George Henry Newton had a dream. His dream was to get out of Zion, Nevis. The village was poverty stricken. He ventured abroad and entered the United States. He became a soldier and fought in W. W. II. Fortunately, he escaped the ravages of the battle field. During the post war years, he acquired a career, raised his family, made his mark but became victim of a dependency. He died at age fifty four, but his eldest son did not let his legacy die with him.

OUT OF ZION

A SOLDIER'S DREAMS, DEMONS AND DESTINATIONBy GEORGE HOWARD NEWTON

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 George Howard Newton
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6956-2

Contents

Preface....................................................xiIntroduction...............................................xiii1. They Called It Snow Island..............................12. Zion Was Agricultural...................................153. No Jews in Zion.........................................234. The Community Center....................................455. The Army Called.........................................536. A Civilian Again........................................657. Settled in Puerto Rico..................................738. The Mail Must Go........................................819. Santeria Understood.....................................8910. A Time to Die..........................................9311. I'm OK.................................................10112. I Smoke, So What?......................................10513. I Drink and It's Nobody's Business.....................10914. Emigration: The Escape Valve...........................113References.................................................117Glossary...................................................119About the Author...........................................121

Chapter One

THEY CALLED IT SNOW ISLAND

My father reminisced. He thought of his school days in Zion, Nevis. He recalled that this little island was named, the Isle of Snows.

"Snows....," he pondered. "That's nieves in Columbus' vernacular."

We both agreed that snow was alien to Nevis. It was not a welcomed precipitation on this tropical island.

"Columbus was drunk if indeed he so named the island," he argued.

"That's a strong indictment against the navigator, Dad," I submitted.

"I know, but we must face reality," Dad countered.

"Well, if Columbus was drunk as you allege, it takes a thief to catch a thief," I volunteered cautiously.

Dad and I chuckled playfully. It was one of our many lighter moments of passing the time. And so, I proposed a counter explanation how Nieves became anglicized to Nives and ultimately Nevis.

It was my guess that the navigator hallucinated. He sailed by the island about that time when the night-light and pitch darkness played tricks on the sight. Or, he possibly passed by the island just after midnight when apparitions were prevalent.

"That's superstition," Dad warned. I didn't challenge him then. However, we agreed that the intent was not to bash the navigator. He stood forgiven since he operated out of ignorance and innocence.

Already, Dad told my siblings that he and I were born on a fifty square mile island. If nothing else, teachers taught with much regularity the size and capital of all the islands. Great pride emanate in students when they learned that their homeland was bigger than others. It stemmed from an insular pride which proposed that "bigger was better."

In more recent years, an updated information brochure advertised that Nevis was thirty six square miles. How could that be allowed? A small island became smaller.

Dad felt betrayed. How could he report to his children that he was native of an island that shrunk (almost overnight). That new revelation was preposterous, he thought. Fourteen square miles of real estate just disappeared.

"What really happened?" My father inquired. "That's hilarious. It's incredible." Dad was curious. He was still doubtful of the veracity of the new knowledge.

Earthquakes shook Nevis over the years. The heavy ones did not submerge any land mass. Maritime erosion was not so aggressive to rob an island of so much land in two generations. The seashore and beaches had not disappeared noticeably. Consequently, I submitted that the early map-makers made a hell-of-an-error. Could this blunder have contributed to our small-mindedness and insularity? My father was unimpressed.

My sister Lilly called from Washington. She prepared a photo album for my nephew's thirtieth birthday. As she undertook the project, she realized that she possessed very few tangibles to acknowledge her Nevis connection and paternal roots.

"Dad never told us anything about Nevis," Lilly reported. Although she exaggerated a little, I understood her plight. I recognized a genuine concern for delving into her ancestry. Maybe Alex Haley's Roots was a response to such motivation. Off-springs need to belong. They need to understand their past even if the past was littered with the trappings of poverty. Perchance they could plan for a future which defied the ravages and scars that accompanied such humble origin.

What was there to tell? He was just a country boy who walked barefoot. The limitations of the rural setting monopolized his thoughts and ideas. He rode and fell from the donkey like other village lads. But there was no comfort to remember or rehearse the depressing conditions of one's past. The defense mechanism of the mind had a way of obscuring those conditions and experiences that were downright unpleasant or life threatening.

Nonetheless, my father had a recurring dream of a better life. There were no huge buildings in Zion as he saw in books. There were no museums and art galleries. There were no concert halls and theaters. Telephone service, radio and television were non-existent. Transportation was primitive. Health and religion were a confusing mix. Role models were scarce. Poverty had a strangle hold on everyone. It had a tight grip on fathers, mothers and children.

Deprived as he was, the island boy could still tell of his parental ties. George Henry was born to William and Lillian Newton. It was 1919, and the Great War had ended.

His father, William, grew up in the western side of the island (St. Thomas' Parish). He relocated to Zion where he set up residence with his wife. Willy was the son of Bowman who was a mulatto. He was the product of an African house slave and a white English planter. Grandpa Bowman lived in Barnes Ghaut on thirteen acres of land.

