1965: Montserrat fast bowler Melford Roach stunned St. Kitts with his bat for a ‘classic innings’ of 151 not out

By

-

August 14, 2020

melbatting — All photos courtesy of family of Melford Roach
Melford Roach is pictured in the 1970s after migrating to the United States and playing for a local club.

When former teammates describe Melford Roach, they speak in glowing terms, sounding more like admiring fans rather than contemporaries. Their praise of the former fast bowler is effusive. “Graceful” and “handsome” and “genius” are among the adjectives uttered.

Roach played only five years for the Montserrat cricket team, but his impact was considerable. Most athletes’ professional careers are usually just getting under way at age 23. By that time Roach had already earned legendary status in Montserrat.

And one particular match in 1965 helped to cement his legacy.

Roach was born in 1943 in St. Patrick’s Village in southern Montserrat. His family lived in the Sea View area, then later moved to a housing scheme in Semper Piece, within eyeshot of the infamous Soufriere Hills volcano. Roach’s father, Tommy Roach, was a medium-pace bowler and aggressive batsman in the 1940s for a local club team called Spitfire.

Melford Roach grew up playing cricket on the sloping field at St. Patrick’s Primary School. He played for the Montserrat Secondary School and later the Police team. At the tender age of 16 he was selected to the Montserrat national team and traveled with the squad to Nevis for the 1959 Leeward Islands tournament. Roach was a genuine fast bowler with a fluid gait, similar to West Indies legend Michael Holding. Those who played with and against him said Roach’s smooth run-up, followed by his high-arching delivery, was a graceful sight to behold.

But Roach wasn’t just about style. He was also lightning-quick.

“When you’re batting against Melford he twists the bat in your hand,” said former teammate John Wilson, describing the velocity of Roach’s deliveries.

Roach’s most memorable moment for Montserrat, however, did not occur with the ball. It was with a bat . . . specifically a bat he borrowed from teammate Roosevelt “Cubby” Jemmotte.

‘EVERY MAN HAS HIS DAY’

On Monday, June 21, 1965 – eight days before his 22^nd birthday – Roach and the Montserrat team played in the Leeward Islands tournament at the Antigua Recreation Ground. In those days the event was played at one venue. There were two semifinal matches, with the winners playing for the Hesketh Bell Shield. In 1965, the semifinal matchups were Montserrat vs. St. Kitts and Antigua vs. Nevis.

Montserrat won the toss and batted first. Captain Frank Edwards top-scored with 48 runs but Montserrat managed only a modest score of 131 all out. St. Kitts replied with 285, then set out to bowl out Montserrat a second time for the outright victory.

Saddled with a 154-run deficit, Montserrat went to bat at 4:50 p.m. Tuesday (June 22). The boys from the Emerald Isle got off to an awful 13 for 3 start as their top three batsmen – Bennette Roach, Peter Cabey and Wilson – all went cheaply. Melford Roach came to bat at 5:36 p.m., joining Edwards at the crease. He was apparently moved up in the lineup to serve as a nightwatchman. Fast bowlers normally bat low in the lineup and are often poor batsmen. But Roach was no slouch with the bat.

Speaking of bats, in those days the team did not provide players with them. Cricketers purchased their own bats. Some even had to share. Roach owned his own bat, but he really liked the brand-new one that teammate Jemmotte brought along. It was purchased in Montserrat from businessman John Wade of Wade Inn fame and was emblazoned with an autograph by West Indies star batsman Rohan Kanhai.

“He asked me to borrow the bat and I gave it to him,” Jemmotte said.

Once in the crease, Roach started slowly and reached 10 not out when play ended for the day with Montserrat on 29 for 3.

The following morning (Wednesday, June 23), the St. Kitts team came out with the intention of finishing off Montserrat quickly. Roach had other plans. He refused to see Montserrat endure an embarrassing defeat. He unleashed on the St. Kitts bowlers, which included experienced pacemen Clement Hicks and Vincent Demming and heralded spin bowlers Leroy Coury and Edgar Gilbert.

“He just went to town on them,” said Jemmotte, still sounding amazed 55 years later. “He was blazing them. It was an innings of class.”

Wilson added: “He wasn’t scratching and pushing. He was hitting the ball to every part of the field.”

As partners fell around him, Roach continued to flourish. He got solid support from Vendol Moore, a customary opener who batted lower in the lineup that day due to an injury. Moore scored 34 as he and Roach posted a 100-run partnership. Fast bowler David Brandt added 19.

Roach finished with 15 boundaries. He scored his first 50 in 33 balls, his second 50 in 42 balls and his final 51 in 40 balls. His 151 runs in 115 balls gave him a strike rate of 131 – excellent in any format of cricket.

“He clubbed them all over the place,” said Bennette Roach, Melford’s cousin and Montserrat’s opening batsman that day. “I wasn’t surprised at all. Melford was a student of cricket. Gilbert and Coury were killers, but none of St. Kitts’ bowlers gave Melford a problem.”

Montserrat declared at 266 for 9 when Brandt was dismissed and eventually salvaged a draw. But St. Kitts advanced to the championship match based on a better first-innings score.

Roach’s 151 was the highest score at that time by a Montserrat player since the island began competing in the Leewards tournament in 1913. It was only the second century by a Montserratian following Kingsley Rock’s 125 against Nevis in 1959.

The St. Kitts-Nevis Daily Bulletin reported that the Antigua crowd gave Roach a standing ovation and that two fans passed around a hat and collected $70 for Roach. That figure is worth almost EC $600 in 2021.

*A look at the actual headline in the Montserrat Mirror newspaper for the edition of Friday, June 25, 1965.*

COMING TO AMERICA

In early March of 1966, Roach was selected for a Combined Islands match against Guyana in the Shell Shield tournament at Warner Park in St. Kitts. He bowled 25 overs overall and took four wickets for 97 runs. He didn’t play for Montserrat that summer. He migrated to the United States at age 23, leaving many to wonder what could have been.

“There’s no question in my mind that if he remained he would have made the West Indies team,” Wilson said.

After migrating to New York, Roach played for several local teams for more than a decade. He played in a league that held matches at Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. He played in Staten Island, Connecticut and Boston. He also played for the official U.S. cricket team.

But the pinnacle of his career will always be the undefeated 151 against St. Kitts. By the way, Roach also claimed five wickets in that match, a feat that was overshadowed by his big century.

Off the field, Roach furthered his education when he moved to the U.S., earning a Master’s Degree in Business from Baruch College in New York City. He worked for many years with Pitney Bowes, a technology company that provides mailing and shipping services.

A year before his death in 2015, Roach posted a message on Facebook to commemorate the 50th anniversary of his 151 not out. Instead of praising himself, he gave credit to teammates. His post stated in part:

“Something remains indelible on my mind 50 years ago. After [trailing by] 150 runs in our match against St. Kitts in Antigua, we were able to avoid another defeat. We were able to amass 266 runs, of which, Moore contributed 30-odd [34]. Brandt made his highest score ever, 19 runs. I was left not out 151. Must mention my friend Jemmotte who ran for an injured Moore. I cannot forget those guys who stood with me as we fought with great Montserratian pride. I think of them often.”

And they still think about him.

Montserrat spin bowler David Corbett, who had a brief partnership with Roach in that memorable innings, summed it up perfectly.

“Every man has his day,” Corbett declared. “That was his day.”

*Many believe Melford Roach would have played for the West Indies cricket team had he not migrated to the U.S. in 1966.*

Top scores by Montserrat player

A look at highest scores by a Montserrat cricketer in the Leeward Islands tournament:

Score	Player	Opponent	Year
275	McPherson Meade	Combined V.I.	2007
235	Zhuan Sweeney	St. Kitts	2004
221	McPherson Meade	Combined V.I.	2003
165*	Jim Allen	Nevis	1972
157	Sylvester "Nul" Greenaway	Antigua	1975
156	Owen Roach	USVI	1995
154	Fitzroy Buffonge	St. Kitts	1992
153*	Jim Allen	Antigua	1972
152	Alexander Herbert	Anguilla	1992
151*	Melford Roach	St. Kitts	1965
150	Davon Williams	Antigua	2000
*Not out

Young girl in emotional photo from 1997 reflects on Montserrat volcanic crisis and her life-changing journey

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

August 3, 2020

0

dofoto — Photo by Charles Trainor Jr.
Deserine O'Garro, then 18, holds infant son Raphael at the Salem Catholic church, which served as a shelter.

Twenty-five years of volcanic activity in Montserrat has spawned a kaleidoscope of powerful images: Towering mushroom ash clouds, raging infernos and darting pyroclastic flows. There are also dazzling aerial shots of the newly formed Tar River delta, a result of the sarcastic volcano expanding Montserrat’s land area while stealing more than half its livable space.

But some of the most poignant photos are those of the people who endured nature’s wrath.

