The introduction of the radio revolutionized every day life for people living in rural Prince Edward Island. All of a sudden current news and weather reports were being broadcast right into your living room. Even entertainment was only a click of the dial away, with live music and serial programs.

The MacDonald family did not own a radio during the 1930s. My grandfather considered it a luxury that they didn’t need and couldn’t afford at the time. However, the family that lived next door did own a radio and my father, Joe, was friends with their son. This connection got him a regular invite to come over and listen to a program that would become one of the highlights of his week ….The Lone Ranger.

Listening to the adventures of the Lone Ranger opened up a whole new world of wonder and imagination for Joe and other children his age. All of sudden, every young boy dreamed of owning a white cowboy hat and a black mask. There were lots of make believe cowboys in those days calling out, “Hi Ho Silver!” as they fought bandits and outlaws in their own backyards.

It was the war that finally pushed my grandfather into purchasing a radio in the early 1940s. With three sons signed up and fighting overseas, the need for up-to-date news dispatches and word of the Canadian troops became essential. He made the purchase from Walter MacEwen’s store, and took home the family’s first battery operated radio.

Battery life in those days wasn’t great and had to be replaced quite often. This limited the amount of time they could enjoy it, so they had to be selective . Ultimately, it was my grandfather, Charlie, who controlled the dial and got to decide what what was listened to and when. He wouldn’t miss Gabriel Heatter’s nightly wartime newscast. Heatter’s opening commentary, “There is Good News Tonight,” was an evening staple in the MacDonald household.

It wasn’t just news that was allowed. Don Messer and the Islanders became a household favourite, with its toe tapping music and lively fiddle tunes. Before the radio, the only music the family listened to were church hymns or the occasional fiddle tune at a house party. The purchase of the radio opened up a whole new world of music that included not just Don Messer, but also some of the greats of that era like Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby and Joe’s personal favourite, Perry Como.

The radio also brought live sports right into your home, particularly Hockey Night in Canada. Joe remembers racing home from the rink to catch Foster Hewitt and the game on the radio. Listening to the play-by-play call of such stars as Ted Kennedy and Rocket Richard was a thrill for young and old alike. Lots of local on-ice rivalries became battles between the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens after hearing their sports idols live on the radio.

From that point on, the old radio became a permanent fixture in the MacDonald household. It was given a place of honour in the family’s kitchen, where the whole family could gather round in the evening to listen. It not only brought the family together but it also brought the world to their doorstep.

Most people have memory triggers….a sound, a scent or a taste that transports you to another time and place. There are few things that evoke  such a strong memory for me as the smell of freshly baked bread. It is an aroma that brings me back to my childhood.

Saturday was baking day and each week,  bread, rolls and biscuits were lovingly crafted in our small, country kitchen.  My mother would rise early, as we slumbered on, the hum of the furnace the only sound in the comfortable silence.  In the soft morning light,  she would gather her ingredients, the dented, old flour bin creaking as she lifted the lid.  As morning gave way,  she laboured on, mixing flour, water and yeast, only pausing long enough to make a pot of tea.

I can still see my mother standing at the counter, kerchief covering her hair,  kneading the soft, sticky dough. Her rhythmic movements as she worked the dough both familiar and comforting. She would set the mixture in an old covered pot to rise while she went about her other chores. By late afternoon, the dough would be ready to be shaped into loaves and placed into the blackened, time-worn pans for baking.

There were no written recipes….all the instructions and knowledge she had learned from my grandmother were committed to memory. Years of helping her mother in the kitchen and now providing for a family of her own had honed her craft. She was always shy and modest about her skill, but she was a master baker.

It was a labour of love and we reaped the reward. By evening, fresh golden loaves emerged from the oven, the yeasty, warm scent filling the kitchen with the loving aroma of home. It was always a pleasure to taste that first slice of freshly baked bread. My brothers and I piled our plates high with thick, warm slices for our evening snack. Delicious!

