by H. Joseph Seward
December 2024
Great Uncle Joseph Seward, or as we lovingly called him, Pappy, was born on a crisp Wednesday, October 6th, 1881, in the quaint seaside town of Gooseberry Cove, Newfoundland. He was the son of Joseph Seward Sr. (1835-1910) and Louisa Hobbs (1846-1923). Joseph and Louisa raised nine children together, while Joseph had four more from an earlier marriage with Marie Keziah Follett.
The early years of Pappy’s life remain shrouded in mystery. School records from 1885/1886 and 1893/1894 reveal that no teachers were available during these times, leaving a gap in formal education. At twelve, Pappy would have been out at sea, fishing alongside his father, Joseph Sr., and his older brother, Peter, learning the trade that would shape much of his early life.
On one of his sealing trips, Pappy suffered a grave misfortune—he fell through the ice and broke his leg. Due to the lack of immediate medical care and the prolonged time it took to transport him to the hospital, his leg never properly healed. This left him with a persistent wound, and he returned home as a disabled man. Despite the challenges, Pappy’s resilience shone through during his hospital stay. He took the opportunity to learn several hobbies: shoe repair, model shipbuilding, clock repairs, and woodcarving. Upon his release and return home, Pappy’s determination was evident. He refused to let his disability hinder him, and instead, he embraced his new skills and continued to do whatever he set his heart on.
Pappy spent at least two seasons on the sealing front. On one trip, he accompanied his brother-in-law, Jacob Spurrell of Butter Cove. On returning home, their ship stopped at Pool’s Island. Pappy and Jacob took the opportunity to visit Jacob’s sister, Maria, who lived there. When they returned to the dock, they discovered their ship had sailed without them. There were few roads in outport Newfoundland in the early 1900s, so walking through the villages and narrow footpaths through the forest to the nearest transport point was the only way out. Food and lodging would be fine. Local village citizens would welcome them into their homes. Ice conditions and Pappy’s crippled state would slow them down. (Pappy would never admit that).
Pappy and Jacob could take the train from Gambo to the Northern Bight railway station. From there, it was a two-and-one-half-hour boat ride to their residences at Gooseberry Cove and Butter Cove.
I understand Pappy was dating a lady from Fox Harbour, a village two kilometres from Gooseberry Cove. He would walk there and return every evening. In those days, people were very superstitious. In the eerie twilight of Fox Harbour to Gooseberry Cove Road, whispers of unusual happenings spread like wildfire. The once-serene path, now a stage for supernatural speculation, saw locals travelling only in groups, driven by caution and curiosity. Along this lonely road stood the abandoned Anglican Church parsonage- a relic from a time forgotten.
Locals often recounted tales of the parsonage’s sinister demeanour. It loomed, shrouded in mystery, its history entangled with the community’s folklore—one of the more chilling tales centred around its front door. Carelessly left unlocked, it became a puppet to the whims of the wind. On particularly gusty nights, when the wind howled in the right direction, the door would bang open, echoing through the stillness like a mournful cry. To the people of Fox Harbour and Gooseberry Cove, it was as if the parsonage was protesting its abandonment, and its voice carried on the breath of the night. No one dared venture near after dusk; stories of ghostly apparitions and unexplained phenomena swirled through the two communities.
One eerie night, while walking home alone, Pappy passed by the old abandoned Anglican Church parsonage. A sudden banging noise shattered the stillness, making him halt and listen intently. After a few moments of silence, he continued, only to hear the noise again. Curiosity piqued, he decided to turn back and investigate.
As he drew closer to the parsonage, the thumping sound echoed again, sending shivers down his spine. Reaching the door, he noticed it was slightly ajar. With the wind howling just right, the wind was causing the door to bang rhythmically. The last person to leave had yet to secure it properly. At that moment, what seemed like a supernatural occurrence was solved by Pappy’s keen observation and bravery.