In 1997, award-winning photographer Charles Trainor Jr. of the Miami Herald traveled to Montserrat twice to chronicle the volcanic crisis. He snapped an array of searing images. But his signature shot was taken in Salem at St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church, which served as a shelter.

It shows a teenage girl clutching her infant son. Her hair is uncombed and her eyes are distant. In the background is a stained-glass window featuring angelic images with outstretched arms, almost as if reaching out to mother and son.

Trainor received critical acclaim for the photo, which ran prominently in the Miami Herald and was even considered for a national journalism contest.

The photo was taken Monday, August 11, 1997. Deserine O’Garro, the young mother in the photo, saw it for the first time July 20, 2020.

“OMG!” she responded via text. “That was so long ago. Is that my baby?”

The baby, who was three days old in the photo, will soon be 23 years old. He recently earned a bachelor’s degree in graphic design from Sheffield Hallam University.

Photo by Charles Trainor Jr.
*A look at the full image of Deserine O’Garro and her infant son taken August 11, 1997.*

LOOKING BACK

Since moving to England 23 years ago Deserine has furthered her education, worked hard and raised her son. She is also a Level 3 qualified hairdresser, proudly earning certification in a field she says is her true passion.

Much of her early life in Montserrat is now in the rear-view mirror. But objects behind us are sometimes closer than they appear.

Viewing that photo brought many emotions rushing back.

Deserine’s somber demeanor in the image underscored the turmoil-filled atmosphere at the time. “I had a lot on my mind,” she says.

Foremost in her thoughts was the health of her son, whom she named Raphael after his father. The boy had to be flown to Antigua for emergency surgery a couple weeks after birth. He was born with pyloric stenosis, a common ailment of the small intestines in newborns — mostly boys — in which they are unable to keep down food.

Even after the successful operation he was still in a delicate state. So the logical next move was for Deserine and family to relocate to Britain, where the infant could receive better (and free) health care.

A VILLAGE DISPLACED

When volcanic activity began on Tuesday, July 18, 1995, Deserine was a carefree 16-year-old living in the Shooter’s Hill area of St. Patrick’s. She had just completed fourth form at the Montserrat Secondary School. Her village, along with other environs in the south — plus villages in the east — were first to be evacuated. Their close proximity to the volcano made staying there too risky.

Deserine, her mother and five other family members were forced to move. They first stayed with Deserine’s aunt in Delvins but later had to move farther north when the Delvins-Cork Hill area also was evacuated. Over two years the family stayed in three different shelters: Salem Secondary School, the Catholic church, and the building that later became Lookout Primary School.

“The church shelter wasn’t that bad because it had other people from the South,” she says. “But at the Salem Secondary School we had to mix with all kind of people.”

Deserine remembers her teenage rebellion. The shelters had no curfews and little supervision. Her mother had her hands full with her other children and grandchildren. Deserine soon found herself in the family way.

“I had a no-care attitude growing up,” she admits. “I didn’t like being told what to do. I was a mouthy kid. But I had to grow up really quick when I got pregnant. That’s when reality kicked in.”

Her newborn’s health issues — plus the looming specter of an active volcano — forced her to mature even faster.

Photo by Charles Trainor Jr.
*Scenes such as this one in Salem center were common during the summer of 1997 in Montserrat as volcanic activity intensified.*

In late October of 1997, Deserine and family took a ferry to Antigua, then boarded a BWIA flight with dozens of other Montserratians destined for London’s Heathrow Airport. Although she was leaving the upheaval of the volcano behind, it was the saddest day of her life.

“I love Montserrat,” she says. “I cried so much when we left. But I had no choice. I was still a child and my mom decided she was coming to the UK. Actually, my mom had more to worry about than I did. She had three of her six kids, my cousins and my grandfather.”

MONTSERRAT STILL HOME

Despite its destructive force, the volcano opened up the world to many who otherwise might not have gotten the opportunity to see other walks of life.

Deserine is thankful for the opportunity to continue her education and get proper health care for her son, who is now a healthy young man. But she also makes it clear that Montserrat will always be her true love.

“I love picking up and going home for months at a time,” she says. “The peace and tranquility, no stress and worries. . . . I eventually plan to move back to Montserrat. I never liked the cold.”

At 41, Deserine is still only a mother of one child. Her son’s father died a few years ago. “Raising him as a single mother wasn’t easy,” she says. “I’m not sure if I will have more kids, but if it happens I would welcome them with open arms.”

Through it all Deserine says she has evolved.

“Sometimes life throws you a curveball and you’ve just got to ride that curveball out. I’ve got to be strong for my son and teach him that no matter what may come your way you’re strong enough to overcome it.”

Deserine has been employed for the past two years with Boots UK — a pharmacy chain similar to Walgreens in the United States. Previously, she was a supervisor at a restaurant. She also has a steady number of hairdressing clients. She specializes in braids but can do it all, she says.

Every now and then she can’t help glancing at the dramatic photo of her and baby Raphael. “When I showed it to him he said, ‘Mum, why do I look so white?’ ” Deserine said laughing.

Mother and son are all grown up now.

That classic photo from 1997 embodies how far they have come.

Now they’re focused on the bigger picture.

“I love picking up and going home for months at a time. The peace and tranquility, no stress and worries. . . . I eventually plan to move back to Montserrat.”

Andrew J. Skerritt: A ride into Montserrat exclusion zone, a journey to the crypt of my memories

By

ANDREW J. SKERRITT

-

July 21, 2020

2

pentecostal church — The Glad Tidings Pentecostal Church still stands in Cork Hill despite years of volcanic damage.

As we ride south, the waning sunlight of a Sunday afternoon in February streaks through the windows, making me squint. Our route descends as it meanders, each zig and zag, each twist and turn unveiling a canopy of almond trees growing wild, their unharvested fruit providing seedlings for succeeding generations, resulting in forests of almond going to waste.

The unkempt shrubs at the side of the road grab the vehicle’s side mirror and whip at the driver’s side windows, it being a left-hand drive sports utility vehicle on an island where motorists hug the left side of the road. The road becomes less asphalt and more rocks and dirt and ash as our two-vehicle caravan ventures downward into the Belham River Valley.

At the bottom of the valley, the road disappears completely just like the bridge that once connected the north and south banks of the river. The valley has become an open plain, a moonscape of large boulders, thorns and a red metal roof, the only visible sign of a once majestic colonial swallowed whole by the torrents of mud and ash and water that flowed down from the angry volcano mountain to the east.

Hills rise up behind us. Lush green interrupted by rooftops and white walls, like red and white handkerchiefs in nature’s pocket. I pay close attention; my eyes are the cameras of my memory. I am a funeral tourist. Having returned home to Montserrat to bury my dead, having completed the funeral rites for my maternal grandmother, the woman some called Peggy, but who was always my “Mama,” I am free to roam, to look for my past, to find again the places of my childhood, places locked behind metal gates and a sign marked “Exclusion Zone” and a 5 p.m. curfew.

As we drive through the gate, the vehicle tires hum over the smooth asphalt, roads healthy for lack of wear and tear, a backhanded blessing of the evacuation. No one lives here. Ours is one-way traffic. Trees on either side reach over the road, their branches touch, like giants shaking hands with their neighbors. They form a canopy, like driving through nature’s tunnel.

*An officer opens the gate in the exclusion zone during my trip home in 2014.*

We drive through what used to be Cork Hill, past an abandoned church, Glad Tidings Pentecostal, whose pastor and congregation was mostly scattered in places like Birmingham, Brooklyn and Boston. Houses hug the roadside, their front porches home only for shrub and bushes; their collapsed roofs bend and buckle beneath the weight of ash and time. After we turn right off the main road, the road narrows, just barely wide enough for one pickup. The terrain descends, as if we are about to enter a tunnel. Shrubs snatch at the moving vehicles, as if urging us to stop, to turn back.

When you leave a continent to visit an island, distances constrict and time expands, hours become days, the mansions of your childhood become the cottages of middle age. Within seconds of the turn-off, I realize we are in familiar territory, Delvins, ancestral home of the paternal branch of my wild, unpruned family tree. In some ways, it’s my Eden, overgrown, wild, encased in acacia and thorns and white and red and pink oleander bushes; it is my place of beginning, where my life on this tragic island began.

Wild shrub devoured the wood shack planted near the road beneath a governor plum tree. The dirt and gravel driveway that climbed fifty feet to my parents’ house exists now more in my memory than in reality. My paternal grandparents, Peter “Dads” and Peggy “Mam” Lewis lived there until the volcano erupted and chased them to the north of the island.

Even as our vehicle slowed, I can see a red car driving slowly up the driveway; a young woman sits behind the wheel; her high cheekbones, sultry full lips and caramel-colored skin is the kind of combination that makes oncoming taxi drivers slow down and beep their horns. In the front passenger seat beside her sits a little boy of three or four. They have just returned from delivering lunch to her dad. She talks to him as if he is grown, as if he understands her every word. That young woman of eighteen or nineteen is my aunt, Rose. I am that boy.