It has been a long time since I have tasted my mother’s homemade bread. She has been gone for many years now. I thought I had more time to learn her craft and transcribe the treasured recipes passed down through the generations, but life rarely goes according to plan. Through trial and error, I can now lay claim to a decent pan of biscuits, but my mother’s homemade bread still eludes me. Perhaps one day I too will craft the perfect loaf of homemade bread and fill my house with the rich, warm scents of my childhood.

People who have met my father might suspect that he has always lived a simple life…living and fishing on the North Shore of Prince Edward Island. However, during the 1950s he spent ten years serving in the Royal Canadian Navy. This time in the military gave him the chance to travel the world and have many unique experiences and adventures. One of his most memorable experiences was to spend a year in Canada’s Arctic.

After several years serving as a wireless radio operator, mainly aboard aircraft carriers, Joe was presented with an intriguing opportunity. The military was looking for servicemen to volunteer to man a weather station on a small island in Canada’s Arctic region. As a young man eager for adventure, Joe signed up and prepared to travel to Padloping Island, where he would be stationed for the next twelve months.

Padloping Island is a small island located off the eastern coast of Baffin Island in the Davis Strait, just across from Greenland. It is only 4-6 km long and approximately 1-2 km wide. It is currently uninhabited, but in the 1950s it was home to a small Inuit community of about 30-40 people, as well as a weather station. The weather station was an American Air Force weather station that had been established during wartime in the 1940s. The U.S. military had had a crew on site for the previous twelve months and Joe and his fellow Canadian servicemen were taking over command for the next year.

The island itself is located past the tree line, and consists of mostly rocky terrain, with high cliffs jutting out into the sea. It is in an area of the Arctic that has an extremely cold climate. This brings very long, cold winters and foggy, cloudy summers. Being so far north, Padloping Island experiences the polar night (24 hours of darkness) in winter and the midnight sun (24 hours of light) in summer. Weather is extremely unpredictable and snow can occur at any time of the year, although it is less likely in the summer months. Sea ice surrounds it much of the year, which makes it an active area for polar bears, seals, walruses, whales and other marine life.

Due to the remote location and lack of infrastructure on the island, there was no airstrip, so they had to be dropped off by ship. The Canadian Navy took them by plane from Churchill, Manitoba to Goose Bay, Labrador. From there, they travelled by ship with the American military to Padloping Island. With them came a year’s worth of food, medicine and other supplies. Before being accepted for the mission, everyone had to undergo medical and dental checks, as they would have no access to doctors or dentists for the next year.

The base itself was sparse and rudimental and consisted of only a few buildings, each with a distinct purpose. The main building housed the work area with all their instruments, equipment and radios. There was also a sleeping barracks and a recreation room with a pool table. Food supplies were kept in a separate storage building. A rope was tied between the buildings, in case you got caught in a blizzard, which could come up out of nowhere.

At one point, the food supply building caught fire and the building was lost along with their year’s supply of provisions. After that, they had to get regular airdrops containing food and supplies. The one plus of this unfortunate situation was that they could now make specific requests to be included in the air drops. Joe once requested a quart of rum. Some inventive soul had the forethought to stuff the rum into a loaf of bread to cushion the impact when it was dropped from the plane. He is happy to report it was delivered intact.

Their daily work involved sending up weather balloons and pibals to collect data such as wind speed and atmospheric pressure.  They would then send their reports to the Canadian Forces base in Goose Bay and to the Americans in Greenland. These measurements would provide the data which would be used to create weather forecasts in a time before satellites and computers.

Everyday life was much more laid back and relaxed than regular workdays in the military. Uniforms were not required to be worn, so the men enjoyed working in their “civies.” Shaving, which was usually mandatory, was also not required. Many wooly beards and mustaches appeared long before “Movember” became a thing. My father claims that this casual atmosphere was one of the biggest perks of this assignment.

There wasn’t much to occupy a mind or body during down time. There was no television  so they spent their time playing pool, playing cards, reading, or hiking. The base also had a pet skunk, who was a great distraction and the unofficial mascot of the weather station.  The time was very long, which was only intensified by the long, dark days and the harsh, unpredictable weather. The isolation was the toughest part of the assignment. One crew member could not deal with this isolation, and had to be airlifted out.

