Our home wasn’t a castle, but it had more love than wallpaper. Well, it never had wallpaper, come to think of it…

Howard Nickerson has lived all his 69 years on the Sawdust Trail—a narrow road on the outskirts of Yarmouth, NS. The tall tamarack tree near his deck is one his father, who worked as a carpenter’s helper, planted when Nickerson was born; the fields and waters near his house are all filled with memories.

Nickerson grew up with no running water or electricity, but his community was rich in other ways. In his 60s, he decided to write down some of his memories to share with his six siblings. But when members of the Yarmouth Area Memoir Group heard these stories, they helped him publish them in book form. He’s now written two books called Sawdust Trail Memories, and is working on a third.

Nickerson still holds to the spirit of hospitality he was raised with. When I contacted him about an interview, his first question was: “Do you like battered haddock?” When I walked through the door of his home, the fish was battered, the oil was hot, and the biscuits were fresh out of the oven.

Our home was a very basic home. I don’t think there was any window big enough you could crawl out of. The bedroom was upstairs. The stairs going up were like a wooden ladder—they were almost vertical. You’d get up so far and you’d pull yourself up to the floor. There was no platform, but nobody ever got hurt.

The room was divided by a hanging blanket. The girls slept on one side of the blanket, and the boys on the other. The roof was sloped, and I slept under a low part, so I made sure to never sit up too fast, or I’d wind up grading my hair. When you’d wake up in the morning, if it was cold, you could see the frost on the roofing nails—and you knew if Dad had a fire going, because you’d get a drip on you when the frost started to melt from the heat coming up the steps.

On the boys’ side of the room, the honey bucket was right beside the chimney. If you had to go in the middle of the night, you’d huddle up with your back to the chimney to stay warm.

Nobody ever complained. Nobody said, “So-and-so has a toilet in their house.” We had a toilet, we’d just have to go out and empty it. Mom, who worked cleaning houses, said we never had to worry about paying a water bill.

Argyle Street was nearby, and they had power and indoor plumbing. Sawdust Trail never had power. But the other kids didn’t make fun of us. They didn’t have much more to eat than we did.

When I walk down this road, I remember all the different people that lived here. Everybody was generous, but they had a way of being charitable that didn’t feel like charity. Someone might say, “Howard, do you think your mom would like some of these cookies? I made too many. I don’t know what I was thinking!” But, they did… they knew what they were thinking. Or they’d give me some strawberries to take home, then later bring down a pair of pants for my mom to hem so she would have something to do in return.

Nobody locked their door. A friend was a friend, and a neighbour was a neighbour.

It wasn’t all hunky-dory though. I remember one young guy on the outskirts of our area, who went to the same elementary school as me. One day, he invited me and my sister over to play. I remember I had a pullover and jeans on, and when we got to his house, he said, “I’ll be right back. I’ve got to go change into my play clothes.” We were already in our play clothes! Then we heard his mother say, “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring that trash home?” My sister and I—our heads just went down, and we walked home. The funny thing was, that boy would sneak around so he could play with us, but we were never invited back to his house again. We had patches on our clothes. Of course nowadays, you’d call that fashion.

We were poor, but I never realized it until it was pointed out to me. One night—this must be 40 years ago, when I was in my late 20s—my sister and her boyfriend were sitting with me in the old homestead. He was listening to us going on, and he was surprised by some of our stories. He said, “You were really poor!” That was like a slap to the back to the head. Poor? We didn’t know what poor meant.

I started working in the cotton mill when I was 19, and my sister Portia got a job there too. That’s when things changed. Extra things started to come home: Scotties potato chips, a case of bars. And mom started getting some nice stuff too. We bought new dishes, silverware, and nice material for her to sew with.

I worked at the mill 29 years, until it shut down. A few years later, I got a full-time job as the custodian at the Wesleyan Church, and they had a library. I saw Robinson Crusoe on the shelves, and I remembered my mother telling us that story when we were little. Something made me pick it up and read it. It was the first book I read through in my whole life. I couldn’t put books down after that. I loved them.

When my wife, Marie, and I would go visit friends, after eating we’d sit in the living room and someone would often say, “Howard, tell us one of you stories from when you were a kid.” I thought that was odd. Why would they want to hear that? But everywhere I went, people would ask me to tell stories—so I became a storyteller.

When I wrote my first book, the stories were on typed sheets bound together. There was just one copy for each of my brothers and sisters. I wanted us to get together round the kitchen table and remember the old times and the stories we’d tell. In our house, the kitchen table was where we lived. It was the centre of attraction. We did our homework there, that’s where we had our cuts and scratches repaired, and where Mom did her knitting and sewing. That’s where things were discussed and debated, meals were served, and tears were shed.

After I wrote down the stories, a lady from the church where I worked asked me to come to her memoir writing group and read some of them. They said they would help me publish it, They held bake sales and yard sales, and $1,200 or $1,300 later, I had the first books in my lap. That was two years ago.

I read one of the stories on CBC radio. Then the phone rang, and Marie answered it. It was a lady who heard me on the radio, and wanted me to read the story to her husband. I said, “Does he have his pyjamas on?” I read him the story, and he didn’t say a word until the end. Then he said, “I want the book.”

Now I’ve sold about 1,200 copies through the Internet and one little store.

I think people like the books because they are a love story—a love story between a son, his mom, his dad and his siblings. Our home wasn’t a castle, but it had more love than wallpaper. Well, it never had wallpaper, come to think of it. We had a white ceiling with Simpsons-Sears paper on the ceiling to cover a hole made by a rat.

People relate to the stories, especially the older people. One lady came to me with tears coming down her eyes and she said, “You brought me home.”

I’m not looking for remuneration. The memories were given to me. They didn’t cost me anything.

I did buy myself a few things, like a laptop that I can use for writing, and I gave some money to the Salvation Army, and a few people got some things they never dreamed they’d get.

My wife gets a bit mad at me because I live in the past sometimes. If she gets out a big jug of cranberry juice, I’ll go and save the empty jug thinking that would be a good thing to carry water in. Well we don’t need to carry water. But I might still keep it. If I’m going camping, we can use it then.

To order a copy of Sawdust Trail Memories, Once More Around the Kitchen Table and Beyond contact Howard Nickerson by e-mail: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..