Even though the house is barely visible behind the arbor of wild shrub, I conjure four walls in memory. Two doors, to the kitchen and living room, face westward. One louvered window looks down toward the roadway. Three bedrooms sit off the living room and kitchen. One for Mam, one for Dads – he leaves home early each morning and returns each evening after sundown.

A guest bedroom sits in the northern corner off the kitchen where, years later, after Rose is gone and I am grown, I come to sleep on those weekends when I sought refuge from the busy city life. I awoke some Sunday mornings to my father’s melodious tenor voice. He visited his mother every Sunday morning. He doted on her. They were, mother and son, inseparable except for death. No one, no wife, child or mistress, could come between them. They talked over salted Cod, stewed eggplant, white bread and sour sop bush tea.

My lasting memory of the two is of the ease between them, the way time passed unnoticed when they sat together at the kitchen table, the absolute absence of rancor in their exchanges. That memory still haunts me, leaves a cavity in my chest where reassurance should be, still reminds me of the bond I never quite possessed or understood, that bond between a mother and her only son.

And so while my fellow passengers marvel at the wilderness around them, I cannot afford to remain merely a tourist of memory. I must become an archeologist to unearth my familial history to find the links between my distant past and my present.

As I climbed out of the vehicle, I understood that Delvins, the place where I stood, was a crypt for my memory, that my Sunday afternoon excursion was no joy ride but a pilgrimage. And that in order for the journey to be complete, I must retrace my steps across the Atlantic Ocean, remember things I tried to forget, ask nagging questions I had tried to ignore, if I ever hoped to grasp who I was and the person I had come to be.

*Not even the volcano can disrupt the serenity of a Montserrat sunset.*

On 30th anniversary of Montserrat volcanic crisis, a personal story of youthful adventure and utter stupidity

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

July 18, 2020

2

edthumbnail — I grab a handful of ash on Parliament Street in Plymouth, Montserrat, on the night of Wednesday, April 30, 1997.

Editor’s note: This story was originally published in 2020 on the 25th anniversary of the volcanic eruption.

On a quiet Wednesday night in April of 1997 I made one of the dumbest decisions of my life. Thank God I’m alive to talk about it.

This week marks 30 years since activity was first reported at the Soufriere Hills volcano in southeastern Montserrat. The fiery monster would go on to devastate the island’s infrastructure, hasten massive migration and dilute a culture centuries in the making.

The Good Book says the meek shall inherit the earth. But history has taught us that the earth often inherits the meek. On June 25, 1997, a group of farmers desperate to reap a potato harvest met their deaths at the hands of a pyroclastic flow in the exclusion zone. It was the most tangible and dire example of the volcano’s capability.

In the two years of seismic activity before that tragic day, the volcano was almost a tease. Some villages would be evacuated, activity would subside, and residents would return only to be evacuated again when the tremors resumed. The ashfall seemed more of a nuisance than a deadly harbinger.

From my home in South Florida I would hear about media from all over the world descending on Montserrat. As a journalist myself I wanted to see the volcano first-hand.

My good friend Steve Bramble, who is also a native of Montserrat and lives in Florida, worked for Carnival Airlines at the time. The company is mostly known for its cruise lines but was once a popular air carrier. We decided to take a short trip back to our homeland. We had both been away from Montserrat for some years and saw the trip as a chance to reconnect with family and friends and also witness the famous powder keg.

Steve procured a buddy pass for me and on Monday, April 28, 1997, we set off to Montserrat. We flew from Fort Lauderdale to Puerto Rico, then boarded LIAT to Montserrat, with stops in Tortola, St. Kitts and Antigua.

When we arrived at W.H. Bramble Airport (named after Steve’s grandfather who was Montserrat’s first Chief Minister) the island seemed calm. Steve lodged with a family member in Salem and I stayed with relatives at my boyhood home about four miles away in Weekes’ Estate (Byer). By that time many villages in the East and South, plus Plymouth, had been evacuated. But I didn’t detect a frantic atmosphere. Government offices relocated to Salem and other villages further north and people carried on with their lives and seemed to be more in tolerance mode rather than panic mode.

Photo by Charles Trainor Jr.
*A look at ash-devastated Plymouth in August of 1997.*

Steve and I would meet up each day and make the rounds, catching up with friends. One of his old friends was Owen Roach, a standout cricketer and radio personality who later became an attorney. He also sang calypso as a hobby. In fact he won the Road March title (most popular jumpy song during the annual Festival) a couple years earlier. I did not know Owen before that trip. I knew Steve since 1989 when he moved to Miami. Owen and Steve had known each other since childhood.

On Wednesday night, April 30, 1997, Steve, Owen and I were hanging out after Owen’s night shift at Radio Montserrat. Steve and I were disappointed that we would be heading back to Miami the following day without getting a good view of the volcano. Sure, we had seen it smoldering from afar, but we wanted a closer look.

One of them suggested that we drive to the south of the island. We had already put away a few Heinekens by that time. It was about 10 p.m., but never underestimate the power of liquid courage.

The three of us set off in a white Toyota Tercel that Steve had borrowed from his sister Dawn. With Steve at the wheel, Owen riding shotgun and me in the back we drove through Salem, down Belham, through Cork Hill and headed to town. When we got to Lover’s Lane there was a gated checkpoint with a policeman on guard. When I saw the officer I assumed we would be ordered an instant U-Turn.

As we drove up slowly, Steve said, “Don’t worry, let me handle this.”

“Where are you all going?” the officer asked, looking mildly perturbed.

“Um, we’re going down by my dad’s house to pick up clothes,” replied Steve, whose family home was in Groves, just a quarter-mile away.

“Oh, OK,” the officer said, showing nary a sign of skepticism.

He pushed aside the heavy steel gate and we drove through. We drove past Steve’s family home, then into the heart of Plymouth. Electricity was non-existent in the exclusion zone. Our only source of light was the headlights from the vehicle. We slowly drove south, through Wapping, Kinsale, Gingoes, then to St. Patrick’s. During some parts of our drive, the area looked like the backdrop from a Mad Max movie, nothing but ash and rocks and ash-covered rocks. But some parts of the south had not been heavily damaged by ash yet. There was still vegetation, and the main road, although ashy, was fairly accessible.

*Steve Bramble, left, and I somewhere in St. Patrick’s, April 30, 1997.*

When we felt we had reached a satisfactory vantage point to the volcano we stopped and turned off the car engine. When we turned off the headlights we literally couldn’t see each other even though we were just a few feet away. So we turned the headlights back on. We were still swigging the Heinekens we brought along. We hadn’t told anyone we were going on the rogue adventure. We didn’t have any cellphones, which were not mainstream yet. We were basically at the mercy of nature.

We got out of the car and looked toward the east. There it was. The dragon in all its glory. It was definitely roaring. The dome was glowing, first brightly . . . then dimmer . . . like the tip of a cigarette when the smoker inhales. Balls of fire would careen down the side, sparking a galaxy of embers. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

The volcano appeared to be no more than a couple miles away. But our immediate surroundings were eerily quiet, with only the sounds of crickets in the distance. I began to feel vulnerable. We snapped a few photos. The headlights had been on for some time and I was worried the car battery might die.

“Guys, let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

We got back in the car.

We started driving back toward town. I began secretly praying to get back safely. Thank God for those faithful headlights. No flat tires please. When we arrived in the middle of Plymouth I felt a bit of relief as we were closer to the safe zone. We stopped again, this time in the middle of Parliament Street in the section that used to feature Bata (Carlisle’s Shoe Center), Osborne’s and Mr. Wall’s store. We stood on a pile of ash and took some more photos.

*Owen Roach, left, and I look on in amazement at the amount of ash on Parliament Street in Plymouth on April 30, 1997. Little did we know it would get much worse.*

Finally, we began our drive back to civilization. We arrived back at the checkpoint where the officer had let us through. He was still there on duty. He opened the gate again and never even thought to ask why our simple visit to the Bramble house took so long.

Steve dropped me off at Byer and he and Owen drove to Salem. My heart-rate went back to normal. Thank goodness my grandmother didn’t know where I was coming from. It wouldn’t matter that I was 29 years old. I could hear her high-pitched voice now: “Boy, wa caaarl you gat out deh?!”

The following morning was the first of May. I met Steve at the airport and we traveled back to Miami with a souvenir in tow: a box full of authentic Montserrat ash that we collected in Plymouth.

The dome was glowing, first brightly . . . then dimmer . . . like the tip of a cigarette when the smoker inhales. Balls of fire would careen down the side, sparking a galaxy of embers. It was beautiful. It was terrifying.

The following month, the volcanic crisis reached its peak, resulting in the death of the 19 farmers and the permanent evacuation of more villages, including Weekes’ and Cork Hill. A massive exodus to Britain took place later that year, including several members of my family. Montserrat would never be the same again.