Contacting family and loved ones was a complicated and lengthy process. Messages home had to be first sent through an American ham radio operator in the U.S., who would then transcribe a letter and send it in the mail to the desired recipient. This lack of contact with family and friends only heightened the sense of isolation.

One of my father’s most memorable moments was an occasion where he was invited to go hunting with some men from the local Inuit community. They still used traditional weapons such as harpoons and spears to hunt seals, and were quite excited when my father joined them on the hunt with a military issued rifle. It was these interactions with the local people and the native wildlife and marine life that made his time in the arctic unforgettable.

When the twelve months were up, a ship arrived with a new crew. The outgoing team was pretty excited that their commission was ending and they were leaving the arctic. They received a year’s pay when they landed in Manitoba and a few drinks were had! As Joe made his way across the country, he purchased a car in Ontario, which he drove with his friend to Nova Scotia. Once there ,he applied for and received his first driver’s license. He was allotted some time  off for a visit home before going back on duty aboard ship.

Although his assignment in the Arctic came with plenty of hardships and challenges, it was for Joe, one of the most extraordinary periods in his military career and in his life. He got to witness and experience a part of our country that very few people do and it left him with an increased appreciation of the vastness and diversity of this beautiful country we call home.

Just beyond the trees that frame my childhood home lies a path. The path is now overgrown and barely visible, brambles and seedlings cover the ground where once there was a trail of hard-packed earth, worn bare by the constant footsteps of children. During my childhood and youth it was the path not only to our beloved neighbours’ house, but also the gateway to adventure.

All one needed in those days was a good imagination to turn this ordinary trail into something much more magical. The path had many tributaries that took us deeper into the woods and my brothers, myself, and the neighbour kids knew them all like the backs of our hands. This world was like a blank canvas in our childhood land of make believe. Many secret forts were fashioned among the branches, and cowboys, pirates and princesses dwelled there.

In summer, we walked this path religiously, foraging into the scratchy bushes in search of wild blueberries. Cups in hand, we would search for the very best patches, with the promise from our mothers of a delicious baked treat if we picked enough. More often than not however, the bounty of our hard work ended up in our bellies, as we returned home with blue-stained fingers and empty dishes.

It was the jumping off point for many rousing games of hide and seek or kick the can with the neighbourhood kids. Plentiful trees and bushes provided an unlimited number of leafy, green hiding places. Our laughter and squeals of delight could only be tempered by the stern calls of our mothers to come in for supper.

It wasn’t only children that traveled this path. Many cups of tea and long, heartfelt chats were exchanged between my mother and her friend who lived in the house next door. I can still see their family dog, as he trotted down the path when I returned home from school to say hello, hoping to be the beneficiary of some leftover treat in my lunchbox.

The path exists only in my memories these days. As the years went by, neighbours moved away, children grew up, and the path was all but forgotten. However, if I close my eyes, I can still feel the sun on my face, feel the earth beneath my toes and hear our laughter in the air as I remember.

Growing up, sports were a regular part of daily life in our household, especially hockey. My father, Joe “Bomber,” grew up in the 1930s and 40s in an age before television and video games. Hockey was a quintessential part of his childhood and youth, and he spent countless hours playing the game he loved on the frozen Morell River or on the open air rink in the centre of the village.

He passed this love of the game onto his two sons, Joe jr. and Mike. They were both involved in minor hockey from the time they could barely skate until their teenage years. Even before they were part of organized hockey, they had caught “hockey fever.” Our father helped them make hockey gear for their teddy bears out of old cereal boxes. A piece of rolled up tinfoil became the puck. In those early years, they could often be found playing teddy hockey in the wee hours of the morning in the hallway of our small, rural home.

