Boxing Gloves By Jamie Kirkpatrick

My memory is increasingly suspect these days, but this really happened. At least, I think it did…

It was the summer of 1966, the months between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I was heading north, part of a group of young volunteers organized by what was known at the time as The Grenfell Mission (it’s now called the Quebec-Labrador Foundation) that provided community-based support for conservation and the cultural heritage of the coasts of northern Quebec and Labrador. There were about a dozen of us who would spend the next several weeks working and living in various isolated fishing villages along the St. Lawrence River in northern Quebec. To get there, we flew commercially to Montreal, then boarded a small DC-7 that took us on to Quebec City at which point, we embarked on a packet steamer that over the course of the next three days dropped us off, one-by-one, in our assigned villages. I was the last boy to disembark. My new home would be with the Nadeau family who lived out on the quay near the village of St. Paul’s River, the last stop before the Labrador border; Newfoundland lay just off the coast.

The Nadeau family had eleven children, the eldest only a couple of years younger than I. (I would turn 18 at the end of that summer.) My “job” was to work with the young children in the village, teaching them how to swim, an essential life skill since all the boys would grow up to be fishermen, and all the girls would grow up to marry fishermen. I suppose there were other skills to impart, but in reality, I was basically a camp counselor, a tall and gangly pied-piper to the village kids who had been released from the town’s one-room schoolhouse for the few short weeks of a northern summer. Of course, what I didn’t realize at the time was that I was the one who was doing all the learning—about a different culture, a different way of life, an entirely different world. It was, to say the least, my first experience in becoming a small part of a world that was so much larger than anything I had ever known or even imagined.

Bob Bryan, the chaplain at the high school I had attended, ran the program. He was an Anglican priest and his summer parish was the Quebec-Labrador coast. To tend to his flock, he flew his own sea plane up and down the coast, baptizing babies, marrying couples, burying the dead. He was a revered figure in those parts and I wanted to be just like him someday.

On this particular day, I was with the village kids in town when we heard Bob’s plane overhead. He circled the village a couple of times, then waggled his wings, a sure sign he had something for us. I remember looking up and seeing his grinning face looking out from the pilot’s little window, just before he dropped a package that tumbled down to us. The kids rushed to open the package. Inside were two pair of boxing gloves.

Bob’s plane continued to circle above us. Immediately, the kids formed a ring and the boxing gloves were distributed. I got the first pair and an enormous teenage boy got the other pair. What happened next was…well, I don’t really remember what happened next, but it must have been the shortest match in the history of boxing. I was like one of those cartoon characters who wakes up to see little birdies swirling around his head. I think I remember seeing Bob, leaning out the window of the plane waving and laughing before he flew away.

There is no real point to this story; it’s just a memory, but, like other good memories, it recalls another time, another place, and another me. As my brother-in-law David liked to say, “It’s all good.”

I’ll be right back.

Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.

 

 

AI Disclosure: The Spy and its writers may use artificial intelligence tools to support accuracy and clarity in our reporting.

0 Responses

  1. Thanks for the remembrance. I spent that summer canoeing & portaging down the Rupert River in Quebec, ending up in James Bay. I felt like quite the voyageur. Nobody at the Hudson’s Bay posts where we re-outfitted spoke anything but French, which I did not. It was a life changing experience. “Oh, Canada…”

Write a Letter to the Editor on this Article

We encourage readers to offer their point of view on this article by submitting the following form. Editing is sometimes necessary and is done at the discretion of the editorial staff. Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Subscribe to the Spy
Receive daily intelligence reports right to your inbox

Dr. Walley New Provider (300x500)
Ad 4 Talbot Spy Rotating Ad 300x500px Chuck Mangold Jr
Talbot Spy Free Admission.jpg
Trippe Oct 2026
healthcare careers ad 300x500(1)
FAS NOSE SPY 300x500.jpg
CBEC format 2 restore copy.jpg
Qlarant Spy ad 8 13 2025.jpg
Avalon May 2023 copy.jpg
eswa ad talbot spy FINAL
Jan Kirsh October blue grape screen October
YMCA Membership generic copy.jpg
2.png
Reeder contemporary Nov 2024 rev3 copy 2.jpg
unnamed
Spy Donor Thank You Ad
0.jpeg
Studio B Sept 2026 copy
RandRspy
unnamed
CCHS resize copy 1.jpg
Forum Spy Ad 8 20 26
TalbotSpy Ad 2023.jpg
Private Duty Care 300 x 500 Jan 2024 copy
Chesapeake Bay Fund 2.jpg
Pickering Creek birdseed sale Oct 2026 copy
0.png
1 2.jpeg
MSO March 2026
Waterfowl Festival 2026
GunstonGolfTourn 300x500 1.jpg
massoni spy spring 2026