said, shaking her head.

I admired Mrs. Johnston's strength and courage as a widow. My heart lay temporary claim to this aging farmhouse in a place devoid of bars, theaters, restaurants and men in three-piece suits; a place where hungry sea gulls screeched around the sardine cannery waiting for discarded morsels; when on foggy days the North Head and South Head lighthouse fog horns were activated by a heavy mist that rolled in from the outer islands. Here the 200-foot-high cliffs and 30-foot Fundy tides left boats stranded in sand when the tide ebbed and I carried a backpack of art supplies into quaint villages named Deep Cove, Castalia, Dark Harbor and Seal Cove, all dots on the map and now unforgettable to me.

But most memorable was meeting and getting to know Mrs. Johnston. I cherished the simple island people I had befriended and the way they had befriended me as I roamed and recorded images in pen and ink and watercolor paintings that I still cherish more than 40 years later.

Leaving Mrs. Johnston and the island was a sad occasion for me. During the long ferry ride back to the mainland, Grand Manan faded below the ocean rim. My heart sank with it.

In appreciation for a memorable visit, I mailed Mrs. Johnston a framed watercolor of the covered rain barrel topped with an old pail filled with lupine flowers that cover the island fields in summer.

I was saddened when Mrs. Johnston stopped taking in guests. By then I had returned a dozen or more times to Grand Manan and Mrs. Johnston's farmhouse. The following year I rented a small cottage from a wonderful island native, but it wasn't the same without the rooster's wakeup call or the breakfast aromas wafting through the grille where Mrs. Johnston rescued the bat. However, I did pay Mrs. Johnston an unexpected visit. She was surprised and glad to see me.

"Welcome, John," she said, taking my hand and leading me to the dining room. Neither one of us spoke. There on the server was my watercolor painting standing beside the half-empty bottle of scotch.