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NEW WATERFORD, N.S. — When Frankie Morrison wanted to remodel his kitchen, he didn't take out a loan, or dip into his retirement savings. Instead, the 53-year-old father of three followed in the footsteps of his son, his eldest daughter, his brother-in-law and just about every other working-age man in this former coal-mining town: He headed west for a spell, to take part in the Great Economic Miracle known as the oil sands.
“I came home with $9,200 in my pocket after six weeks,” he explained, flashing a $200 watch his employer gave him for avoiding accidents on the job. “My buddy just came back and he made $43,000. He bought a four-wheel drive, put new cupboards in his home, a new kitchen and new flooring. As a fella says, you make hay while the sun shines.”
The problem is, Mr. Morrison was making hay in Alberta while he was employed as the town councillor for New Waterford, a small community perched on the eastern tip of Cape Breton Island, near the mouth of Sydney Harbour. The local media discovered his side-act and pointed out he was still receiving a weekly travel stipend from the government (he paid the money back, saying it was an oversight).
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Mr. Morrison was scarred enough by the experience that he doesn't plan to return to Alberta any time soon, but his constituents are showing no such reluctance – in fact, they're heading out in swarms.
New Waterford, population 6,500 and falling, embodies one of the less remarked-upon implications of the oil sands bonanza: a profound social and demographic shift in the small communities that furnish so much of the project's labour force during its massive construction phase.
So many of New Waterford's men are working out of town that the fire department can't recruit volunteers and the dart leagues are foundering. The local high school is having a difficult time finding coaches. A great number of children are being raised by their mothers. And finding a plumber or electrician is next to impossible.
Meanwhile, some of the youth heading west in search of jobs are staying there, exacerbating the town's attrition and raising questions about the future sustainability of basic services.
“There's hardly a household you can go by without running into someone working in the oil sands,” Mr. Morrison says. “There's a lot less men around. It's unbelievable. They're either getting ready to go or they just came back. In the 40 to 50 group, they're all out there.”
GROWTH AND CONTRACTION
It wasn't so long ago that New Waterford was a thriving coal-mining town of more than 12,000 people. In the 1970s, the town built a state-of-the-art high school, Breton Educational Centre, that served 2,300 students. There were four elementary schools, as many gas stations, and more than a dozen convenience stores dotting what was, for the town's size, a vibrant downtown strip.
Today, the population has been sliced in half, and the high school's enrolment has dwindled to 813. Only one elementary school remains, and the corner stores have either been sold or boarded up, replaced by a Needs chain. There is even talk that some of the area's six Catholic churches will be shuttered in the coming months.
Unemployment has remained stubbornly high since the last mine closed in 2001 and, despite the introduction of a large call centre, the town is struggling to adopt to a new economic reality.
Fort McMurray has stepped into this benighted breach, single-handedly keeping hundreds of families off the welfare rolls and pumping millions of dollars into New Waterford. At the same time, the migration of workers – some seasonal, some permanent – has dramatically changed the face of the town.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the pubs. Rosco's, a local watering hole, recently shut its doors for lack of business. At the New Waterford Army & Navy Club, where time is measured in pint glasses and hands of tarbish, a local card game, things are little better.
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