Hockey Night in Canada was a Saturday night staple in our house, and more often than not, the entire family could be found sitting around the livingroom with the game on. Unlike most hockey fans, my father never really had a favourite team. Instead, he had a string of favourite players throughout the years and cheered for whatever team they played for. Some of his favourites included Wayne Gretzky, Morell native, Al MacAdam, and current favourite, Connor McDavid. Back in the 1950s and 60s, however, that favourite player was Gordie Howe.

Being close to the same age, Joe had followed Howe from the start of his career. He liked Howe’s gritty, aggressive style and the fact that he never backed down from a fight. Joe’s own style on the ice was very similar. He also liked the fact that Howe could shoot both ways. This made him a dangerous player to play against and an exciting player to watch.

In the late 1960s, Joe had a chance to meet his hero and expose his young sons to hockey royalty. Morell was hosting its annual Sportsman’s Dinner and although Howe was not booked to speak at it, he was on the Island for another event. Word on the street was that Howe may make a guest appearance in Morell. Joe didn’t have tickets for the dinner, but he decided to take a gamble and headed out the door with the boys in tow with the hopes of catching a glimpse of Gordie Howe.

It was a rainy, miserable evening, but they toughed it out, waiting in the parking lot, hoping to meet the famous star. Finally, a big, shiny car pulled into the parking lot. Joe walked over to the vehicle and opened the door for his hockey hero. Mike was wearing a t-shirt that said, “sock it to me,” and Howe reached out and playfully punched him in the stomach. They got to spend a few uninterrupted minutes with Howe, chatting and getting autographs, before he headed inside.

That meeting lasted only a few minutes, but it left a big impression. It cemented Joe’s admiration of Howe, both on and off the ice. Santa Claus must have been a Gordie Howe fan back then too, as that Christmas the boys received matching hockey gear complete with Detroit Red Wings jerseys. My father had not only passed on his love of the game to his two boys, but also his love of Gordie Howe. Two new fans were born.

It all came full circle for my father many years later when Howe was once again in the province for a speaking engagement and book tour. Mike, now grown and with his own fishing fleet, had been entrusted to take Howe out for a sail and some recreational fishing. This set the stage for my father to meet Howe for a second time. The two men were both now in their 70s, and they spent their time together chatting about life and the game they both loved.

During those two encounters, Gordie Howe lived up to his nickname as “Mr. Hockey.” He was as engaging off the ice as he was on it. He made my father feel that not only was he rubbing shoulders with a hockey legend, but that he was also meeting a fellow Canadian boy from a small town who loved the game of hockey.

During the 1940s, graduating with a grade twelve level education was the exception rather than the rule. Many small communities did not offer schooling beyond grade nine or ten, and many youth dropped out even earlier to work or because they were needed on the family farm. Education was more of a luxury than an expectation in those days. Therefore, it was both an honour and a privilege when Joe MacDonald was presented with the opportunity to attend St. Dunstan’s to complete his grade eleven and twelve years.

Joe was never quite sure why he was granted the opportunity….he was the only one in his large family to be given this chance. Perhaps it was his academic potential, his athletic ability, or possibly even the desire of his parents to keep him out of trouble. Or maybe it was his pious mother, Edith’s final hope at obtaining a priest in the family. Whatever the reason, Joe prepared to head to Charlottetown in the fall of 1946, at the age of sixteen.

There wasn’t much to pack, just a few clothes and personal items. Wanting him to put his best foot forward, Joe’s older sister, Mary and her husband, Art Doyle, bought him a new pair of shoes to begin his academic adventure. These new shoes provided him with the confidence needed to begin this new journey. So, with his suitcase in hand, and without a nickel in his pocket, Joe boarded the train to Charlottetown. The train dropped him off at the bottom of the hill, just below the campus. Though home was only a 45 minute drive away, without access to a vehicle or the modern technology of computers and cell phones, it felt like a million miles to Joe and the other new students.