After the courtship ended, Pappy, to my knowledge, never dated another woman and died as an unmarried man.
Pappy began crafting exquisite model schooners when we moved to Southport in 1941. One of his creations was so remarkable that an American enthusiast paid $500 for it when the average annual income in outport Newfoundland was less than that. This was a true testament to Pappy’s extraordinary skill. In addition to model schooners, he constructed full-sized fishing boats and engaged in intricate woodcarving. A carved doll, one of his masterpieces, sat atop a flagpole near the door, spinning in the wind even on the day we departed Southport on October 1, 1950. From Pappy, I learned to build model ships, carve figurines, and build a five metre sailing boat. I accomplished all of these after my retirement in 1995.
I remember Pappy for many reasons; one of them was his physical strength. He suffered from Dupuytren’s Contracture a condition that where the tissue under the skin of the palm and fingers thickens and tightens over time. This can cause one or more fingers to bend towards the palm, making it difficult to straighten them. While no cure exists, treatments are available to manage the symptoms and improve hand function. The condition affected only the first three fingers of his right hand. His ability to saw firewood all day with a bucksaw amazed me. While Dad and I were walking, I asked him about it one day. He answered, “My son, if you and I had as much strength in both our bodies as Pappy has in his thumb and forefinger, we would be able to saw woods like that, too.”
Pappy was a stoic man, rarely showing his emotions. But everything changed one fateful afternoon when our two-year-old sister, Leonie Mae, vanished. Panic ensued, and our quiet neighbourhood erupted into a frantic search party. Lawrence, my closest friend, and I sprinted toward the hilltop behind our house, our hearts pounding with fear.
A shout pierced the tension-filled air as I led the way, scanning the dense foliage. Lawrence’s voice rang out, “I found her!” relief washed over us as we saw Leonie Mae safe in his arms.
Carrying her inside, we found Pappy transformed. The sight of his precious grand-niece brought tears streaming down his rugged cheeks as he sobbed uncontrollably, the weight of the ordeal finally breaking through his tough exterior.
After relocating to the bustling community of Clarenville, I joined the Canadian Army and only saw Pappy once a year. In 1953, while home on vacation, we were deep in conversation when he pointed out that the property next door was up for sale and suggested I buy it. I explained that it took me the entire year to save enough money for a return ticket home and that purchasing the land was beyond my financial reach.
Ever the man of action, Pappy rose from his chair and left the room without a word. Moments later, he returned, handing me an envelope. “This may help,” he said quietly. Inside was a sum of money that allowed me to make a substantial down payment on the property.
I had never seen Pappy touch alcohol before. While home on vacation, the coal factory owner asked if I could help unload a shipload of coal. After a gruelling twenty-seven-hour shift, I was paid, and on my way home, I decided to buy a case of beer. Walking into the house, I found Pappy sitting at the end of the table. Excepting him to decline, I casually asked if he would like a beer. To my astonishment, he responded, “Yes, Joe, I will have a beer with you.” That single beer, shared with Pappy, was the most enjoyable I ever had.
In October 1957, I found myself home on vacation once again. Pappy, now bedridden, recognized me immediately when I visited him. He raised his hand, and I held it for a long while. During my stay, I visited him several times, each visit a precious moment.
On my last visit, I said goodbye, knowing that it would be the last time I would see him.
On April 2nd, 1958, I received word that Pappy had died that morning. Two days later, on Friday, April 4th, he was laid to rest in the old Anglican Cemetery in Clarenville. I deeply missed him and his words of encouragement. He was seventy-six and one-half years old.
As the years passed, Pappy’s memories remained vivid in my mind. His gentle words of wisdom, his unwavering support, and the simple yet profound moments we shared continued to guide me through life.
Though he was no longer physically present, his spirit lived on in the values and lessons he imparted. Pappy’s legacy was not just in our cherished memories but in how we carried his kindness and strength forward. His presence was a comforting reminder that love and family endure beyond the bounds of time.