MIchael Lombard

Michael Lombard, a native of Gibraltar, Spain, was an architecture student at the University of New Brunswick between the years of 1972 and 1975. Mr. Lombard remembers fondly his time as a summer student with then owner Norman Langdon, and kindly sent me pictures taken there during those years. I reproduce them, with his permission, below, and include here some of his prefatory remarks on those years.

It all began on the U.N.B. campus in the early spring of '72. I was eighteen, just finishing my second year and like everybody else, scrambling to find a summer job in between exams. My family, which I had left behind two years earier in Gibraltar, would send me whatever money they could, which meant that finding a summer job quickly became a matter of sheer survival. A friend from residence, Ron Smith, had seen a job opening that was posted in the Student Union Building. To his good fortune the summer job was in his home town of St. Andrews. I wished him luck as I headed off to Moncton. I would stay at a friend's house there whilst I searched for a summer job in the 'Big City'. After about a week of 'we're not hiring' and down to my last nickel, I got a call from Ron. He tells me to call his new boss Norman Langdon, because he is still looking for a couple more hands down in St. Andrews. And wouldn't it be cool to work together? So that evening I reached Norm and he asks me to come for an interview at nine the next morning on the Island. I said sure, I'd be there. As we talk he realizes I'm not too certain I even know where St. Andrews is. When he asked me where I was, I told him in Moncton. Then he asked how was I going to be able to make it to the nine a.m. interview when it was aready evening. I told him no problem, I would hitch-hike across the province overnight. Years later he would confess to me that I was the first person he had ever hired sight unseen. The way he figured it, "Anybody that will hitch-hike overnight for a job interview, can work for me". And so begun a relationship that was to mark me the rest of my life.

Somebody once said ...There are places you leave. There are places that never leave you.

Me in my bedroom. The window faced the long sweeping south lawn as can be seen in photo 10. The furniture, even the books, had been brought over by Norm Langdon. Heck, even the leather cowboy boots I was wearing were his. He gifted them to me and I wore them for years. Interestingly the little agenda book which I have in my hands was the first diary I ever kept, and still have it in my possession today.

Wanda. A friend and local St. Andrews beauty. I met her at U.N.B. that spring. A very attractive redhead who, fortunately for me, was engaged at the time. The photo was taken on the path that lead from the house to the Bathhouse. Her backlit hair and the dreamy sky..love this photo.

The kids that Norm hired and who lived in the House with me during the summer of '72. From left to right: Leon, Ed Colby, Doug. That old cabin was found by us on the north end of the island. When was it built and by whom? I guess we will never know.

The famous barn. The cedar shake siding was probably mostly original at the time. The huge insides of the barn was a fascinating maze to an eighteen year old like myself.

The House. The flower bed had been planted by Bill Clarke. The Jeep belonged to Doug. He was a little older than the rest of us, about 20. An American, a very capable kid.

Norm and his girlfriend Didi (who visited from the U.S. every now and then) talking to Bill Clarke. Well, mostly listening as was generally the case when holding a conversation with Bill. As you can see the old asbestos roof shingles were being taken down and replaced with asphalt shingles. I still remember hand picking all those asbestos shingles off the lawn, mounds of them, and hauling them away.

Wanda on north lawn.

Bill and Norm in front of the leaded billiard room window. Bill would always entertain us with stories of the Van Hornes and other assorted characters that had, in one way or another, come and gone through those parts. Stories and tales, funny and sad, all local mythology that was preserved in his memory. I returned for a visit five years later and dropped in to see Bill at his house which was on the road that led to the Island. He had forgotten who I was. I left his house feeling very disturbed, for he had forgotten everything. But I still remember him. One day when he was bringing me a number of letters from the post office, and they all happened to be from girlfriends, he went on to tell me that he had instructed the Postmaster General of St. Andrews to line the inside of our P.O. Box with asbestos to avoid any fire hazards. That was Bill. He always left you with a smile on your face and your spirit lifted a little higher. He was History, and it saddens me to think he took so much of it with him.

The view from my bedroom window. Still spring. I had made the tracks on the soft lawn with the powerwagon, fearfull that they would be there for life. To my great relief they disappeared within a week or two.

The Bathhouse and our noble companion, Charlie Brown. He was Norms' St. Bernard. He would expediently grind into dust the largest of steak bones we could throw him. On Sundays when I explored the island he would often keep me company. He looked and felt good on that island. Unlike us, being indifferent to its history, he was totally at home there.

Ed Colby meets the lead hand of the local carpenters. They came to work everyday on a motorboat. The shot must have been taken around five o'clock for that's when the brewskies where faithfully opened to mark the end of a days work well done. These local hands viewed us with some reserve. They were not all that much older than us, but we were long haired college boys, from far away places who listened to strange music and would rather get stoned than drunk. As the summer wore on we managed to tentatively build some bridges between them and us.

My best friend at the time. A St. Andrews boy with the unusual name of Ron Smith. His Mum and Dad were teachers in town. His high school days must have been spent in a fishbowl. We met in residence at U.N.B., and it was him that turned me on to this job opening on the island. We worked together, and like two teenage girls we would talk non stop all day long. And so the days flew by. If it required unskilled labour, they called on us.

Ed and Charlie Brown looking good for this Ralph Lauren poster.

Norm in the background. We were tearing down this little residence that had been built as a mutant afterthought right in front of the entrance to the main house. Norm was an extremely shy man. A loner. A man of vision who lacked the social graces that these types of men need to ultimately pull it all off. A man of taste who liked to surround himself with Americana. Objects that symbolised the American Spirit, the pioneer, the maverick who is inevitably drawn towards one too many High Noon encounters. His type are not in fashion anymore, he believed in right and wrong. You could bet your house on his word for he would often bet his. For a period of twenty years he mentored me with his letters. I suppose in some ways he saw in me the son he never had, he recognised in me that hunger that draws people like us together.

Doug looking at the weirs.

Ron Smith and the local carpenters setting off to St. Andrews at the end of the work day.

Doug hustling me on Van Horne's original billiard table. The sheet metal lamps were also from another era, when cigar smoke hung heavy in the air and the Scotch was poured from crystal decanters.

In the morning the fog hung still and the tide rose quickly and silently.

On a Sunday walk with Ed and Charlie Brown. The perfect memory of that perfect day.

We cut through the woods and laid this gravel road. Nature has probably reclaimed it by now, as it is so doing to the rest of the island. Giants like Van Horne leave footprints far too large for us mere mortals to step into. Our well intentioned attempts to do so, through historic societies, governments at different levels, and so forth, prove futile at best, if not pathetic.

Michael Lombard today.

Michael Lombard 1972 - 1975