Dada Willy had two paternal siblings. Norman lived in Cotton Ground, and he tilled the land to earn a living. Rebecca married a door-to-door clothing salesman. She relocated to Newtown, St. Kitts. Actually, Aunt Becky inherited her father's thirteen acre property. She didn't share with her two brothers. Selfishly, she sold the real estate in parcels. And of course, "the fool and its money soon parted." She died a pauper, and I was called to accept the funeral expenses. Neither Norman nor Rebecca bore any children.

My father's paternal grandmother was surnamed Paris. She had three other children. Uncle Charlie was the youngest and he followed Dada to reside in Gingerland. He also married into the Swanston's family. Aunt Hilda was the wife of Charlie Gumbs, a seine fisherman. They lived in Low Street, Charlestown. Uncle Fred was the life of a party. He and Aunt Maude were kind and caring. They lived in Jessups Village. I recalled spending many weekends at their home. Except for Aunt Hilda, all the siblings eked out their livelihood from the land through peasant farming.

Mama Newton came from an extended family of Swanstons. Her father was Dodo Swanston. He also fathered Ben, Joe, Bill and Wenny.

Ben lived an interesting life. He had the courage to migrate to Venezuela where he lived as a gold-digger. For months, he went to the mountains in search of the precious ore. Obviously, his correspondence was irregular. Once in a while, he wrote to his sister Lillian and included some remittance for her. Occasionally, he wrote to my father relating his adventure in the Venezuelan interior. Suddenly, a 1956 correspondence was the last. We heard no more of him.

Mama Newton was elated to give birth to her first son, Henry. Mortality took its toll on earlier pregnancies. Three earlier births were miscarriages. They were all girls. She was a seamstress by trade. She adopted two methods of preparing a dress. She measured her customers by sight. She looked closely at the configuration of their bodies. All sizings were done without tape measure. Or, she used an old garment to cut the design for the new dress. There were no fabricated paper patterns in those days. However, her hand-spun noisy old Singer machine manufactured the final product.

Mama had three favored customers. Annie Simmonds, a New York returnee, who settled halfway up Zion Hill and toiled the land. Ellen Amory was the partner of Lionel Powell — one of the two chauffeurs in the parish. Lill James was a Junior Standard teacher (Kindergarten). Evidently, she was one of the few workers in the village who earned a monthly salary.

Mama Newton was a privileged lady. She could read, write and calculate. She ably managed the household expenses. She even included Dada's cigarettes in the weekly shopping list. In the absence of the amenities of lights, water and telephone, she controlled all financial transactions.

She was a disciplined, no-nonsense and private individual. She had a handful of friends, and she was extremely kind. She was always sharing something with the neighbors. She was particularly interested in young girls' deportment. Eunice Brooks who later became Evangelist Griffin was one in whom she took special interest. Mama had a way to tell the young ladies "keep themselves to themselves."

My dad, George Henry had two siblings. Melford was his younger brother. Nora was his only sister.

Nora had a sheltered upbringing. She was privileged to learn the piano. She migrated to Curacao, a Dutch island which experienced an economic upturn because of oil refining. She spent over thirty years abroad and retired in St. Eustatius (Statia), a small Dutch island adjacent to St. Kitts. On Statia, Miss Nora was known as the "Popcorn Lady." She peddled the ware at local festivities and gatherings.

Melford was very fair in complexion. Except for his hair, he could "pass." He was taller and had hazel eyes. Perhaps these traits came from a genetic strain given by his mulatto grandfather.

Even after Dad migrated, he was concerned about his brother's health. Uncle Melford suffered frequently from asthma attacks. Later, it was diagnosed that among other allergens, he was allergic to eggs. Coincidentally, when he got sick a common body building food was a diet with eggs. My father supplied him with the latest inhalers to unclog the bronchial tubes. Yet, the asthma relief was temporary.

Melford had ten children- seven boys and three girls. Stephen was the eldest. He was a mason and became the maintenance man for Roberto Santana gymnasium in Puerto Rico. Sylvia got married and raised a family in San Martin. Donald migrated to England. He served in the British navy. Enid left for Puerto Rico and raised her family in Ponce. Cecil lived and died prematurely in St. Martin. Phyllis remained in Nevis at the family home. She was physically challenged. Lewis was trained in New York as an architect. He returned to Nevis to serve as town planner. Sydney had veterinary training. He became the manager for the Nevis Credit Union. Vincent, a Rastafarian, worked for Public Works. Frances, the youngest, experienced an untimely death in a motorcycle accident.

Melford had an unflinching desire to serve God and his church. Canon Dr. Alston Percival, parish priest remarked:

Melford was in God's church all his life. By way of his experience as a server for over sixty years, he served many Bishops. He helped young clergymen to learn their altar duties. He made the job of visiting priests easy during their stint while the resident priest was on furlough. The priests could have depended on Melford to be present to assist at any service. So many times, he left airport, seaport and any other jobs to serve his God. Besides, he was never found at the airport or any taxi duties on a Sunday. Melford was a real servant-a real servant finishes his tasks, fulfills his responsibilities, keeps his promises and completes his commitments.