Only in hindsight do we get the true magnitude of folly. Most of the villages we drove through that night are now permanently buried under ash. We were out in the wilderness, in the crosshairs of an active volcano, with no form of communication. I also can’t ignore the irony that one of Owen Roach’s popular songs was titled Man a Dead Quick.

“That’s what happens when you’ve been drinking too much and have too much time on your hands,” Steve said, laughing, years later when reminded about the dangerous night trip.

Fueled by alcohol and adventure, we drove as close as we could to the volcano in search of a bird’s-eye view. If there had been an eruption in our direction that night we would have been sitting ducks.

In 1960 Montserrat carried out its final hanging; It’s a surreal story that devastated St. John’s Village

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

July 6, 2020

12

stjohnssign — What started as a simple argument in St. John's Village escalated and led to the deaths of two young men in early 1960.

In the post-slavery history of Montserrat since 1834, murders have been rare. The island’s small population, close family ties and general non-violent nature are a few factors. But there was another deterrent: For more than a century the penalty for murder was execution by hanging.

On Wednesday morning, April 6, 1960, Montserrat carried out what turned out to be its final hanging. And as incredible as it sounds, the crime that led to that execution occurred due to a dispute over a dog.

Montserrat Spotlight interviewed several people familiar with the incident, including current and former residents of St. John’s Village, the site of the crime. They helped piece together details of the tragedy, which became a watershed mark in Montserrat’s legal history.

FATEFUL NIGHT

St. John’s Village, located in the north of Montserrat, was a close-knit community in 1960. Most of the residents were related, and the surnames Allen, Fenton and Weekes dominated. The family bonds went back generations. Many members of the Allen family inherited the nickname “Bull” – which was added to their first name, such as “John Bull” for instance. Legend has it that the original “Bull” Allen got the name because he rode a bull while herding cattle for a wealthy estate owner around the turn of the 20th century.

William “Willie Bull” Allen, son of the original “Bull” Allen, was a farmer who lived in St. John’s. In early 1960 he was 37 years old and married to the former Sally Ryan. He was once a minister at the Emmanuel Apostolic (Jesus Only) church in the village. But he had apparently back-slid and reverted to his affinity for the grape.

Samuel Weekes hailed from the Dick Hill area of St. John’s. He earned the nickname “Lucky Sam” when he came away unscathed after being a passenger in a truck that overturned down a hillside in the village. Weekes, 29, worked as a laborer for Peter and “Miss Lou” Greenaway of Yellow Hill, near St. John’s center. The couple owned a shop that also featured a bar. Miss Lou was Weekes’ aunt.

By all accounts Weekes had never been in trouble with the law, although a former neighbor said he sometimes displayed a quick temper. He was a reserved man, slight in stature and fair-skinned.

On Saturday night, January 30, 1960, Weekes entered the Greenaways’ bar with a small dog on a leash. The dog was somewhat emaciated, and Weekes had apparently taken on the task of nursing the pup back to health. Unlike some more pet-friendly cultures, Montserratians have a general aversion to dogs being allowed indoors. “Willie Bull” Allen, who was also in the bar, made some snide remarks about Weekes’ dog, then kicked the animal. According to witnesses, Allen had been bar-hopping for much of the night, drinking heavily and singing a refrain: “I’m feeling fine with good wine.”

An irate Weekes warned Allen that if he kicked the dog again he would stab him. Calling his bluff, Allen repeated the act. There was reportedly a knife laying on the shop counter that was used to slice cheese. Weekes grabbed it and stabbed Allen in the upper chest near his left armpit. The stab missed Allen’s heart but severed his “left subclavian artery and vein” and punctured his left lung, medical records stated.

FRANTIC SCENE

A panicked and bleeding Allen ran to another nearby bar that was operated by his cousin, “Miss Daughter” Daly, and her husband Nixon. It was between 11 p.m. and midnight. A few people inside Miss Daughter’s bar tried to help Allen but couldn’t get the bleeding under control. There was only one phone in the village and it was inside the St. John’s clinic, which was almost a mile away and also closed. The island’s only hospital was in Plymouth – 10 miles of winding roads away.

Allen got up and tried to walk out of the bar. He reached as far as the entrance, collapsed on the pavement outside and died.

As news spread about the incident, sleep-addled villagers slowly emerged from their homes and walked to the crime scene. It was late and dark. St. John’s Village had no electricity at the time as most families used kerosene lamps. Some businesses used gas lamps, which were more luminous and more expensive.

Hensey Fenton, Willie Bull’s nephew, was a 13-year-old student at the Montserrat Secondary School and living in Peaceful Cottage Village, about a half-mile east of St. John’s. He remembers being awakened after midnight and accompanying his mother Emily to the scene.

“I saw my uncle lying there with blood running out,” says Fenton, who founded the Bank of Montserrat in 1988. “I can remember my aunt Eve screaming. For about a week or two I was in shock.”

“I saw my uncle lying there with blood running out. I can remember my aunt Eve screaming. For about a week or two I was in shock.”
Hensey Fenton, “Willie Bull” Allen’s nephew

ARREST AND TRIAL

The following morning the police arrived and took statements from witnesses. Weekes never tried to evade authorities. He was arrested without incident and charged with murder. Although the crime was not premeditated, it was deemed intentional and could not be classified as manslaughter. Weekes faced the automatic death penalty.

Montserrat attorney Kenneth Allen, Q.C., who was in his first full year of practice, was Weekes’ state-appointed lawyer. Allen (no relation to the decedent) argued that Weekes was provoked, but, “I could not convince the jury,” he says. “The laws of provocation evolved over the years. I’m sure if that trial was 10 years later I would have been able to argue provocation successfully based on animal abuse.”

Kenneth Allen then petitioned Montserrat Administrator (Governor) Sir Donald Wiles for leniency but was turned down, and Weekes’ hanging was scheduled for April 6.

*Her Majesty’s Prison in Plymouth was the site of the last hanging on Montserrat in 1960. The prison and town have since been buried by volcanic ash.*

A GRUESOME END

Although no form of execution is pleasant, hanging was especially unsettling. An expert was brought in from another island just to prepare the noose. The rope had to be the proper length, accounting for the weight of the prisoner. If the hanging was not carried out properly, the prisoner could suffer severe torture before dying. If the hanging fails, by law the prisoner cannot be hanged twice.

The job of hangman was not a coveted one, and prison officers wanted no part in taking a life, even that of a convicted murderer. So volunteers would be sought, and the first one in line was usually Lazarus “Laddie” Cabey of Long Ground. The tall, slim, dark-skinned Cabey was a farmer by trade, but in the rare instances when someone was convicted of murder, he would travel to Plymouth clad in a black suit and ready to apply for hangman duty. He almost seemed to relish the opportunity despite the meager hangman’s fee.

A former Montserrat prison officer from the 1960s described the hanging process:

On the morning of execution the prisoner would be administered last rites by a priest, then led to the gallows. His hands would be tied and a hood placed over his head. He would stand on a platform featuring a trap door that was released by a lever. A magistrate would also be present.

When the noose was placed over the prisoner’s head and secured, the magistrate would ask the prisoner: “Do you have any final words?” Before he could answer, the magistrate would give a signal to the hangman to release the lever. In order to assure the hanging was as humane as possible, it would be done in a surprise manner because some prisoners tense up their neck muscles in anticipation of the drop.

Her Majesty’s Prison was located on the southern end of Parliament Street in Plymouth, just before the Fort Ghaut bridge and a little south of the Public Market. As the execution prepared to commence that early Wednesday morning, there weren’t many shoppers in town yet. However, a few former prisoners – including well-known town character Charles “Dopey” Osborne – were seen cupping their ears against a wall outside. They knew the exact location of the gallows inside. When they heard the trap door open, one ex-prisoner remarked, “Ee gan” (He’s gone).

The prison officers who were tasked with cutting the suspended rope in order to retrieve Weekes’ corpse said when they entered the gallows several minutes later his body was still spinning “like a top”.

Weekes’ body was not released to his family. He was buried in the prison yard. Murderers were not deemed worthy of being buried in a public cemetery.

As for Cabey, the hangman, he apparently had to wait some time before he collected his payment voucher from the treasury department. Unlike today when a person can make a simple call to ask if their payment is ready, in those days very few people had house phones. They had to travel to town.

After making several trips in vain from Long Ground to Plymouth, a frustrated Cabey was overheard saying: “If I don’t get paid soon I’m going to kill somebody.”

*The Daly family building where William “Willie Bull” Allen collapsed and died after being stabbed on January 30, 1960, still stands in St. John’s.*

A VILLAGE DEVASTATED

The unfortunate events of early 1960 left St. John’s reeling. Two young men whom villagers saw every day were now dead – one murdered, the other hanged. Making matters more tragic, the men were second cousins (Weekes’ grandmother was Allen’s aunt). Former calypso star Kenneth “Fisher” Fenton, who is Allen’s grand-nephew, said Allen’s widow, Sally, grieved deeply and was never the same up to the time of her own passing just a few years later.

