Posted on June 27, 2015 under Storytelling with 4 comments

” Dis Chord”

( Peter MacDonald photo )

 

 

“Played it ‘til my fingers bled…”

Summer of ‘69 – Bryan Adams

We recently sold our house and moved into a two bedroom apartment.  This required some serious purging.   We had accumulated “stuff” during 33 years of marriage, along with possessions acquired before tying the knot.   What does one keep and what does one recycle to family, friends and thrift shops?

Each of us tends to hold on to things near and dear, most of it rooted in sentimentality.  But eventually everything must find its final resting plate.  I had no trouble giving up the cast that I wore on my left knee back in 1980.  Ditto for some very old t-shirts and other memorabilia.  My wife decided to donate our iron to a worthy cause.  It was in “like new” condition.  We ended up keeping essentially what we needed and casting off just about every other worldly possession.

Except my guitar.  Guitars, actually.

Music has been a central focus of my life.   I grew up in a home full of music.  I sang in a band as a teenager, but didn’t pick up a guitar till I was in my 20’s.  And a very old guitar it was … and cheap.  I was teaching in Northern Alberta at the time and one of my buddies gave me one of his.  You had to apply a great deal of force to depress the strings.  You know what I mean.  And the strings seemed more like razor blades.

I was a Lightfoot fan at the time (still am, though Gord’s voice sometimes sounds like an aging grackle these days).  I purchased an anthology of his greatest hits complete with chords.  And so my guitar journey began in earnest.  And like Bryan Adams and thousands of other aspiring players, I practiced until my fingers blistered and bled.  I aspired to greatness and settled for mediocrity.

I had the audacity to teach guitar to a group of grade six students a mere months after I had learned exactly four chords: G, C, D and E minor.  Talk about the blind leading the blind.  I agreed to teach them a few basics during lunch hour.  This was in January of 1979 and, if you go back and check the forecast, the temperature in Whitelaw, Alberta hovered between -40 and -50 for the entire month.  Most of the students had guitars that were purchased at K-Mart.  Keeping them in tune was nearly impossible.  The students would arrive at school in the morning with the guitars in green garbage bags.  The first 30 minutes of the lesson was spent de-icing and tuning these gems.

I told them about the three P s of learning how to play the guitar: practice, patience and pain.

Kenny Rogers was big at the time and the first song they learned was “The Gambler”.   Whenever I hear this song I get the flashback.  A couple of years ago, Betty and I attended a reunion in Fairview, Alberta.  One of my protégées, Trevor, a student from that very class 35 years ago, showed up … guitar in hand. We jammed and he sang a few tunes that he had written.

When I decided to move back East, I took my accumulated pension contributions of $979 and went directly to the Halifax Folklore Center and purchased a 1972 D-18 Martin.  I was not worthy of such a fine instrument but I was taking the long view.  Maybe someday I would actually be able to make it sound like it was being played by a real musician.  That day eventually came but it wasn’t me who made the Martin sing; it was our son, Peter.  I did the honorable thing and swapped guitars with him.

One day I received a call from one distraught young man.  After a gig the previous night, some young thugs had broken into the band vehicle and taken all of their equipment. The police were able to recover many of the stolen articles but the Martin was found smashed to pieces.  A senseless crime for sure.  Peter salvaged what remained of his precious instrument and someday the guitar will be rebuilt.

Over the years, I have played in every imaginable place and have “trunks of memories still to come” (Long May You Run – Neil Young).  I have played at some epic singsongs, including the night Melvin was buried, when I played for 4 hours without a break while the floor at 39 heaved.  Strength from above sustained me that day.

One of my fondest memories was the afternoon that my dear and late friend, Siobhan and I did a stint as street musicians in Vancouver.  She played the flute and I played guitar.  As any true Maritimer would (!), we played until we made enough to buy a pitcher of draft at a nearby pub.

After all these years, I still haven’t mastered bar chords.  I don’t know if it’s my small hands or an equally small brain but I continue to fumble when I need a b minor.  I have, however, mastered playing chords in a bar.  These are bar chords of a much different variety.

I don’t play much these days but a guitar is still a great way to bring a diverse group of people together … even when you only know 4 chords.

“I look at the world and I notice it’s turning While my guitar gently weeps. With every mistake we must surely be learning Still my guitar gently weeps.”

While My Guitar Gently Weeps – George Harrison

Posted on June 20, 2015 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Just me… and a few birdies at the golf course last evening

 

 

Where can you experience frustration of the highest order and moments later, feel a sense of elation that is hard to describe?  How can you be so on top of your game one day and feel completely inept twenty four hours later?  How can you be at peace, feeling that you have things all sorted out and then feel completely inadequate.  Welcome to the mysterious world of golf.  It seems appropriate that golf spelled backwards is flog.

Back when I was ten years old, every day was Christmas.  I got up at 5:30 a.m., made myself two egg salad sandwiches (every day), grabbed my three golf clubs and trudged 3 kilometers to the golf course.  I played all day only stopping to eat.   My wife hopes that I kept the sandwiches in the fridge and not in my golf bag.  I practiced, caddied and hunted for golf balls.  And in the waning light of the day, several of us gathered on the putting green for our daily contest.  The trip home around 9:30 p.m. seemed a little longer than the morning expedition, but there were no complaints.

Those of you who have played golf understand this clearly: it is the most beguiling game imaginable.  In most sports, one can attain a certain level of competence and consistency with enough time, patience and practice.  Golf humbles you, plain and simple.  If you think you have it figured out, it will slap you silly and bring you back to your senses.

