A Memoir by Sheila Wilensky
Deep in December the teacher and her husband ventured to Twillingate, Newfoundland. A remote island where tall Rocky cliffs jutted this way and that, high above the frigid North Atlantic. Where one thousand humans lived out quiet lives. Where “culture” played out at the Pig & Whistle bar, hidden in the woods, far from family life and the one island elementary school.
The teacher and her husband had headed North, taking three days to get from their Maine island home to their winter vacation venue.
“I love all islands,” she announced to no one in particular.
As destiny would have it, Newfoundland — which joined Canada in 1949 and the twentieth century much later — perched on the bottom of her favorite island list.
“It looks like we’re landing on the moon,” the teacher grumbled as they disembarked from the ferry following their wild night crossing the Cabot Strait from Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia.
Knocked off the couch repeatedly by the rocking and rolling ship, she hit the floor multiple times, which interrupted her dreams. She was not happy.
Could this ship possibly sink? Might she freeze to death on this godforsaken island?
“This place is all rock,” she told her husband as they watched snow gusts bursting across their truck’s windshield. “This isn’t my kind of place.”
Her husband loved the people, with their traditional fishing life. They would stay with old friends he hadn’t seen in years.
It was no surprise that the Pig & Whistle existed mostly for the pleasure of men downing a pint or two. Or three. If they needed to pee the surrounding woods served as their bathroom.
As soon as they arrived at his friends’ home, the wife showed off their newly installed modern bathroom.
“What a pretty vase of (fake) lilacs!” sitting on the toilet top, the teacher exclaimed
What could she say, how strange it was that the new plumbing wasn’t hooked up yet?
She really had to pee.
The three others, nestled by the warmth of the woodstove chatting and laughing, may not have heard the teacher stand and say, “I’m going to the outhouse.”
The house door slammed shut behind her. The wind outside yelped in her ears like a pack of wolves.
With her brown-spotted rabbit fur hat atop her head, she gingerly opened the outhouse door, which also slammed shut behind her.
One outhouse hole awaited her. As quickly as possible the teacher unzipped her heavy purple down parka, dropping it on the old wooden outhouse floor. The teacher rushed to unfasten her snow pants. Pulled down her long silk underwear Christmas gift her husband gave her from L.L. Bean.
Getting ready for the trip of a lifetime?
Finally, being able to relieve herself felt glorious. Layer by layer, she hiked her clothing back up again. Turning to leave she tried the outhouse door. The rusty lock wouldn’t budge.
Oh no! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Hell, we’re on vacation.
The teacher was in trouble. Stress tingled at the top of her head. Fear hit her like a hammer.
Recalling that the heater inside the house sounded like a car engine, she imagined her husband and his friends sharing funny fishing stories. Downing one more beer.
How long would it take for her to turn into an ice sculpture? Why had she agreed to come to this horrendous place? Would anyone miss her?
She had never been so cold. Her rabbit hat and the wool scarf wrapped around her neck wouldn’t save her. Icy pellets were whipping through a hole in the ceiling.
I’m a goner, she figured. Convinced that no one would hear her, she yelled louder and louder, Help, help!
Boom. Boom. Boom. The teacher heard her heart pounding. Would this be her end?
This wasn’t a silly Newfoundland joke about who caught the bigger fish. No. I’m sure no one will walk by to hear me in the middle of nowhere.
The doomed teacher foresaw the Bar Harbor Times headline back home. “Maine teacher freezes to death in Newfoundland outhouse.” And she couldn’t help but laugh.
At least she no longer had to pee.
* * *
Sheila Wilensky weaves a lifetime of book-loving experience as the former owner of OZ Children’s Bookstore in Southwest Harbor, Maine (1982-1997), and as a writer/editor/journalist and high school/college social science teacher. Escaping winter in Tucson from 2002 to 2021, Sheila served as associate editor of the Arizona Jewish Post for a decade, where she won a First Place for Excellence in Feature Writing Simon Rockower Award from the American Jewish Press Association. She currently lives in Minneapolis near her magnificent two grandchildren. Sheila is a freelance writer/editor who occasionally blogs at Tucsonwritereditor.com.