Dear Editor,
Nowadays, short of quarantining oneself completely, there is no escape from the news, particularly from reports of folks going back in the past, seemingly, in an effort to address and redress past and present ills. These reports and September’s back-to-school fast approaching may have stirred up old impressions and prompted this attempt to revisit the Sandy Ground of the mid 50s and early 60s, the Sandy Ground of my youth: the old Sandy Ground.
But, as everyone knows, particularly, old-timers, there is no going back to our Sandy Ground, or to anywhere else, for that matter. And even if we could, no one would care, except, maybe, a few of us geezers.
The Sandy Ground of our youth is no longer there. It is no longer anywhere, except in our thoughts, in the minds of a few of us. Our Sandy Ground is all pitched over. The “Pondside” has vanished – there is no trace of it! And Miss Toto’s stick fence is long, long gone. Our Sandy Ground: the “Bayside,” the “Pondside,” the “Gaps,” “Miss Olive’s” and “Chapel Gap,” they have all been buried, pushed beneath the boulders, the pavement and the structures. Our Sandy Ground has long since been made to sink, to melt-away and disappeared into Marigot.
Some folks may think this unfortunate, painfully so. But there is no point in crying over the past: over places we cherished, over hands we once held and arms that held us. There is no point in lamenting over all such things that were and folks who used to be. Our Sandy Ground is no longer there, but hope abounds: the sea and the sun are everywhere and the rains are still coming down Marigot Hill. And come September, once again, the schoolyards will be full of life and laughter: promises for the future. And for all of this, we can be thankful, we must be grateful.
Nowadays, the uninformed, the unaware: the ignorant can rejoice on the “Front de Mer,” the Water Front; they can dine, shop and admire the rich scenery. But some of us old-timers can also visit the old “Bayside.” We can still see folks frolicking in the sand and in the sea, fishing boats at rest on a white sandy beach and waves cresting, breaking upon the reef. We can see past and through all of the new structures on the Water Front; beyond the lush foliage of the sandbox trees, all the way up the “Bayside” to Marigot, the wharf, the Fort Hill and the Light House.
Up there, below Mr. Armand Gumbs’ place, just above the wharf, is the corral, that massive enclosure where some cattle are penned. Although it is Sunday, if we are lucky, the animals will soon be led down, one by one, to the seashore, by the wharf. From there they’ll be made to swim out to the sloop that awaits them in deeper water. But getting them there is no easy task.
Indeed! At the water’s edge, right next to the wharf, powerful arms will wrestle the beasts, and tie them by their horns to both sides of a solid, sturdy barge. And then, flanked by its hoofed swimmers, their heads above the water line and terror in their eyes, the heavy cargo barge will start moving slowly away from the shoreline.
Standing near the stern, leaning backward towards the bow, with both hands on the end of a giant oar, a sculler will begin his swivel-like dance; turning and twisting his torso. The blade of his monster oar will cut and sweep the sea below him as it pushes the heavy craft forward with some help from the hoofed swimmers. Out in the deep, the precious cargo, the beasts, will be hoisted aboard the sloop to be taken afar to another shore where they’ll fall beneath the blades of butchers.
Gérard M. Hunt