Non golfers must be shaking their heads wondering, what is the appeal to a sport that can drive sane people over the edge?  To wit: during a particularly frustrating round of golf, an exasperated golfer whacked two balls into a nearby pond.  His partners, sensing an eruption in proportion to Mt. Vesuvius, gave the player a wide berth.  He walked calmly to the edge of the pond and with a herculean toss, threw the clubs and bag into the water.  He began his walk back to the clubhouse when he suddenly spun on his heels and returned to the pond.  Wading in water up to his knees, he retrieved the bag and brought it to shore.  He unzipped the side pocket, removed his car keys, heaved the clubs back into the water and stormed off the course.

Some golfers strive for perfection.  They take lessons, practice for hours on end and read every golf magazine imaginable.  Eventually the golf gods impart wisdom, and perfection is replaced by striving for excellence.  This leads to accepting mediocrity.

The best round I ever had was following my son while he played my favorite course on the planet – Cape Breton Highlands Links.  I never hit a bad shot but I took several excellent ones … with my camera.

I haven’t played much in the past eight years but when I do, it is for fun, pure and simple.  I have figured golf out.  It is about the walk and the camaraderie.  It is about smelling freshly mown fairways and watching eagles soar and foxes cross the greens.  I don’t keep score any more because, let’s face it, nobody cares about my score or yours.

Golfers are eternally optimistic.  Most carry a bag of dreams with them until they hole the final putt.

Posted on June 17, 2015 under Storytelling with 9 comments

Sally “Central”

 

 

Where the Mabou River trundles towards Mabou Harbour and eventually out into the Northumberland Strait, there is a house perched atop a hill.  Over 70 years ago, it was inhabited by Dr. Alexander E. Kennedy.  When he died, leaving no heirs, Angus D. Beaton bid on the property and won.  Eventually he brought his new bride there.

And Sally “Central” has lived there ever since, enriching the lives of her family and community …. for 99 years and counting.

I took scenic drive to Mabou with Sally’s daughter, Miriam, on a sun dappled spring day.  Route 19 had never looked better.  It is small wonder that people travel from the four corners of the earth to spend time in Cape Breton.  The scenery is stunning, especially at this time of the year, and the people are grounded; knowing who they are and so proud of their heritage.

We entered Mabou and drove down a secluded lane.  I soon discovered that this may, indeed, be paradise.

Within minutes, I was engaged in a spirited conversation with Sally and three of her adult children.  We were in the kitchen (of course!) and Sally was comfortable in the seat of honor … the rocking chair.  After some casual banter about the weather and the like, we dove into a discussion about her life.

Sally was brought up on a farm in Glencoe Station, one of the “Dancer MacMillans”.  All of the families at that time were large; and hard work was a given.  She had a special passion for horses and was often charged with the responsibility of hooking them up to the sleigh or wagon to do chores or carry a crowd to the dances.   When her brothers had to travel afar for work, she had three horses and a colt under her care.

When Angus D. Beaton’s father died, he left the family to the wit and resources of his wife and Angus’s mother, one Mary Ann Beaton (nee MacDonell).  Mary Ann needed to provide for her family so she took a job as the local telephone operator.  It is not surprising that her home, being the hub of all conversations, became known as “Central” and forever after, she was simply referred to as “Mary Ann Central”.  It only stands to reason that her offspring would always carry this easily identifiable handle.  To this very day, it is not uncommon to hear the following: “Which one of the Centrals are you?”

So, Angus (Central) married Sally (the Dancer MacMillans) and they took up residence in Dr. Kennedy’s house.  One of her most prized (and useful) wedding gifts was the cow she received from her father … a modern day “food processor”!  They raised other animals on their six acres of land and had an enormous garden.  While we were talking, one of her sons was out tilling the soil for this year’s crop.  In other words, the family has always been self-sufficient.  Back then it wasn’t a luxury or a fad.

Like most women of her generation she managed the home front and worked unbelievably hard.  But as she was quick to point out, so did everybody else.  That was the norm.  Angus’ and Sally’s home was always filled with people and laughter and music.

Once her children were launched, she decided to take her talents and energy to Mary’s Hill, a residential facility for the mentally challenged.  She took a course in New Glasgow to get her credentials and worked as a nurse’s aide at the home for 10 years.

At the age of 68 she decided that it was high time to get her driver’s license.  While she wasn’t expecting Angus’s untimely demise any time soon, she was simply being prudent and suspected that there might come a day when she would need it.  She kept her license for many years and decided of her own volition to pass it in when she was 95.

Of course, no discussion in Cape Breton would be complete without the topic of sports.  I couldn’t get much out of her other than to say that she likes Sidney Crosby.  I teased her and wondered if it was because of his skill or his good looks!

We were well into our discussion when it was decided to pause for lunch.  I looked at Sally and suggested that she would need a full stomach to talk about the last remaining topics: religion and politics.

Long before the “Decree on Ecumenism” in 1964, the Beaton house was a living, breathing example of this concept.  Several of their closest neighbors belonged to other religions but that didn’t stop them from getting together on a regular basis.  One of the people from another denomination insisted that one of their prayers be uttered when entering a home.  That wasn’t a big deal for Sally and Angus.

And when it came to politics, Sally noted that many a seasoned politician made a point to stop in their kitchen on the way through Mabou.  Probably to get some good, practical advice.

As we were winding up, I asked her if she had any regrets in life.  “None” was the succinct reply.  She would have like to have studied to become a nurse but life got in the way.

And finally, the question that most almost centenarians are asked: “What is the secret to your longevity?”  She paused thoughtfully.  Besides having never smoked and enjoying the odd dram of single malt Scotch, she said that she always had a lot of friends.  Visits from people passing through or stopping for tea or story-telling and music has sustained her.  Friends, new and old, keep her on top of her game.

Sally loves her front veranda, where she can survey her garden and the large pond, and see who’s coming down the lane.

And ponder an amazing, full and happy life.