At nine, my father relocated from Zion to Webbe's Ground. The 1928 hurricane destroyed the wooden makeshift dwelling. The family rebuilt a two room tenement on a quarter acre plot. This plot was inherited from Grandma Swanston.

The entire acreage was Swanston's property. North of Mama's plot was Cousin Lulu. Directly south was Aunt Mittit. Adjacent to that house spot was Aunt Darling. A long forested ridge bordered the area and sloped toward the ravine-Business Ghaut. This was common property for family members and was overgrown with a variety of fruit trees.

The RIDGE was not without conflict; it was no Garden of Eden either. Relatives came from afar off. They picked fruits which others grudgingly eyed for their own harvesting.

Henry, as his parents chose to call him (instead of George), experienced an ordinary childhood like most village boys of meager means. He was responsible for early morning chores. There were six to eight sheep to pasture; two pigs to feed; drinking water to be carted from the public stand-pipe. Occasionally, he fetched fresh bottled milk which his father drew from the cow's udder. All these chores were completed before the school bell rang at 9:00 a.m.

Telling time was elusive. Few homes possessed time pieces (clocks). Early risers gauged the hour by the roosters' crowing or the donkeys' braying. They seemed to be regular and consistent except "when they were hungry." Other villagers guessed the hour depending on the position of the sun in the sky. School children took a less precise route. They made a heavenly appeal.

"By St. Peter, by St. Paul.

Tell me whether I'm early or late."

They'd hurl a straw in the air and observe the pattern established as

it fell. When the straw landed upright, they were early (for school). If the straw landed horizontally, they were late. (They'd better hurry on to school).

School tardiness was punishable. Spanking was administered. This gruesome practice seemed unfair. There was great demand on children to complete morning chores before heading to school. These lines from my poem Primary School Days explained the insensitivity.

Joe-Joe walked miles to school each day. The times he'd buckle and fall, I dare not say. Brother-man held his hand in haste, The sun was high; no time to waste. If they were late for that first bell, All hell broke loose; their backs would tell.

Schooling was marginal at best. The school house was a one room structure. It was owned by the Methodist Church that had an interest in educating the offspring of slaves. The stone wall made it impregnable and was a safe hurricane shelter. The building had the crammed seating capacity for two hundred children. However, shade trees in the playground provided supplementary accommodation.

"We don't want you to do what we are doing. Field work is back breaking and thankless," Mama Newton prophesied.

My father's parents often stressed the importance of an education to unleash new opportunities for a better life. Consequently, Dad attended school regularly. His parents never kept him away to help plant or harvest crops.

In school, three basic subjects were emphasized: Reading, Writing and Arithmetic. Reading was confined to a basal, the Nelson's West Indian Reader. The Reader was designed for seven different levels or standards. Each level got progressively more challenging. Reading matter ranged from Master Willy and nursery rhymes to Aesop's Fables and Acts from Shakespeare's comedies or tragedies.

Writing was often confused with penmanship. Writing was reduced to letter writing (friendly and business). Much emphasis was placed on "analyze and parse." This exercise aided the students in "putting their words in proper places." It was an effort to overcome the sub-standard dialect usage by utilizing proper grammatical constructs.

Understandably so, penmanship was emphasized. There were no type writers. A purchase was beyond the villagers' means. Consequently, my father had good penmanship skills showing letter clarity and legibility. He applied for a clerical job at the St. Kitts Sugar Factory. The interviewer reviewed his application. Somehow, he mistakenly concluded that the penmanship exhibited the style of a female writer. We joked at Dad's identity as "George became Georgina."

Arithmetic involved the four basic operations (addition, subtraction, multiplication and division). Students memorized multiplication tables. They needed to have the facts at their "fingertips." Mental arithmetic was a common practice. Students were required to compute exercises mentally (no scratch paper) in seconds. Sometimes, there were harsh consequences when responses were faulty or slow in coming.

Though diminutive in height as compared to his peers, Henry was bright. He was a clever student - clever enough that Mrs. Flaherty the headmistress, recognized his talent at an early age. She often reported to his parents that he was an exceptional student.

At fourteen, Henry passed the Standard Seven Examination. This proficiency was the standard entry level for limited job offerings. The recipients of the certificate qualified to enter the work world of apprenticeship in teaching. It was also entry for nursing, police, or clerical positions. Consequently, Henry was selected to be a pupil teacher.

Attaining a Standard Seven Certificate did not ascertain that the student got a job. Occasionally, a youngster repeated the exam for two or three years and became the holder of multiple certificates. There was no certainty that employment was available.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from OUT OF ZIONby GEORGE HOWARD NEWTON Copyright © 2010 by George Howard Newton. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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