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### The Stories We Tell: Unearthing the Hidden History of Saint John West
Every neighborhood has its secrets, but few are as layered and lovingly guarded as those of Saint John West. This is a place where the past isn’t just preserved in museums; it’s etched into the sidewalks, whispered in the names of local landmarks, and debated over coffee in corner shops. For years, I have been captivated by these tales, and my obsession began with a simple publishing pitch that was flatly rejected. When I proposed a book dedicated solely to the stories of this one, tightly-knit sector of the city, the publisher’s response was dismissive. “You’ll never find 40 stories in one sector,” he declared, before adding a second, more pragmatic blow, “And even if you did, you’d never sell enough books to make it worthwhile.” He was profoundly wrong on both counts. The stories were not just waiting to be found; they were practically tripping me up on the sidewalk, and the appetite for them has proven to be as insatiable as the curiosity that first sent me digging.
That initial rejection became the fuel for a lifelong project. The neighborhood, far from being a small, quiet backwater, is a dense tapestry woven with threads of indigenous history, colonial ambition, industrial revolution, and the daily lives of generations of families. The book that finally emerged was not a struggle to fill pages but a difficult exercise in choosing which tales to tell. And the well of material has never run dry. This very weekend, I’ll be sharing some of these stories from the deck of the Castle Fallsview Funeral Home on Lancaster Avenue, an event sponsored by the local Brenan’s funeral home—a fitting venue, as death and memory are often the keepers of a community’s most intimate secrets. But since not everyone can make it, I’ve decided to share a few of my favorite area curiosities with you. They are a mix of fact, folklore, and a little bit of guesswork, the kind of stories that get told and retold, each telling adding a new wrinkle. So, let’s take a walk through the West Side, and I’ll test your knowledge of its quirky, wonderful past.
Our first stop is a journey back to 1904, when a new school was being erected on St. John Street. The question that has lingered for over a century is about its name: LaTour. The story goes that it was named to honor Charles de La Tour, the 17th-century French colonizer and fur trader who was a central figure in the bloody Acadian civil war. At the time of the school’s naming, it was commonly believed that La Tour’s original fort was located off Middle Street, on a mud bank opposite Navy Island. This belief, passed down through local historical societies and old-timers’ tales, gave the new school a direct line to a heroic, if controversial, past. But here’s the twist: this location was almost certainly wrong. The true answer to whether the school was named for a fort that was never there? It’s true. The name was bestowed based on a well-intentioned but geographically incorrect assumption. It wasn’t until archaeological digs in the 1950s that the actual site of Fort La Tour was confirmed to be over at Portland Point, on the other side of the harbor. For decades, the children of the West Side learned their history in a building named after a fort that wasn’t where everyone thought it was—a perfect monument to the power of folklore over dusty fact.
From schools to the battlefield, our next tale takes us to the imposing Martello Tower, a hulking remnant of the War of 1812 that stands sentinel over the harbor. These sturdy, circular forts were built by the British to defend against a feared American invasion. Our local tower was constructed on Carleton Heights, and its history is written not just in its thick stone walls but in the very land it stands on. The local legend suggests that when the property boundaries were being marked out, they weren’t using simple wooden stakes. Instead, they carved three-foot-high stone markers, each emblazoned with the King’s Arrow—the broad arrow mark of the British monarchy—to signify that this land was the Crown’s own property. The story claims these impressive stone monuments can still be found on the hill to this day, half-buried in the undergrowth, silent witnesses to a time when the threat of a new war was very real. Is it true? Surprisingly, yes. These great stone markers remain, carved with the royal cipher, a tangible link to a time when a global superpower was fortifying its farthest outpost against a young, upstart nation to the south. They are a hiker’s secret, a piece of international history hiding in plain sight on a local hill.
Now, let’s shift our focus from war to recreation, from cannons to cricket, or more accurately, to soccer. There’s a local ballfield known affectionately, and a bit derisively, by one and all as “Limey Land.” The name is a classic slice of Maritime slang, a nod to the term “limey” which was originally a slightly insulting nickname for British sailors and immigrants, who were issued lime juice to prevent scurvy. The story behind the name is that in the early 1960s, this particular piece of ground was the stomping grounds for a wave of English immigrants who had recently settled in the area. These newcomers brought with them a love for what the rest of the world calls football but North Americans call soccer. They would gather on the field, and their accents, their style of play, and their passion for a sport that was still a niche pursuit in Canada at the time made them stand out. To the local kids and other residents, the field simply became “Limey Land,” the place where the Englishmen played. As for the story’s veracity? It’s true. The nickname stuck so well that it’s now an accepted, if unofficial, name for the park, a charming relic of a time when waves of post-war immigration were reshaping the social geography of Canadian neighborhoods.
