There were hardships, yes, but life was sweet—and the work was truly a labour of love

I have always loved the sea in all its moods. My love of lighthouses came a bit later, settled into my bones, and still lives in my heart.

Lynne Wolfe grew up in LaHave, NS, where she could see Moshers Island from the schoolhouse window. She believed—and still believes—that if you wish hard enough for something, it will eventually happen, and she yearned to visit the island. She had a love of the sea, of islands.

Lynne’s father, a blacksmith and insurance agent, the sole provider for the family, was killed in a car accident when Lynne, the youngest of five children, was 11 years old. His death no doubt influenced the choices she made, or the choices that were made for her, at a young age.

I talked with Lynne from her inland home on the Mount Pleasant Road, in West LaHave, NS.

I have always loved the sea in all its moods. My love of lighthouses came a bit later, settled into my bones, and still lives in my heart.

I married Ingram Wolfe when he was 22 and I was 15. A year later, in 1961, we moved with our daughter, Heather, to West Ironbound Island. I was pregnant with my second child and we had agreed to keep the light for two weeks to a month. Because automation was being discussed, a contract was determined on a temporary basis.

As it turned out, we ended up living in the three-bedroom lighthouse for five years.

Everything reeked of the kerosene that was used to power the light. Kerosene and coal were delivered by Transport Canada and dumped on the beach. The oil had to be poured into smaller containers, shoved up the slipway, then up a steep bank, where it was transferred once again by hand pump to another receptacle, accessible by ladder. My clothes were often soaked in oil when they accidentally overfilled the tank.

Ingram and I also scoured the shoreline in a dory, gathering driftwood to augment the coal that was used in the cook stove and furnace.

I did all our wash on a scrub board and relied on the sun and the island breezes to dry it. Many times my wash would be whipped to tatters or blown off into the ocean, sometimes causing a shortage of diapers.

The wind often extinguished the flame in the lamp—indoors. The smoke from the kerosene created streamers of soot that resembled herring nets, which I had to scrub off the ceiling.

The kitchen was equipped with a hand pump for water and a wood- and coal-fired stove that also served to heat our house. Water was heated in a tank attached to the stove. The washtub had many uses. It was typical of farmhouses of that era where there were no modern conveniences, and everything was labour intensive.

The outside toilet was located on a steep incline a distance from the house. There was a chemical toilet reserved for nighttime use, but no one chose to use it, as no one wanted to empty it.

Grocery shopping was done when weather permitted. Everything had to be transported onto a boat, from the larger boat to a dory we rowed to shore, then dragged up the hill in a wheelbarrow. When unexpected company arrived, or the seas were too rough or too icy to travel by boat, food could become scarce. Occasionally, we had only potatoes, turnips, salt herring, flour and a few cans of milk left in the larder. There was no refrigeration, so nothing fresh could be kept for any length of time.

I suffered from homesickness all of that first year on Ironbound. I could see LaHave, but I couldn’t go home. The only communication was with a radio-telephone used to contact the Coast Guard in Halifax twice a day—10:30 in the morning and 3:30 in the afternoon—unless there was an emergency. I had no contact with family, and no one else lived on the island.

My daughter and I went ashore on December 20, 1961, to await the birth of John, who was born on December 26th. I stayed ashore until February 14th. When we took the baby and Heather out of a warm house and into an open boat, both of them became very ill. Usually, during a storm, you had to just weather an illness out, but this time a helicopter from Greenwood air-lifted us to the hospital. I think my fingerprints are still on that helicopter.

In time, things improved. A kerosene-powered refrigerator was added to the kitchen. This story was related to our son years later by one of the men involved: “We landed this refrigerator and this little woman and this big man dragged that refrigerator up that steep bank.” When we left the island, it took seven men to remove it.

I recall the good times. When chores allowed, the children and I picked berries in the small copse of trees. We tied plastic bags to branches, like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumb trail, so we wouldn’t get lost. In the evenings, we played cards, checkers and crokinole, and put together jigsaw puzzles.

Life was bittersweet. The splendid surroundings, where the salt spray often splashed on the kitchen window—I loved it! It was my home. I loved the moon on the water, the sunsets, to watch those breakers roll, just the beauty of it all. I cherished the privacy of living at “the end of nothing”—that feeling of just me and the power of the sea. One of the things on my “bucket list” is to visit Sable Island in a storm. I find storms so exciting.