“The whole thing really hurt,” said longtime St. John’s resident Eleanor Silcott, who remembers the murder very well because it occurred on the eve of her 21st birthday. Also, her mother and two brothers were in the bar when the stabbing occurred.

“It was a shock,” Silcott continued. “No one expected that to happen. The night of the murder I don’t think any of us slept. For days some of us didn’t eat and some didn’t even want to leave their homes.”

“The night of the murder I don’t think any of us slept. For days some of us didn’t eat and some didn’t even want to leave their homes.”
Eleanor Silcott, longtime St. John’s resident

In the 60 years since the Lucky Sam case, there have been fewer than 20 murder cases in Montserrat. Some initial murder charges were later reduced to manslaughter. Lucky Sam was quite unlucky that his crime happened when it did. Some later murder cases in Montserrat – including the 1972 rape and killing of Sarah “Mon” Meade and the 1985 slaying of Lillian Puckey – were profoundly heinous and arguably warranted executions. But the defendants in those cases simply served prison time because hanging had been unofficially abolished.

Great Britain carried out its last hanging in 1964, then outlawed capital punishment overall in 1969. In 1991, Britain implemented the Caribbean Territories Abolition of Death Penalty for Murder Order. That applied to Montserrat, Anguilla, Cayman Islands, British Virgin Islands and Turks and Caicos.

The most recent hanging in the Leeward Islands occurred in 2008 when Charles Laplace was executed in St. Kitts after being convicted of murdering his wife.

Murder cases appealed since 1960

Five murder convictions in Montserrat have been appealed to the Eastern Caribbean Supreme Court since Samuel Weekes' hanging on April 6, 1960. Below are the results:

Year	Victim	Defendant	Verdict
1965	James Ryner	John Meade	Conviction quashed
1972	Sarah Meade	Joseph "Midda" Buffonge and George "Fowl" Lee	Buffonge convicted; Lee acquitted
1977	Vernon Greer	Samuel Greenaway	Conviction upheld
1985	Lillian Puckey	James Browne	Conviction upheld
2002	Simeon Sealy	Steve Molyneaux	Conviction upheld

1974: Romeo brothers helped rescue damaged ship off Montserrat coast with help of their dad’s Walkie-Talkie

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

June 26, 2020

7

donjulianwalkietalkie — Photos from Montserrat Mirror archived newspapers
Julian, left, and Don Romeo pose with Captain Neville Paul at their home in Salem. In front is the boys' friend Mike Stryder.

Don and Julian Romeo were given a stern warning by their parents: Do not tamper with their father’s Sony Walkie-Talkie set. But as is common with young boys who are fascinated with electronic gadgets, they just couldn’t resist testing out the two-way portable radios.

The boys’ juvenile defiance turned out to be a good thing because they helped save the lives of three people.

In the summer of 1974, long before he dreamed of becoming Premier of Montserrat, Don Romeo was 12 years old. His brother Julian was 11. They lived in Salem Village with their parents, Donald and Elizabeth “Beth” Romeo, and sisters Sharon and Valerie. Mrs. Romeo was head teacher at Cork Hill School and Mr. Romeo ran Romeo’s Wayside Store.

Around mid-day Saturday, August 31, 1974, the Romeo boys were playing at home with their friend, 6-year-old Mike Stryder, who was spending the weekend. While their mom was in her bedroom, the boys quietly switched on the Walkie-Talkies in their room. Don and Mike each grabbed a Walkie-Talkie and began communicating with each other under the bed in whispered tones.

Suddenly a voice interrupted their chatter.

“Mayday, mayday. Our ship is sinking. Help us. If you are hearing us, send assistance.”

The reception on Walkie-Talkies is sometimes marred by static. But this transmission was loud and clear. The man on the other end also revealed that the boat was 15 miles south of Montserrat.

The Romeo boys were in a quandary. They couldn’t tell their mom about the SOS call because that would reveal that they disobeyed her orders. Not only had they been using the Walkie-Talkies against her wishes, they were doing it on their Sabbath.

So Don, the eldest of the boys, turned to Plan B.

“My father was a policeman and he trained me properly,” Don says. “So I decided I would go to the police station.”

Don sprinted a half-mile up the street to the police station, which was then located in the Salem enclave of Hope, and informed them about the distress call. He also implicitly asked that his identity not be revealed. One officer didn’t take Don’s message seriously at first, thinking it might be a prank or a misunderstanding. But another officer urged caution: “What if what he’s saying is true?”

The Salem station notified Acting Police Commissioner Paul Valdez, who then contacted the HMS Eskimo, a Royal Navy warship that was deployed in the area. The warship set off, located the drifting 54-foot fishing boat and towed it into the Plymouth harbor with three people and 80,000 pounds of fish onboard. The Miami-registered vessel, named the “Bartholomew Roberts” after the famous pirate, had encountered engine trouble.

SCARY PHONE CALL

Later that afternoon, the boys attended their Seventh Day Adventist church as usual with their mom, who still didn’t know what had transpired. Their dad was in Puerto Rico shopping for store supplies. In the evening, Mrs. Romeo received a phone call from the Acting Commissioner of Police. He asked if she had a 12-year-old son.

“When the police called me that evening I panicked,” Mrs. Romeo says. “At the time Old Towne started opening up, and some boys from Salem used to go down there and break into white people’s homes. I thought Don and Juli were in trouble.”

But she soon calmed down when she realized her sons were actually considered heroes. Neville Paul, captain of the rescued boat, insisted that he meet the boys and thank them. The 48-year-old Trinidad native visited the Romeos’ home the following day and snapped photos with the boys. He also gave them a treat: a large portion of his catch at sea.

“Those fish were sweet as ever,” Don recalls.

Added brother Julian: “I think the fish was ocean gar. For weeks after that we were eating fish. We had fish coming out of our nose.”

ANOTHER RESCUE

A few days later, the boys were still basking in their newfound hero status. They were invited to go aboard the rescued boat, which was still docked offshore for repairs. The boys hopped into a row boat, and a lad not much older than them began rowing toward the disabled vessel.

Suddenly the rowboat began to drift out to sea as the young rower struggled to gain control against the strong current. Another boat had to hurry out and rescue the three boys and the wayward vessel.

“A guy named James the Great came out on a boat and got us. So we ended up being rescued as well,” Don says, still amused by the irony 46 years later.

They eventually made it onboard the Bartholomew Roberts, where they got a personal tour from the captain.

Next up was an official honor from the governor. On Wednesday, September 4, 1974, a small ceremony was held at Police Headquarters in Plymouth. His Excellency Derek Matthews presented the boys with awards. “You are very good citizens of Montserrat,” he told them.

The boys even got a cash reward. “I think we got like $10 or $20,” Don says. “That was a lot of money in those days.”

*Governor Derek Matthews shakes the hand of Don Romeo as brother Julian looks on Wednesday, September 4, 1974.*

The star treatment continued when the brothers returned to school from summer break as classmate after classmate asked them to recount the story. There was one particular perk that the boys relished.

“After that we were up and down all over the place with the Walkie-Talkies,” Don says. “We weren’t scared anymore. We were like heroes now.”

Julian says when he reflects on the whole episode he still admires how his brother chose altruism even though he could have gotten into trouble. The boys could have simply ignored the SOS call.

“It was his conscience that said to us, ‘Listen, we can’t afford to not respond to the call for help, irrespective of whether we might get a beating or in trouble for messing around with the Walkie-Talkies,’ ” Julian says.

As for their mom, “Teacher Beth” now splits her time between London and Museno, Kenya, where she runs the Donald Romeo Community School, named in honor of her late husband. At 84, she still marvels at her sons’ heroic feat.

“Imagine, neither the warship nor Cable and Wireless picked up the signal from the boat,” she says. “But two boys, in their bedroom, just two meters apart, picked it up.

“It’s a miracle.”

Photo from Facebook
*Julian, left, and Don Romeo are pictured in 2019.*

1977: Big concert was all set in Montserrat until Eric Donaldson was arrested for marijuana possession

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

June 17, 2020

1

ericdonaldsonfb — Photo from Facebook
Eric Donaldson says he enjoyed his time in Montserrat despite his arrest for marijuana possession on October 22, 1977.

Montserrat has garnered international exposure the past 25 years due to its infamous volcano. But in the 1970s — before cable, cellphones and the Internet — the island was still obscure on the world stage. Thus, whenever a famous face graced the shores of the Emerald Isle it was huge news.

In October of 1977, a local promoter reached an agreement with Jamaican reggae singer Eric Donaldson to perform two shows. Donaldson was not as famous as contemporaries Bob Marley and Jimmy Cliff, but he was very popular in the Eastern Caribbean and Virgin Islands. His hit songs included Cherry Oh Baby, Keep on Riding, Sweet Jamaica and I Think I Love You. Booking him for a concert in little Montserrat was a big deal.

