By Patricia Flax

(Patricia Flax grew up in Antigua, and in this article remembers the days of her Antiguan youth in the 1970's. Ms. Flax now lives in Chicago in a small beach community outside Chicago.)

As a child, I looked forward to special early morning trips to Darkwood with my father and my grandfather. These trips were taken once a month, as my grandfather lived in St. John's but had a beautiful plot of land there. He had planted a coconut grove next to a tranquil mangrove, which was home to many species of migrating birds. The sight of that combination was a tropical splendor to behold.

These trips were always taken way before dawn. My Grandfather would call the night before to solicit a ride from my Father as he needed to harvest coconuts, mangoes or sweet potatoes. I loved going on these trips, smelling the early morning country air.

And so it was, well before the sun broke, I was being called out of bed by my Dad, who had only to beckon me once as I shot up dead straight in my bed, wide awake, ready to go with my clothes already on from the night before. My mother always marveled at that; remarking the evening after, that she could never get me to respond that way on a regular school day, or any other day for that matter.

Those trips to the country with my Dad and Granddad were held dear to me. This was a rare moment to spend with the patriarchs of the family. But it was not just their company, it had something to do with the drive, the smell of the morning air, and the awe of a tropical sunrise. I remember well how I use to lie quietly in the back of the old Austin with my eyes closed until I thought we were well out of St. Johns. Invariably I would open my eyes around Government House. As we went around the bend I would make note of the Catholic Church steeple ahead. When we got to my grandfather’s home I would bolt upright, waiting for him to close his gate and get in the car. He would greet me with the same game we always played. " What’s up?"

Knowing I could not say the sun, he would have a twinkle in his eyes, awaiting a "smart alec" response. Sometimes I would say "the stars," or " the sky;" usually mundane responses that would have cut the conversation short. It was just too early and too quiet a morning to talk to anyone. My Dad, quiet and respectful, would wait patiently till his father placed his garden tools and crocus bags in the trunk of the car. He would then climb into the front seat next to my father with the same greeting every time in his Virgin Gorda accent, " What’s the news ma son?" My father would respond almost immediately, " Ooooh, no news, no news at all, Sir" I always mused at those two, silent in their love for each other, yet, clearly visible was a fondness, a bond of father and son about the business of life and work and family.

My Grandfather was a tall, imposing man who walked with his head held high. He reminded me of Mr. McGregor in the series of Peter Rabbit. A fisherman, boat builder, turned farmer, he had the golden touch with his crops. His mangoes were juicy and sweet, the yellow plums were so good that birds picked at them all the time and his "bellyful mangoes brought admirers to his mini orchard to gaze and wonder and partake. He was an expert farmer who worked hard. A strong determined and dare I say, stubborn man. My Dad would start a conversation which would eventually turn into a respectful and soft-spoken discussion. Sometimes they would have minor disagreements which were always short-lived. More often than not though, the journey would be taken in total and complete silence which I loved.

I loved those journeys out to Darkwood, in the early mornings, well before the sun broke. I would return to my position in the back seat, lying on my back, my hands clasped behind my head and my feet tucked underneath my body; eyes open now, looking at the sky as the sun began to push upwards, brimming with clear brightness of a tropical morning. We moved slowly past Golden Grove which always seemed to have the strong smell of early-morning coal pot smoke. The branches of the coconut trees hung low over the road, spreading out as if welcoming us into the village. As we moved slowly further into the country, the sounds of cocks crowing became louder and plentiful. They seemed to answer each other.

I always loved this area, I loved the smell of the grassy pasture as we passed Mr. Halls Estate. The sound of the cows in the background , the rustle of their chains and cow bells as they moved from one pasture to another. From time to time, my Dad would have to stop, patiently wait for a cow to pass across the country road. At times, my Grandfather would shout " Shooo" to the cow, making gestures with his hands. This never ever worked and I always wondered why he even bothered to do it. "Just set in his ways," my Dad would say when I eventually inquired once.

Bolans Village was always my favorite village. I looked forward to this part of the journey for to me, there was magical dream -world awaiting. At the entrance into the village to the left, going south, stood a perfectly sparkling white house with an enchanting doll house in the center of a perfectly manicured green lawn. Right next to that house was one of my friends home, someone whom I later would call my "cousin"

And though it was always quite early in the morning, I would always look for her, or a glimpse of her parents. By the time we got to Bolans, the sun would be up and the village would be busy, with busses whizzing by, or people bustling about, herding goats, carting water on their heads, women fanning coal pots with the breakfast cooking. I knew the end was near, as we moved over the hill passing Valley Church and seeing ahead the awesome splendor of the mangrove swamp and the coconut grove which was planted by my grandfather.

The long awaited journey had come to an end. My Grandfather and my father would spend the time picking coconuts and digging up sweet potatoes and other root crops, filling my father’s car trunk full to be taken back to St. John’s to be sold on Saturdays at the Market. There were mangoes too and I especially like walking through what to me was the woods to get to the John Peter Kidney mangoes, sweet and firm. Sometimes, I would feast on those or the tart tamarinds from the tree at the end of the beach. I would wonder off on my own, with my AM pocket radio with an ear phone stuck in one ear and the other free to hear the gentle lap of the Caribbean sea on the sparking white shore. After my walk, I would sit underneath a coconut tree and watch as the stripped black and yellow school of fish darting between the coral shoal nearby. I would sit, in dreamy, surreal world. There was something awesomely powerful about Darkwood Beach. It was shallow enough to wade in and catch life teeming in the coral shelf which seemed to be slowly creeping closer to the shore every year. Yet, two steps out and you were in deep waters.

The waters were always pristine and warm, especially in the early morning. Unlike at any other beach, I would stand with my back to the horizon and just slowly and lazily take in the awe of the view in front of me. The mangrove pond with the grace of seagulls gracefully soaring and circling. In the foreground, the beauty of hundreds of coconut trees, swaying to the sound of the surf behind me. The majestic green of the mountains ahead . How could one not feel totally in tune with Antigua's natural symphony… a Darkwood experience.

Then, the magic would be broken with the sounds of our car starting, my father beckoning me to get in, time to get back, back through the villages, all teaming with movement. Back home to my grandfather’s home, to help unload the bounty; bidding him farewell until my Saturday visit. Then onwards to St. John’s along East Street, around the Round About and back home to get ready for school. To my school, back to reality.

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