But it was scary, too. We all had a turn at cheating the sea. When John was just a baby, a wave washed him out of the dory as we were attempting to get to shore. Fortunately, when I dragged him to safety, he was still wrapped in his blanket. Heather was washed off the rocks when she was watching the waves with her cousin and her dad. Her cousin grabbed her by her boot and it came off, so she grabbed her by her long hair, and pulled her ashore.

I was almost claimed by what felt like quicksand. Ingram saved me—I think he’s glad. Ingram nearly perished when he was stranded while checking mink traps that he tended for his friend. He got caught by the tide and had to remove his boots and walk barefoot over spiny sea urchins through icy water to reach shore.

We often completed the trip to the mainland in the dark, as the light had to be tended 24-7 and darkness came quickly on winter nights. I would sit on the prow of the boat, holding a flashlight to guide the boat between the large, thick cakes of ice that had been broken off by the wind and the tide. One night, the flashlight bulb blew, making the trip nightmarish as I tried to interpret the sound of the ice so we could navigate through it. Another night, we struck a log, which started to tear the stern out of the boat. Ingram tied a rope around the stern and I held the rope. We had no choice about going home—the light had to be tended—especially at night.

One time, when the bed of mercury on which the light rested became contaminated, Ingram and I had to stand in the tower and turn the light by hand—all night. I put my hands in the mercury to help steady the light. My engagement and wedding rings both came out in three pieces. It was so cold that we had to put wood alcohol on the windows to keep them clear.

I can recall how my body ached from the effort needed to wind up the 100-pound weight that had to be kept steady in order to provide the correct characteristics of that particular light. I did my share until morning, when Ingram hoisted the light out of the mercury with a block and tackle.

In 1966, we were given a mandatory transfer to Moshers Island. I had grown to love West Ironbound—the island grounded me and gave me a feeling of peace. When we were given the orders to leave, I thought my heart would break. I stood at the base of the lighthouse and took comfort from the feel of its strength against my belly while I stared skyward and screamed, “I’m not going!”

I attempted to delay the parting by having bread baking in the oven when they came to take us off the island.

Realistically, however, I knew that Moshers Island would improve our living conditions. We’d have a beautiful two-year-old house, separate from the lighthouse, with a diesel generator, and later electricity—we could listen to radio stations regularly, even watch TV—and a bathroom (a real treat). We also had an assistant lighthouse keeper, which allowed us to work shifts and, thankfully, some contact with the two families that lived a 45-minute walk from our lighthouse.

Moshers Island, four times the size of West Ironbound, had a large expanse of grass that needed mowing regularly, despite the goats that were pastured there. That added to the chores—and only the baby goats were friendly.

This new island housed a foghorn that had to be manned 24-7 when the weather warranted. When Ingram was off the island, I became the “relief keeper”—all the responsibilities mine. When I had to attend the foghorn at night, I spent my time baking, cleaning and ironing, which I found soothing.

On one of our trips to the mainland, Mrs. Ernie Himmelman loaned me three irons and a handle to use with them, so I could put creases in Ingram’s trousers. He wanted creases. I still iron everything.

We gathered seaweed and added sawdust and newspapers to kill the weeds and act as fertilizer for our vegetable gardens. Potatoes were grown right in the seaweed, and sand was used to grow carrots and store them over the winter. Our trips to shore allowed us to choose necessary food items and goodies. We also had to keep food on hand for unexpected visitors.

In 1971, I became pregnant with our third child. The night I went into labour with Marianna, I spent the early part of the evening scrubbing up puddles left by a new puppy, and then I ironed until midnight. We contacted Ingram’s sister by CB radio and floated through the ice to meet her at the wharf in Dublin Shore. Marianna was born in Bridgewater at 3:58am the same day.

I struggled to be both mother and teacher to Heather and John, so the year Marianna was born, the other two went to school on the mainland, in Petite Rivière. They ended up boarding separately—away from home and family—from Sunday until Friday night. When Marianna was school age, I contacted 47 families before I found someone willing to accept the responsibility of caring for her.

No one coped very well. Everyone in the family learned to hate Sundays—still do. Boarding the children off the island was one of life’s learning experiences for all of us—not a nice one—one that I would never do again. I would move to the mainland with them instead.

In 1990, we returned to West Dublin to begin life on the mainland, and moved to our present inland home in 1991. I had lived by the sea all my life, but Ingram didn’t want to be in the fog.

Living as a lighthouse keeper’s wife taught me to know my limits—how to cope.

I do appreciate some things about living on the mainland, but I miss the island life. I visit a lighthouse and walk along the shore every chance I get—still lured by the pull of the sea.