The first show (Friday, October 21) drew a sold-out crowd to Shamrock Cinema. Word spread quickly about Donaldson’s performance, and the Saturday show was suddenly the hottest ticket in town. Radio Montserrat had been playing Donaldson’s songs on a steady rotation all week and the hype had reached a crescendo.

“Everyone was talking about going to the Saturday show,” said former Plymouth resident Hubert “Ned” French, who now lives in Florida.

*Fans flocked to Shamrock Cinema to watch Eric Donaldson in concert on Friday, October 21, 1977.*

TROUBLE IN PARADISE

After the Friday night show, Donaldson returned to his room at the Letts guest house near the cinema. Police received a tip that a woman procured marijuana from nearby George Street and delivered it to Donaldson’s room. An officer visited the home of Magistrate Godfrey Persaud late that night and obtained a search warrant. Donaldson’s room was searched around 6 a.m. Saturday, and the marijuana was found. He was arrested and charged.

Reached on June 16, 2020, at his home in Kent Village in St. Catherine, Jamaica, Donaldson says he remembers the incident well. “They set me up,” he says. “They deliberately set me up.”

The Montserrat Mirror reported that Donaldson appeared in court later that Saturday morning without counsel. Attorney General John Stanley Weekes recommended to the Magistrate that Donaldson be fined EC $960, issued a deportation order and be declared a prohibited immigrant. “People who come to our land must be prepared to respect our laws,” Weekes declared, according to the Mirror.

Donaldson, who faced six months in jail if he didn’t pay the fine, pleaded guilty but was somewhat defiant. “I am a very religious man,” he told the Court. “I have a Bible, and I read that Bible every day. And that Bible tells me herb is good.” Donaldson then referred the Magistrate to Psalm 104.

A large crowd gathered outside the courthouse as news of Donaldson’s arrest spread. There was even fear of a riot. After the proceedings, Donaldson was escorted out the back of the courthouse. The Magistrate ordered that he be deported “on the first available plane.”

Meanwhile, many on the island – especially in the country – were unaware of the arrest. So later that evening, busloads of fans arrived in town expecting to attend the show. Needless to say their disappointment was palpable.

THE AFTERMATH

The promoter ended up paying Donaldson’s deportation order of EC $517. He stated many years later on social media that he lost about $16,000 total due to the cancellation of the second show.

Today, many countries have decriminalized marijuana laws or legalized the drug altogether, but cannabis remains illegal in Montserrat. There is not even a provision for medicinal marijuana. In retrospect Donaldson’s arrest seems like a severe overreaction, but it was normal for the time.

French, who said Donaldson gave an excellent performance the Friday night, had planned to attend the Saturday show as well. But he sees a silver lining in the cancellation.

“Maybe this was God’s work,” he said, “because I don’t know how [the venue] would have been able to hold all those people who were planning to attend that show Saturday night. Who knows, maybe something bad would have happened.”

“There’s no hard feelings. I was actually supposed to go back there before the volcano erupted. I would go back right now if they want me.”
Eric Donaldson, on performing in Montserrat

Donaldson is still performing at age 73. He says he recently had to cancel a show in St. Vincent because of the COVID-19 pandemic. But he says he would be willing to return to Montserrat in the future and perform.

“There’s no hard feelings,” he said. “I was actually supposed to go back there before the volcano erupted. I would go back right now if they want me.”

Asked if he is happy that many countries have legalized marijuana since his unfortunate experience in Montserrat, Donaldson said: “Well, to tell you the truth it doesn’t really matter. It was always legal to me.”

"Mr. Festival"

Eric Donaldson has won the Festival Song competition in Jamaica a record seven times:

Year	Song
1971	Cherry Oh Baby
1977	Sweet Jamaica
1978	Land of My Birth
1984	Proud to be Jamaican
1993	Big it Up
1995	Join the Line
1997	Peace and Love

An open letter to young black people: Excellence is the greatest weapon against racism and discrimination

By

JOYCELYN MURRAINE

-

June 9, 2020

1

Joycelyn Murraine overcame racism and discrimination to rise to the position of Managing Director at Scotiabank.

When I was 8 years old I told my mother I wished I was white. Growing up in the 1960s in London, many of us saw prejudice and discrimination and accepted it as part of life. I was called a golliwog and monkey at school by my white classmates. They made fun of my plaited hair squares, saying they can play hopscotch on my head.

I had a white friend in class who lived near me, and we would walk home together after school. One day her mother saw us walking together. The following day my friend told me that she is not allowed to walk with me anymore.

At 8 years old I knew exactly why, and that is why I wished I was white with blond hair and blue eyes. I didn’t like how black people were being portrayed (we were called “colored” in those days, by the way). But as I got older I learned to truly love my blackness, and I developed a burning desire to be faster, smarter and better than my white peers. I wanted to be so darn good that I could not be ignored. So I worked hard to achieve those goals. I never wanted to feel inferior again the way I felt as an 8-year-old.

When I applied for a banking job in the British Virgin Islands I was hired only because my typing and shorthand skills were so exemplary that I could not be ignored. At that time only lighter-skinned blacks were employed by banks. Back then, and perhaps even now, there was skin-color discrimination even from our own people.

It was also not uncommon for boys to chase after light-skinned girls over darker-skinned ones. Some parents even told their children not to marry a dark-skinned person because they wanted “fair-skinned” grandchildren. Discrimination and prejudice among our own must have been a horrible thing, but my confidence (not arrogance) didn’t allow it to bother me. Besides, my job was more important than building a meaningful relationship with any man. I had a goal to work hard and support my mother and siblings, so I remained focused.

I look back now and smile when back in the day I would hear the things some people said about me. Remarks such as, “She is black but beautiful” or “She’s quite attractive … for a black girl.”

Whenever I was on a conference call with all men, or in a boardroom with all men, I was never intimidated because I was always prepared, and yes, always that little voice in my head saying, “Be so darn good that I cannot be ignored.”

I’ve sat at dinner tables with dignitaries, royalty, TV personalities and prominent politicians, and it never unnerved me. I always said to myself, “They put on their underwear the same way I do, one foot at a time — they are no better than me.” In fact whenever I entered a room, I strutted like a peacock, head high, with an air of confidence and pride, always the center of attention and never a wallflower.

To my young people, remember Eleanor Roosevelt’s quote: “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” The massive protests we have seen following the tragic death of George Floyd are inspiring. So many of our people who were activists back in the day have horrific stories to tell, and many, like me, at one time accepted racism as the norm. Can you imagine what our people could have achieved if not for all those 400 years of bondage and oppression?

I am proud of today’s young people — black, Latino, Asian and white — for taking up the mantle and fighting for the cause of justice and equality. But protest must be followed by perseverance.

Remember my advice: Be so darn good at what you do, that you could never be ignored.

Doreen Williams overcame adversity to become a Montserrat cooking legend and beloved matriarch

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

June 8, 2020

0

doreenmainphoto — *Photos courtesy Williams and Christopher families*
Doreen Williams owned and operated the Golden Apple restaurant in Cork Hill for more than 20 years.

In early December of 2019, Doreen Williams received a phone call at her home in east London. It was from a friend who wanted details about her upcoming 80^th birthday party.

“Are you ready for your big bash?” the friend asked.

“My dear, I don’t know anything,” Miss Doreen chuckled. “My children told me not to get involved. They said they will handle everything. All I have to do is show up in Montserrat.”

Eventually, Miss Doreen did have to get involved. A Montserrat party is not complete without goat water — and that was her specialty. On Monday morning, December 23, 2019, she entered the kitchen at the Montserrat home of her son Franklyn, donned an apron and began preparing the national dish for her party that evening.

More than 100 guests arrived for the semi-formal celebration at the Vue Pointe Hotel. Miss Doreen’s children were there. Her brother Fred “Christo” Christopher flew in from Florida, and her brother Carlton — despite being visually impaired — made the trip from St. Thomas. Her sisters Ann, Eileen, Veronica and Agnes were present. There were countless grandchildren, great-grandchildren, nieces and nephews.

Escorted by Franklyn, Miss Doreen entered the banquet room at about 8:30 p.m. to a standing ovation as the song She’s Royal blared over the speakers. She wore a gleaming smile and a shimmering purple-sequined dress, looking beautiful and at least 10 years younger than her 80 years. Later in the evening she posed for countless photos. She was like a celebrity surrounded by paparazzi. For three hours she was serenaded and celebrated.

It was a birthday party to remember.

And sadly it turned out to be Miss Doreen’s final one.

On April 13, 2020, Doreen Williams – who overcame adversity to become her family’s matriarch and a culinary icon in Montserrat – passed away in London from effects of a stroke.

The fact that her illness and death occurred during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic made matters worse. Due to travel restrictions, two of her children were unable to attend her funeral on May 18. Attendance at the service and burial was restricted due to social-distancing rules, shutting out hundreds of family and friends who wanted to pay respects in person.

But the legacy of Doreen Williams — better known as “Miss Doreen” or “Tanty Doreen” — was already complete.