St. Dunstan’s was a Catholic run school, offering both high school and university classes. At this time it was comprised of an all male student body. It would be a few years before they opened the doors to the first female students. Most of the students lived on campus during the school year, with a few from the Charlottetown area who were day students. Classes were taught almost exclusively by priests and nuns, who adhered to a very strict code of conduct. Students were expected to behave in an appropriate and orderly manner. Class attendance was mandatory, as was evening study hall. There was also morning mass first thing everyday. Attendance was compulsory and failure to do so would result in a punishment, which usually meant the young student would be benched from playing sports for the duration of the week.

The college quietly operated on a class system, with the best accommodations, cafeteria tables and even church pews reserved for the more senior students. In his first year, Joe was assigned a bunk in dormitory reserved for grade 11 students on the third floor of the Main Building. It was one long room with rows of bunks. There wasn’t much privacy or solitude in this kind of setting, and it was the least desirable of all the accommodations. In his grade 12 year, he was assigned a semi-private room in Dalton Hall with fellow Morell native, P.R. Sinnott. P.R. would become one of Joe’s closest friends, a friendship that was cemented during those years at St. Dunstan’s.

Even in the dorms, they were still under the watchful eye of the clergy. A priest was assigned to each wing as a monitor, to ensure that the students of St. Dunstan’s behaved outside of the classroom as well as in. Even with all these rules and safeguards in place, young men still found ways to get into a little bit of trouble. Joe recalls lots of fellows slipping out past curfew, sneaking cigarettes and at least one attempt at some home brew.

Weekdays were kept to a pretty rigid schedule. There were only a few opportunities for recreation. Weekends gave the boys a little more freedom to head out to a local dance or walk into Charlottetown to do a little exploring. Back on campus, many boys spent the extra leisure time playing sports, reading books, or playing cards. Even though the majority of the students were Island boys, visits home were few and far between. Their roommates and fellow classmates became their family for the duration of the school year. These free times were often the times that boys remembered the most, and looked the most fondly upon…the times when they really got to know their fellow classmates and forged life-long friendships.

Joe was a capable student, but academics were never really his passion. His first love was for sports, and he possessed a natural athletic ability that made him a stand out player. He played almost every sport available to him which included hockey, softball and rugby. He even played basketball, although at five foot seven on a tall day, he admits he wasn’t much of a basketball player. On one occasion, his parents were visiting him at college and they met with the monsignor in charge for a progress report. He told Charlie and Edith, “If Joe put as much time and effort into his studies as he puts into sports, we would all be better off.”

One of Joe’s favourite memories as a member of the St. Dunstan’s Saints high school hockey team was an occasion when the team traveled to his hometown of Morell to challenge the local team, the Morell Dreadnaughts, to a game. He invited his friend, Joe Dorsey from Borden, to have supper with his family before the big game. It was a rare visit home, and the whole family was excited about hosting company for supper and seeing Joe on the ice with the Saints. It was the only time Joe remembers seeing his mother at the rink. The Dreadnaughts would later return the favour and travel to Charlottetown for a rematch with the Saints.

As his days at St. Dunstan’s came to a close, fellow Morell native and St. Dunstan’s coach, A.J. MacAdam tried to encourage Joe to attend the university the following year. MacAdam was impressed by Joe’s natural athletic ability, and hoped to have him on the varsity roster in rugby and hockey the following year. Joe decided against attending the college. His future destiny was to work on the sea, first in the navy and later as a self-employed fisherman. Edith never did get her priest, but at least she could always say she had a Saint in the family.

On June 17, 2019, Joe “Bomber” MacDonald celebrated his 89th birthday by rising at 3:00 am to prepare for a day on the water. After a quick bowl of porridge and a weather check, he was ready to go. This was just another ordinary day for Joe. He had spent every birthday for the past twenty-plus years since his “retirement” this way, working alongside his son, Mike, fishing lobsters out of Red Head Harbour. Being on the water is where he feels most at home, even after all these years. It is a love and a purpose that first took root under difficult circumstances over seventy-five years ago, when he was just a boy.

In the spring of 1944, WWII raged on in Europe. Casualties were mounting on both sides, as Allied forces prepared for the Invasion of Normandy. Back at home, families felt the absence of their husbands, sons and brothers, and prayed for their safe return home one day soon.

