Photographed by Rosamund Cabey
As the volcano has taken our physical homes the images beckon.
Yesterday I was looking at some pictures and came across this image. It is an area in what we call the danger zone called Cork Hill on the Western side of the island. The volcano erupted very close to this area, so close in fact that they would feel the heat of it if it were still inhabited. Everyone has been relocated to the direct North now. When I saw the image it seemed as if for a minute that time had stood still. It felt as if no lapse of time had intervened between when this area was inhabited and when the photograph had been taken. Looking at all what has happened in Montserrat I can say that in the face of adversity this oven still stands proudly on someone’s property, displaying pieces of the past.
The picture of the rock oven brings to mind memories of the past. Every Friday my grandmother would bake bread. Back in the day, I would make a pilgrimage to the side of the house to collect some wood. My Uncles brought the wood in bundles throughout the week. My grandmother would put it in the rock oven so that it could be heated. We also picked balsam in the pastures that lay below out house. We tied the balsam to a long stick which was used as a broom to sweep the coals. The coals were formed as a result of the burnt wood. After the oven was swept, it was left for awhile to reduce the heat. Then about one hundred to two hundred loaves of cylindrical dough were placed on banana leaves and placed in the oven to bake for approximately one hour. I did not like the chores because my free spirit wanted to be down by the river below the house to catch crayfish or watching the water flow down the river banks.
When the bread was taken out the aroma of the bread seemed so rich and powerful. It seems as if no other smell can compare to nor would any smell overcome it. All I wanted to do was to add some salt butter (a little red butter) and get a cup of lemonade we call swank. The bread that we toiled so hard for was given away easily to any stranger that would grace my grandmother presence; they were the first recipients of our hard labour. I can now say (since University/Business School) that these pieces of bread were loss leaders and were used to cultivate powerful relationships. Ninety percent of the time a total stranger would always mange to show up Fridays when the bread was ready.
As I grow older I realize that the root and foundation of my grandmother’s life was relationships. Her relationships had struggles, crooked parts and bends that stretched a mile but at the core the bonds that she formed were deep and strong. Like the bread she baked to feed the community, the relationships also nourished the inner self; which gave vitality and vibrancy to my life and to those whom she encountered.
The wealth of our lives is measured by the relationships we foster. For me bread typifies the community spirit because of its sustenance it provides a living, nurture, food, fulfillment and life.