A TIME OF STRUGGLE

Doreen Albertha Christopher was born Saturday, December 23, 1939. She was the fifth of 12 children born to Thomas and Mabel Christopher of Cork Hill. Mr. Christopher was a laborer and land overseer. He was also a local preacher in the Methodist church. Mrs. Christopher, the former Mabel Dyer, was a housewife.

*Miss Doreen’s parents, Thomas and Mabel Christopher.*

Miss Doreen grew up in a one-bedroom house with her parents, 11 siblings and a male cousin. With more than a dozen mouths to feed, each day was an adventure. Saltfish, mackerel and red herring were often the main course and had to be stretched to accommodate the family. Some days dinner consisted only of ground provisions.

In May of 1948 when Doreen was 8 years old her father took a job as an overseer at Roaches Estate in extremely rural southeastern Montserrat and moved the family there. Doreen and three siblings – Ann, Christo and Carlton – would walk several miles barefoot through rough terrain each day to attend Bethel Primary School. The trek was so long and arduous that they often arrived at school in the middle of recess. When they reached home after school it would already be dusk.

There was no running water in Roaches Estate. The closest water source was about a mile away in Roaches Mountain. But there were lots of cows around. In fact, milk was more abundant than water.

“We used to cook with milk instead of water a lot of times,” says Christo, who is one year older than Miss Doreen.

After two years in Roaches the family returned to Cork Hill when Mr. Christopher’s assignment was over.

Miss Doreen attended St. Mary’s School and Wesley School, both in Plymouth, then Bethel School during the family’s sojourn to Roaches. She also attended Salem Primary while living for a while with her maternal aunt, Teen Dyer-Ponde. She did not attend secondary school, and any other opportunity to further her education took a hit when she became a mother at 17.

MOTHERHOOD AND BUSINESS

On September 21, 1960, Miss Doreen married Richard Williams, a laborer and taxi driver from nearby St. George’s Hill. They had six children: Anita, Edith, Melorie, Franklyn, Shaaron and Veron.

At 27, Miss Doreen had a full house. Although she could have been content being a housewife, she always had an independent streak. “She always liked to have her own money,” brother Christo says.

In 1960, William H. Bramble — Montserrat’s first Chief Minister and a Cork Hill resident — constructed about 10 two-bedroom homes for needy families in the village. The scheme, located just south of Cork Hill center, was called “Site”. Miss Doreen and Richard were awarded one of the homes. It was not a turn-key property by any means. As part of the self-help project, residents assisted in the construction of their homes.

To make ends meet in the early days, Miss Doreen sold homemade ice cream. Later on she was hired by businessman and politician Johnny Dublin to help run his small food shop in Cork Hill. She sold meat patties, ice cream and even doughnuts, a rare treat in Montserrat at the time. When Dublin opened Letts Ice Cream in Plymouth, Miss Doreen got a job as a cook at the Emerald Isle Hotel, later renamed the Montserrat Springs Hotel. It was there where her cooking skills evolved as she learned to prepare an array of entrees and desserts.

Miss Doreen decided to open her own business near the same spot as Dublin’s former shop in Cork Hill. It was called the Snackette. In 1974 the Williams family purchased the land where the Snackette was located and made plans to expand to a restaurant. Around 1976 they began laying the foundation. For assistance, they called a “maroon” — an old African and Caribbean tradition where men in the area provided voluntary labor, often in exchange for a meal.

In 1978 the first floor was finally completed. By this time the restaurant was renamed the Golden Apple. Why that name? Miss Doreen’s uncle, George Huggins, who lived nearby, had a golden apple tree in his yard. Villagers found the fruit fascinating because it is not indigenous to Montserrat. Huggins’ wife Annie convinced Miss Doreen to name her business the Golden Apple. Later on a golden apple tree was planted next to the restaurant.

*The Golden Apple restaurant in Cork Hill, circa 1987.*

Once completed, the restaurant featured a dining room, bar, plus a games area with a pool table, dartboard and TV. The next step was to add a top floor that would serve as the family’s living quarters. That took some time to complete, and some in the village derisively dubbed the building “The Dungeon”.

Even while running the business, Miss Doreen accepted side jobs. She catered weddings, church socials and other events and also cooked and baked for expatriates and tourists. In the late 1970s she was the caterer for the canteen at Radio Antilles. On a typical day she would rise early, prepare a portion of food for her own restaurant, another portion for the canteen, then drive six miles to Radio Antilles in O’Garro’s with food in tow. Her children would sell food to customers at the restaurant in Cork Hill while she served at Antilles.

“My mom was a hustler,” says Anita Benjamin, her eldest child. “She was a very hard worker. She was also very frugal. Even though she wasn’t a professional seamstress she would make our school clothes.”

In 1980, Richard Williams passed away at age 50. Miss Doreen suddenly became a widow at 40, assuming the full onus of taking care of her family. “After my dad passed, my mom became even more motivated,” says Benjamin, who says her mother completed the upstairs in 1985 and also expanded the restaurant downstairs.

*A sign at the entrance of the Golden Apple remains intact two decades after the restaurant had to be abandoned due to volcanic activity.*

*Miss Doreen, left, looks on during a birthday party for her father at the Golden Apple restaurant in Cork Hill, circa 1988.*

FAMOUS FACES

The Golden Apple’s peak in the mid-to-late 1980s coincided with a flurry of tourism in Montserrat that was fueled partially by Air Studios, the world-class recording facility built by former Beatles producer Sir George Martin. The studio was just a couple miles away in Waterworks, and many famous performers dropped by the Golden Apple, including Jimmy Buffett, who penned the prophetic lyrics, I don’t know where I’m gonna go when the volcano blow. Actor Judd Hirsch of Taxi fame stopped by. So did calypso legends King Obstinate, Mighty Swallow and Short Shirt from Antigua. Whenever he visited Montserrat, the irrepressible King Obstinate would always make a grand entrance to the Golden Apple: “Doreen, me reach!”

“The Golden Apple was a fun place in those days,” recalls Daphne Christopher-Taylor, Miss Doreen’s niece and Montserrat’s Festival Queen in 1983. “I loved the pool table. I became a pool shark. I became really good and I used to win a lot. Sometimes my aunt would say, ‘OK, let some of the customers play.’ “

Friday and Saturday nights were busiest. Patrons ate, drank, slammed dominoes and played billiards while watching Dallas and Falcon Crest. Young men traveled from Salem, St. Peters and even farther villages to the Golden Apple. They were lured by the food, ambience and the fact Miss Doreen had attractive daughters and nieces. The Golden Apple was also known for its delicious hamburgers. But goat water was the signature dish. Miss Doreen inherited her goat water skill from her mom Mabel, who was once considered Cork Hill’s top goat water cook.

*Doreen Williams is pictured in 1987 at the wedding of her daughter Melorie.*

Miss Doreen also wasn’t afraid to venture out of her comfort zone. When her children began to visit nearby restaurant Nepco Den to purchase roti, Miss Doreen added the Indian dish to her repertoire. She prepared unique dishes such as eggplant casserole and christophine (chayote) casserole in order to diversify her menu. She also made delicious pies, especially coconut cream, blueberry and lemon meringue.

“My mom had a gift,” Franklyn Williams says.

Myrle Roach, who worked in the programming department at Radio Antilles from 1978 to ’80 during Miss Doreen’s time at the canteen, remembers her cuisine fondly.

“Her coconut cream pie was her pièce de résistance,” Roach says. “I am yet to taste one better.”

*Miss Doreen’s trademark coconut cream pie.*

MOVE TO LONDON

The volcanic eruption in Montserrat that began in 1995 heavily impacted the Golden Apple. In the summer of 1997, Cork Hill was evacuated. Miss Doreen and much of the family relocated to England, as did more than half of Montserrat’s population. She was forced to flee the home and restaurant. She also could not collect an insurance payout because when volcanic activity started two years earlier it became virtually impossible to purchase a policy. To compound matters, vandals broke into the abandoned Golden Apple and stole equipment.

Miss Doreen took the turn of events in stride.

Said Franklyn Williams: “My mom just said, ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’ ”

After moving to London she resumed her cooking. “We couldn’t get her out of the kitchen,” daughter Shaaron Williams-Lewis says. “I just think she really loved the fact that people enjoyed her food. And because she was such a good cook she didn’t like to eat out.”

She catered weddings, birthday parties, funeral repasts and more. She remained in high demand by transplanted Montserratians who craved her trademark goat water. And she passed on her cooking expertise to her children … though not always with perfect results.

“My mom was something else,” Shaaron says. “She could taste something and immediately tell you what ingredients are missing. One time I made Johnny cakes and she tasted one and said, ‘It’s too tough. You’re kneading the dough too much.’ ”

Doreen Williams’ children help her celebrate her 80th birthday on December 23, 2019 in Montserrat. From left, Shaaron Williams-Lewis, Edith Sweeney, Franklyn Williams, Anita Benjamin and Veron Williams.