Although news of the war and worry for the local boys occupied much of the conversations and the thoughts of the community, there were still practical matters to attend to. Lobster fishing season was fast approaching, and Charlie MacDonald found himself without a hired man. Charlie’s three oldest sons, Ivan, Barney and Artie had all enlisted, and were fighting overseas. Most of the other eligible men in the community were also overseas, or had obligations here at home that prevented them from taking on another job. That left Charlie no choice but to commission his next oldest son, Joe, for the job.

At the tender age of 13, Joe had never fished with his father before; that was a job that was usually filled by one of the older boys. However, growing up in a large family with 12 children, Joe was no stranger to hard work. There were always chores to be done and a large garden to attend to, and all the children were expected to shoulder their share of the workload. This was no different. With the older boys away, Joe was expected to step up to fill the void. So, after receiving permission from his teacher to miss the last two months of school, Joe helped his father prepare for the season ahead.

The MacDonald family resided in Morell, a sleepy little village on the North Shore, where the two main occupations were farming and fishing. The wharf was located at St. Peter’s Harbour, which was approximately 6 km west of the village. Since Charlie didn’t own a vehicle, it was too far to travel each morning. Therefore, it became an annual ritual for Charlie and his helper to move to the shore for the duration of the season, with only an occasional visit home on a Sunday, to see the family and attend mass.

Like many other fishermen, Charlie owned a small fishing shanty at the harbour. This rough, little wooden shack would be their home away from home for the next two months. There were two wooden bunks along one wall, a small stove for heat and not much else, aside from the odd mouse. Conditions were sparse and crude, but Joe was used to simple living and cramped quarters, with so many brothers and sisters at home. His mother, Edith, would send loaves of homemade bread, jam and pickles with them, along with a few other food staples. There was a cookhouse at the harbour, where fisherman and factory workers could purchase a prepared lunch, but Charlie and Joe could not spare the money for this luxury. Therefore, it fell upon Charlie to prepare their simple meals. He wasn’t much of a cook, and Joe remembers eating a lot of bread and molasses during those days.

They would rise in the dark, and don their oilskin coats and warm wool socks, lovingly knitted by Edith. They would leave the wharf at daybreak, their 20 foot wooden boat skimming the waves as it left the harbour in its wake. As the morning wore on, seagulls circled above the the boat, their cries breaking the silence as Charlie and Joe landed their trawl lines by hand and baited their traps. It was a hard morning’s work for a young boy, but if the weather cooperated and things went smoothly, they would be back ashore by early afternoon.

After the working day was finished, there wasn’t much to keep a young, energetic boy occupied. Charlie, a serious, strict man, was not inclined to worry about keeping his boy entertained. Thankfully Joe’s older brother, Artie, had recently purchased a bicycle, which Joe inherited in his absence. This bike provided Joe with some much needed freedom and entertainment and he spent countless hours peddling and exploring. He even regularly cycled the 6 km to Morell, especially for Tuesday night movies at the Hall, even if it meant a long, scary ride back to the harbour after dark with no lights to guide the way. Perhaps the greatest thrill the bike provided was to peddle past the schoolyard in the late afternoon, and wave to his friends and younger siblings who were heading indoors for an afternoon of reading and arithmetic.

As the season came to a close, Joe helped his father land the the traps one final time and store the gear until next spring. As it would turn out, Joe would not have to fish with his father the following year. As men began to return home from Europe, Charlie would opt for a more experienced man in the boat. Eventually, all three older brothers would return home from the war as well, although the oldest, Ivan, had been seriously wounded in battle.

Joe received no monetary pay for his work, and he was not thanked for his time and efforts; he was expected to help his father earn the livelihood that kept them all clothed and put food on the table. The experience, however, triggered in Joe a love of the sea that would translate into a life’s work that would span the next 75 years. From his humble beginnings as a hired man, Joe would embark upon a life’s vocation that included a ten year stint in the navy and eventually owning his own fishing gear.