Because there are so few of us on Earth, I’m extremely proud to be a Labrador Livyer. Having resided in the heart of Ontario for 30 years, I look forward to going back to Labrador every summer, especially since the completion of the Trans-Labrador Highway. Labrador is now accessible to anyone who wishes to drive there. Every summer I see my homeland with new eyes. I see the proud heritage of my people in the tall pines, rocky cliffs, and navy sea. Wildly beautiful, it is the land that shaped my people. Here is one of their stories.
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Top: My father, Tom Curl, and my mother, Flossie, along with my brother, Sammy, stand in front of their cabin in Roaches Brook, Labrador, in the fall of 1943. My mother is pregnant with me.
Bottom: Here I am, age two, holding my puppy, Blackie, in 1945. Note the sealskin slippers and hand-knitted socks.
My family lived a primitive and extremely harsh existence where only the strong survived. I was born on January 15, 1943, in our winter home of Roaches Brook, Labrador. Mom decided to call me Josephine Mildred. My eldest brother, Samuel, was born out of wedlock and was adopted by my father when Mommy and Daddy were married. After losing their first daughter, Sivella, from unknown causes, I came along, third in line behind my sister, Marcella. I was blessed with good health, strong bones, olive skin, hazel eyes, and curly blond hair. strong bones, olive skin, hazel eyes, and curly blond hair.
“What was I like, Mom?” I asked many years later.
“Ya was beautiful, maid. Yer little head was covered wit yellow ringlets dat hung down round yer shoulders. An ya was a good baby, too. But yer lucky ta be alive.” She rocked back and forth, her eyes gazing far into her memory.
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, maid, ya was a happy, carefree little ting, always runnin about and gettin in de way. Ya shoulda been dead long ago!” As her eyes glazed, I knew what was coming, and I never grew tired of the story.
Mom settled back to tell me the tale of how I was attacked by husky dogs. The fire crackled, throwing shafts of light on the wall. Her voice grew dreamy as she spoke of the faraway times. Her story went like this.
We were living in our summer home on Spotted Island, a rocky place in the North Atlantic. My family went there every summer to fish for cod, our livelihood and a staple in our diet. On the island, children and dogs were able to roam at will. The dogs were free of harnesses and chains. During warm summer days, they lazed underneath the houses where sea breezes kept them cool.
To shop for supplies and food, the island residents had to make a run to the mainland by boat to Dawes Store in Domino. The sea raged constantly, and there were times when some of our people starved to death because they couldn’t get off the island for supplies. Often they had to wait for days or even weeks for the weather to become civil enough. That summer, when a calm day finally arrived, my mother left us in the care of Aunt Lucy, a neighbour, boarded a motorboat along with several others, and headed across the water.
I loved the new puppies that were born each spring, and being inquisitive I wanted to see them, so I meandered along the rocky path, munching on a slice of molasses bread. Unfortunately, I fell. The husky mother saw this as a threat to her litter and attacked me. The other huskies, always hungry for food, took advantage of the situation and joined in. I started screaming. Aunt Lucy heard the commotion and ran out. Her broom high in the air, she swiped at the dogs. Everyone within earshot dropped what they were doing and raced to the scene.
In just a few seconds I was mangled beyond recognition. There was panic and confusion. Seeing my grave condition, someone wrapped me in a white bedsheet, which soon was red with blood. They couldn’t tell at first how badly I’d been hurt. But on closer inspection they saw that all the flesh was torn away from the back of my head, exposing my skull.
As soon as the boat landed on the stagehead, my mother dashed up the hill. Everyone tried to shield her from the horrible sight.
“No, Flossie, don’t look!” they all cried.
Immediately, my mother realized that her worst nightmare had come true. Moaning and groaning like a crazed person, she grabbed her child and removed the sheet.
My mother came out of her reverie at this point. “I’ll never forget what I seen dat day. It’ll be in me mind ferever!” She shook her head, hesitating for a moment, then continued the story.
“As de boat got closer, I could see dat sometin awful happened wit de dogs. Lots of us had problems wit dogs before, so I was scared ta death! As I climbed de stage, I knowed t’was bad. People was screamin and cryin! As I ran up de hill, I could see someone was wrapped in a big white sheet, and it was completely red wit blood. Everyone tried ta stop me from takin ya. Dey tried ta shield me, but dey coulden. When I took de sheet off and saw yer little head, I fainted.”
“What did you do then?” I asked.
“Soon’s I come to, I knowed I had ta do somethin quick! I picked some juniper boughs, boiled ’em, and mixed ’em wit bread ta make a poultice. I put ’em on yer open cuts an bandaged ya up. I did dat fer t’ree or four days, till de steamer come and took ya ta Cartwright ta de hospital.”
Sarah Holwell, a Spotted Island resident who was working in the Cartwright hospital at the time, had come home for a short visit. She was asked to accompany me to Cartwright, about 60 miles away. We travelled on Dr. Forsyth’s schooner, the SS Unity. He was the resident doctor living in Cartwright then.
“What kind of shape was I in?” I asked Sarah many years later.
“Ya was some sick, my dear,” she said, “but ya was alert. Ya didn’t jus lie there. I changed yer dressing in Table Bay when we stopped fer the night and yer head looked terrible! We didn’t have any medicines or anythin! But ya didn’t cry much atall, just whimpered a little through de night. I’d seen dog bites before, but yers was de worst I’d ever seen.”
“How long was I in the hospital?”
“Oh … bout a month, I tink, but ya was a tough little girl. And I remember yer beautiful blond hair. Dey took a razor an shaved it all off.”
According to the story, when I arrived at the hospital in Cartwright, the doctor discovered my mother had done such a good job of dressing and treating my wounds that they couldn’t sew up the badly torn flesh. It had healed too well, so they decided to treat them as they were. Dr. Forsyth told Mom that my skull was too exposed and that a skin graft was needed to cover it.
“I’ll never ferget when ya come home. Ya looked so cute in yer little red-and-white polka-dot dress,” Mom told me years later. “But I was broken-hearted because all yer blond ringlets was gone. Jus gone! And now yer hair