Speaking of shaping the neighborhood, let’s talk commerce and construction, with a side of pure trivia. Remember the old Kmart? For many, it was the cathedral of consumerism in the mid-20th century, a sprawling, bright store that promised a world of affordable goods under one roof. On the West Side, the Kmart at the Lancaster Mall was a major social and commercial hub when it opened its doors in 1965. The local pride in the new store was immense, and it soon gave rise to a piece of boosterish folklore: that the Lancaster Mall Kmart was, in fact, the top-grossing store in all of Canada. It was a claim that made the neighborhood puff out its chest. But, as with so many local legends, the statistics tell a different story. While the store was certainly incredibly successful and busy, retail records from the era show that the top sales figures were consistently achieved by massive stores in bigger metropolitan areas like Toronto and Montreal. The West Side Kmart was a giant in its own pond, a beloved institution that anchored the community, but the “number one in Canada” title? That must be filed under false, a fond piece of civic pride that grew taller with each retelling.
Just down the road from the Kmart was another institution that generated its own share of myth and rumor: the New Brunswick Liquor Commission store at the corner of Ludlow and King streets. Its history is a two-parter. First, the building itself has a tragic backstory, as it was constructed on the site of Emerson’s Hardware, which was tragically destroyed by a fire in January of 1957. Out of those ashes rose the liquor store, which opened its doors in 1958. Now, the store quickly developed a reputation for doing a booming business, and rumors began to swirl. The most popular piece of gossip was that this modest-looking corner store was the highest-grossing liquor outlet in the entire province. The sheer volume of traffic and the number of cars lining up seemed to support the claim. However, when the official corporate numbers were finally reviewed, the legend was punctured. While it was certainly a top performer, the actual statistics showed that the Union Street store in Uptown Saint John consistently outsold it. The folklore took another hit when it was pointed out that while the store was busy, its blockbuster reputation might have had less to do with per-capita consumption and more to do with it being a central transit point. So, was it the province’s top store? False. It was a strong number two, but the “best” title belonged to its rival Uptown. And that added layer of a local rivalry makes the story even more human.
Finally, we come to the question of wealth and its gleam in the sand, and a mystery linking the West Side to one of Canada’s most prolific writers. Have you ever stood on the beach at Saints Rest, looking at the shimmering waves, and heard a tale of gold? There is a persistent legend that this stretch of sand holds trace amounts of gold, that you could, with patience and a good pan, tease out tiny flecks of the precious metal from the heavy black sand. It’s a romantic notion, a get-rich-quick dream rooted in the geological history of the region. A geologist friend of mine, Bill Gardiner, a man who knows the earth of New Brunswick like the back of his hand, once decided to put this theory to the test. He spent a whole summer meticulously panning what must have been truckloads of sand. He was dedicated, thorough, and full of hope. After months of effort, what was his great fortune? He managed to collect just enough gold dust to make a single ring. It was a beautiful, personal token, but certainly not a pirate’s treasure. So, is there gold in the sand? True, but it’s a fool’s errand if you’re seeking riches. The real treasure is the story itself, and the warning that while legislation now forbids the removal of sand from the beach, the legend will always remain.
And that brings us to our final character, a man who embodies the rich, literary soul of this district. Hidden away in the history of Manawagonish Road is the story of one of the most astonishingly prolific writers in Canadian history. His name was Dan Ross, and for those who don’t know him, his story is a masterclass in hidden fame. Over a career that spanned decades, he churned out not a handful of books, but a staggering 358 novels. And that’s not all. He also wrote over 600 short stories and penned 12 full-length plays. To keep up with the insatiable demand from publishers, he had to be quick, and to avoid flooding the market with one name, he wrote under a staggering 20 different pseudonyms. For readers who loved a particular style of Gothic romance or mystery, they might have been shocked to discover they were all the work of a single, tireless man living on a quiet street in Saint John. He was a literary factory, a one-man publishing empire whose output was only matched by his desire for privacy. His life proves that wonder is not always found in distant lands; sometimes, it’s living right next door, quietly typing away into the night. So, the final question, was this incredibly productive writer a resident of Saint John West? Absolutely, and his legacy is the neighborhood’s secret gold, far more valuable than any fleck glittering in the sand.