TRYING TIMES

The move to England and the new millennium brought new challenges and also heartache to Miss Doreen. She lost her father Thomas in 2000 and elder brother Bill (Willie) in 2008. Then came the sudden death of her daughter Melorie in 2012, which sent Miss Doreen into a tailspin.

“She took it really hard,” Shaaron says. “There were a lot of pictures of Melo in my mom’s living room. After Melo died my mom never went back into that room. She used to say, ‘I’m not supposed to bury my children; my children are supposed to bury me.’ “

Around 2015, Miss Doreen began to scale back her catering jobs. The years of labor had taken a toll and she suffered severe arthritis. Although she still performed smaller jobs she finally began enjoying the fruits of her labor. She went on a Caribbean cruise. While in Puerto Rico she toured a Bacardi factory and sampled several rums, not realizing she wasn’t supposed to swallow the spirits. She returned to the ship quite tipsy as she and travel mates enjoyed a good laugh.

“We couldn’t get her out of the kitchen. I think she really loved the fact that people enjoyed her food.”
Shaaron Williams-Lewis, Miss Doreen’s daughter

In 2016 she visited Cuba, and in 2018 she attended the 80^th birthday party of her brother Christo in Florida. She gladly prepared the goat water for that event.

*Miss Doreen receives a warm welcome during her visit to Bariay Key in Cuba in 2016.*

‘MOTHER TO A VILLAGE’

When asked about Miss Doreen’s legacy, family members offer differing perspectives. Her niece Daphne says her aunt’s legacy will always be her children. “They loved her to death. They would do anything for her.” Her brother Christo says he has the utmost admiration for the way Miss Doreen took care of their parents when they became elderly.

Two of her children spoke about her wider influence, especially her generosity toward the less fortunate.

“My mom has the most godchildren of anyone I know,” Shaaron says.

Added Franklyn: “My mom used to work from morning to night until her feet were swollen. I used to feel sorry for her. She used to say she wanted us to have a better life than she did. But she wasn’t just our mom, she was a mother to all the children of Cork Hill.

“She was the mother to a village.”

Mrs. Verna White leaves legacy as fashion pioneer and trailblazer in Montserrat

By

EDWIN L. MARTIN

-

May 20, 2020

0

mrswhitephoto2 — Verna White is pictured at her home in Olveston, where she lived since 2003 after moving back from London.

Verna White was still glamorous at age 92. Her outfits were colorful and coordinated, and fellow church members would eagerly await her next sartorial ensemble. Although she lost some of her physical ability to design dresses up to her standard, she never lost her sense of style.

“We used to drive to church together,” says Camilla Watts, Mrs. White’s life-long friend. “She was always well-dressed. She had a keen eye. She would tell me, ‘Your skirt is not hanging right.’ She really knew class.”

When Mrs. White celebrated her 92^nd birthday last December, she was in good health and good spirits. Aside from the ailments that come with old age she was fine. She was quietly enjoying her golden years at her home in Olveston.

But over the past year she would tell friends and family that she’s ready to meet her maker whenever He is ready. She even began to display a sentimental side that family members had never seen.

On Friday, April 24, 2020, Verna White passed away. She left a legacy as an entrepreneur, community pillar and fashion pioneer who conquered many odds – not just in business but in life.

EARLY LIFE

Celesta Alverna Nanton was born December 3, 1927, in Kinsale to Elizabeth “Mae Belle” Woods (Roberts) and Jim Nanton. At age 7 her life was almost cut short when she fell head-first into a boiling pan of milk in the yard. She suffered serious burns and spent months in the hospital. She even overheard a doctor telling her mother she likely wouldn’t survive and would turn out “stupid” even if she did.

But she proved the doctor wrong on both counts. Thanks to diligent care from the nurses, she recovered. When she returned to school after missing a year she endured taunts from classmates over her scars. But she persevered academically and became a teacher when she finished school in 1944.

*Verna and Joe White on their wedding day, November 14, 1954, in England.*

While teaching at St. Patrick’s School she met future husband Joseph “Joe” White, who was also a teacher. Mrs. White eventually gave up her teaching job after becoming pregnant with her first child, a son named Edsley. Sadly, the boy died in his crib at only 5 weeks old. She migrated to England, where she married Joe in 1954. They would have three more children: Chrystal, Corinne and Julian.

Mrs. White had dabbled in dressmaking for years. It is a family tradition. Her mother Mae Belle and grandmother Sarah, better known as Larla, were both dressmakers (Larla also designed and sold handmade stuffed cloth dolls that were quite popular). When Mrs. White moved to England, dressmaking became her main source of income. Her clients were mainly friends and those who found her through word of mouth.

Mrs. White and her husband were helpful to others migrating to England in the 1950s. They shared their two-bedroom flat in Shepherd’s Bush with many of them until they found places of their own. The dressmaking business prospered, and the couple bought a second home in Ealing, also in west London.

‘CELESTE FASHION HOUSE’

In 1970, Joe White secured a senior position with the Government of Montserrat as a civil engineer in the Department of Public Works. The family joined him a year later and the Whites built a home in Upper Dagenham.

In 1972 at age 44, Mrs. White opened a shop on the ground floor of the house. She called it “Celeste Fashion House” (she tweaked her first name to give it a French flair). Montserrat has always had an abundance of seamstresses and dressmakers, but Celeste Fashion House was the most elaborate of its time. The store had a mannequin display in the window – which was a first for Montserrat – plus a garment factory with eight to 10 employees. Mrs. White made dresses to order and also sold clothing off the rack for men and women. She also made staff uniforms for many business institutions.

*Celeste Fashion House (bottom floor) in 1972 before it became fully established.*

The Whites were well known by friends and overseas visitors for their lively Christmas parties. Mrs. White was an excellent cook and enjoyed inviting family and friends for dinner. She was also a devout Catholic and fund-raiser. In 2017 she was awarded Mother of the Year by the St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church.

In 1996, the volcanic eruption destroyed the Whites’ home and business in Dagenham and the couple returned to England. Seven years later Mrs. White bought a house in Olveston and returned to Montserrat. Mr. White chose to stay in the UK, but he often returned to Montserrat during winter months.

*Mrs. Verna White always had a keen sense of fashion. Above is an early photo in Montserrat.*

SAD ENDING

In early April, Mrs. White was admitted to Glendon Hospital. She was initially diagnosed with pneumonia but a later test confirmed she had contracted COVID-19. For more than two weeks she fought bravely, but on April 24 she succumbed to her illness. She was designated by the Ministry of Health as Montserrat’s first casualty of coronavirus.

Mrs. White’s family, including younger sister Jeweline Roberts-Riley, was unable to visit her in the hospital because she was isolated due to the highly contagious virus. They never got to say a proper good-bye.

“What breaks my heart is that I envisioned her lying on her bed with all of us around her holding her hand and stroking her hair and giving her comfort,” Roberts-Riley says. “Instead she was pronounced dead with her husband, daughter, sister and medical staff around her all wearing Hazmat suits.”

On Saturday, May 2, Mrs. White’s funeral was held at the St. Patrick’s Roman Catholic Church in Lookout. It was limited to 15 people due to social-distancing guidelines. They celebrated her life, shared stories and gave her a sendoff befitting her legacy of class.

Among the mourners were her husband Joe and their children, Chrystal Butler, Corinne White and Julian White, and sister Jeweline. Mrs. White’s other survivors include sisters Claudia Mendes, Pam Arthurton, Joy Bramble, Toni Nanton and Kathy Reevie; sisters-in-law Sarah Roberts, Sarah White, Irene Andrew and Carol Nanton; and brother-in-law Percy Arthurton.

“What breaks my heart is that I envisioned her lying on her bed with all of us around her holding her hand and stroking her hair and giving her comfort. Instead she was pronounced dead with her husband, daughter, sister and medical staff around her all wearing Hazmat suits.”
Jeweline Roberts-Riley, Verna White’s sister

Although they were siblings, Mrs. White and Roberts-Riley had somewhat of a maternal relationship due to their two-decade-plus difference in age. Roberts-Riley, one of Montserrat’s top dressmakers and troupe organizers and a recipient of the Award of Distinction at the 2016 Montserrat National Awards, recalled one of her final conversations with her sister.

“I’ve always seen her as a disciplinarian,” Roberts-Riley says. “She would scold me and always urge me to do the right thing. But last December we were speaking on the phone and she said to me, ‘Do you know that I have loved you all your life? From the time you were born and I held you in my arms, I’ve loved you. I love you very much.’ “

Roberts-Riley was taken aback by her sister’s rare display of endearment. She paused for a moment, not certain how to properly respond. She finally answered.

“I love you too.”

Top scores by Montserrat player

Murder cases appealed since 1960

"Mr. Festival"

TRENDING NOW

MOST POPULAR ALL-TIME STORIES

EDITOR PICKS

POPULAR POSTS

POPULAR CATEGORY