Miney

Miney moved with the same
sure feet of Quasimodo. There
were no bells
the day he died, and now
there are three yards
that don’t get raked, or dug,
or gardens hoed. No bent
little man with wheelbarrow
plies the street in Paradise;
no more half-English
mumblings and cursings
eked out by kids who only saw
a carnival curio, a mystery
who-what-where that lived alone
inside a shack with two windows.
(Accepted for publication, The Antigonish Review, No. 107, 1996.)

Submitted by Blane Després, PhD

Miney was a curious man who lived alone in a literal, little shack on the Carl and Mrs. Ritcey property until the 70s (or late 60s?). Rumor was that he had come from Roxbury, a ghost town over the South Mountain. I figured that not too many people would remember him, much less know much about him. Of course, they still won’t after this poem.

Miney was often seen pushing a wheelbarrow from someone’s house. Apparently, he did odd jobs for folks. Whether or not he could speak English, he did understand it. Miney, you see, mumbled, or garbled the language when he talked. For me, he was an oddity. He didn’t fit into Paradise high society, or any high society. He didn’t fit into any mold that came to mind other than Barnum and Bailey’s Travelling Circus. I don’t mean that to be mean or degrading. I’m thinking back to when I was a young teen with other young teens (all 5 of us) lacking in social graces, explorers, and steeped in family nuancing of the world according to colour and ability. I simply remember him responding pleasantly when spoken to or asked how he was doing.

The “little shack” was tiny, perhaps space for a kitchenette and sitting area, perhaps including his bed and a bathroom. It’s stuck in the backwaters of my mind because the Ritcey’s lived across a field from us, and Miney’s tiny house could be seen from my bedroom window far from the main house towards the back of their property.

The poem came years later as a passing thought about that person. Who was he? Why was he there? Did someone know about him, his background, his parents, his birth? I felt moved to provide a posthumous honour along with this note because people deserve at least a mention if not a hug and a friend. I never saw or knew of anyone who gave any of those. I wondered how he lived alone, if he read or listened to music, if he aspired to be an astronaut or farmer. Wondering now about a person who was born, lived and whose life may have been far more interesting or significant than others know grabs my attention from time to time. And as I conjure memories now, it strikes me that there were many people in Paradise whose mysterious existence remains as echoes of the bygone.

Former Asaph Marshal, then Freeman House

10347 Highway 1, Paradise

Click here to learn more about this home of Paradise

Mr. Cummings’ store was also an odd refuge place for me on one other occasion, again as I was on my way to school. I think it was the third day of Primary (I’m seeing a pattern here. This is cheap therapy). I had gotten as far as the store and decided school wasn’t for me that day. I just wasn’t feeling it. For the whole morning I walked back and forth in front of the store. I had enough presence of mind to walk slowly, stop, think about consequences, shrug, turn around and walk back the other way. I’m pretty sure passers-by took me for a sandwich board advertising kid but without the sandwich board. I was clever that way. And no one came out of anywhere to tell me to get to school or get out of there. Then again, maybe they knew something I should’ve by then: “There’s that kid again. Doesn’t know if he’s comin’ or goin’. Village mascot or idiot. Who knew?”

Mr. Cummings’ competition was right across the street from my house. It was one of my favourite places. Mr. Parkinson was a huge man, genteel, friendly, and Mrs. Parkinson was the kind-hearted, motherly type who helped run the store. They had lots of candy, too. But more than Mr. Cummings! There were licorice candies, ice cream, pop and all sorts of hardware and useful things for everyone, it seems. There was an L-shaped counter with chrome diner stools, so people could order food (candy, ice cream, pop) and sit there to eat it. Anytime my sister and I, or friends (all two…or seven, depending on the year, feelings, activities), got a hold of pop bottles, off to Parkinson’s we would head. The small pop bottles fetched a couple of cents, which bought a candy. The big pop bottles were worth five cents. Incredible!

The Parkinson’s had a bulldog in that store. I forget if it was male or female and its name. I remember it was friendly, never bothered anyone, would come up and sniff you and carry on. But what strikes me about the Parkinson’s as well as the Cummings’ is their stories: From whence did they come? Did they have children, grand-children, Swiss bank accounts, other ambitions, worries, crises in their life, musical preferences? And after Mr. Parkinson passed away (my father was one of the pallbearers), Mrs. Parkinson left Paradise. Just disappeared until one day, whilst visiting Acadia University, I discovered her behind the desk in one of the residences, big as life, yet diminutive somehow. Did she want to do that at the end of a store career? I wonder if what’s really troublesome to me is that I lived in a small village with relatively few people but that I didn’t know, especially people who could’ve told countless stories of their own that would’ve widened my eyes and captured my mind and heart.

That brings me back to Miney. Every one of the other figures mentioned here had families, people they loved and who loved them. They had homes, lives, their own memories, tragedies, and celebrations. They had full names, identity, and great worth to others. Who was Miney? Who loved him? What were his stories and who heard them? Who would’ve listened? How did he end up in that little abode on the Ritcey property? And how did I miss seeing a living soul before my very young eyes who needed to know he was of great worth?

From the 1960s