Posted on October 18, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

Conrad, Raylene and Len

 

 

And when the night brings on the stars We’ll be there, we’ll remember We’ve reached across, we’ve touched a spark The story’s just beginning

We’ll Reach the Sky Tonight – Rita MacNeil

Rosin up the bow. Dust off the old dancing shoes.  There’s a big time ceilidh happening in Cape Breton right now with some of the finest musicians from the four corners of the globe.  Add a major splash of color from Mother Nature and you have the globally acclaimed Celtic Colours International Festival.  The logistics of coordinating an annual event of this size is staggering, but bear in mind that the seeds were sown over a very long period of time, in small communities throughout the island.  It’s harvest time.

When all of the world class musicians take the stage this fall, whether it is in Boularderie School, the Savoy Theatre in Glace Bay or St. Matthew’s United Church in Inverness, they should all take a moment to pause and point toward the heavens. The Celestial Choir has gathered.  John Morris is chording at the ivories while Buddy rosins his bow.  John Allan is tuning his twelve string guitar (an almost impossible undertaking) while Raylene and Rita are warming up their distinctive voices.

One could make a strong argument that Celtic Colours wouldn’t exist without the tireless work of the trailblazers. Not just the Celestial Choir but hundreds of other immensely talented, humble and unassuming Cape Breton musicians.

I was very lucky to have met the five fine Cape Bretoners mentioned above, and had the honor of sharing the stage with two of them. I doubt that this was as memorable for them as it was for me.

J’n Allan and J’n Morris. When they were handing out consonants and vowels in Cape Breton, there must have been a shortage somewhere along the line.  I can’t ever remember anyone calling these musicians “John”.

Humility. And humour.  That’s a combination that you don’t see often.  There are talented musicians everywhere.  You can ask some of them and they will tell you just how good they are.  To a person, the Celestial Choir members were modest people with a few of them bordering on shy.  John Allan wasn’t one of the timid ones!

I enjoyed many cups of tea with Buddy over the years at his kitchen table. He had a wicked sense of humour.  Oh yes, it was dry.  I watched him intently as he pondered a topic.  He would pause, and a small grin would begin to crease his lips.  And then he’d fire out a zinger that would make Jon Stewart proud. (They even lose consonants in New York!)

I have been to Rita’s tea Room in Big Pond but never had the pleasure of having a “cuppa’ with her. I saw her for the first time in a second story nightclub in Halifax back in the early 70’s, before she became a star.  I don’t think she ever looked at herself as one.  There’s that humility thing again.

John Allan oozed charm. His voice was unique and he was a better than average guitar player; but more than anything, he was an entertainer.  He made an impromptu appearance at the Old Chapel on the campus of St. F. X in the early 80’s.  The chapel had been converted into a coffee house and he joined us for a set one memorable evening.  I think he left with two of the “Four Marys” on his arm.

I sang in a group with Raylene during her university days. We were also members of the chapel choir.  When the Rankins made it to the big times, I often teased Raylene that she got her big break playing with me and Conrad at the Abbey X.

Sometimes a musician excels in so many ways that it is hard to find words to describe his gift. Songwriter, arranger, pianist extraordinaire; John Morris was a quiet leader with immense talent and he left us tragically and far too soon.

So let’s raise a glass and toast those who broke ground on fertile Cape Breton soil.

I know we’ll reach the sky tonight Look and see how far we’ve come Standing in our brightest light This is what the dream has done

Posted on October 15, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Photo courtesy of Antigonish Heritage Museum

 

 

I recently saw a screening of a short film on the exterior wall of the local theater. It was part of an arts extravaganza called “Art after Dark” or to locals, “Antigonight”.  It was an unseasonably warm evening and a small crowd had assembled for the viewing. It was an original film produced by an up and coming local artist that was thoroughly enjoyed by all.  It felt good to stand in this random cluster, drawn together by chance for a few moments of solidarity.  With the technology explosion of late there are countless other ways to entertain ourselves, many of them solitary activities experienced within the confines of our houses.

But it wasn’t always this way. There was a time when the movie theater was the beating heart of most small communities; an escape from the drudgery of everyday toil … when playing cards or tag or red rover was just not entertaining enough.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

I can still see Mary Poppins flying through the air in this 1964 classic film. I remember going to the candy store across from the theater, clutching my hard earned allowance of 50 cents.  Or down to Foch’s Corner Store to get a Macintosh‘s toffee (lasted longer than sponge toffee!).  Admission to see the show was 37 cents, which left 13 cents for treats.  And let me tell you, back then 13 cents could buy a young person a full blown bellyache.

Some people didn’t get an allowance and had to be creative. The community dump used to be located right in town, where the Public Works building now stands.  Saturday was important as much of the garbage was collected and dropped off on that day.  Industrious young guys would hang around and gather up beer bottles.  They would march right over to Pete Poirier’s Bottle Exchange.  They would make enough to go to the show with a bag of candy.  Pete, in his wisdom, was also a purveyor of sugar laced confections.

Going to the theater on a Saturday afternoon was as much a religious experience as going to Mass on Sunday. We couldn’t wait to see the next Western movie or watch the high jinks of Larry, Moe and Curly Joe.  And when Superman came to town; well, you could expect huge lineups.

Just about everyone has a memorable story to tell about going to the movie theatre. Four young girls from a staunch Catholic family were being treated to a movie by their grandmother.  For the seven year old, this was her first experience.  The grandmother marched them in like a battalion of well-trained soldiers, similar to the weekly parade to Sunday Mass.  She picked the aisle and pointed to the long row of red velvet seats.  The youngest was the first to go in and dropped to one knee, executing a perfect genuflection, much to the horror of her siblings.  Her grandmother stifled laughter and it was only years later that this child was told the truth of the matter.

And some of you will remember Nesbitt’s orange soda; you could gain admittance to the matinee if you could produce 5 Nesbitt bottle caps (or crowns, as they were called). For most of us that was a tall order but if your parents owned a restaurant that was almost a license to print money … in soda lids, that is.  One young enterprising lass showed up at a Roy Rogers/Dale Evans show with a brown paper bag stuffed to the gills with Nesbitt crowns.  On this day she was easily the most popular person in town.  She dispensed them to anyone who wanted free admission.  Even the manager, John B., saw the humour in this.  “Free for all” took on a whole new meaning.

Movie theaters today just don’t provide the same viewing experience, especially the large multi-screen behemoths that dot the landscape. The old theaters had character.  Most of them had a separate small cage where the ticket attendant sat.  The floors had thick, lush carpet.  I`m not sure if this was the healthiest choice of décor but it gave the place a unique feel.  And there was the unmistakable aroma of hot buttered popcorn.

Looking back, 1964 dished up an interesting melange of movies, most that I could attend but a few that were off limits. After hearing The Beatles produce hit after hit, we got to see them in the not so memorable movie, “Hard Day’s Night”.   I watched my first James Bond action movie that year with the release of “Goldfinger”.  And old swivel hips (Elvis the Pelvis!) himself starred in “Viva Las Vegas”.

Most thirteen year old boys begged their parents to see one movie, in particular. It wasn’t a “duster” as we called the Western genre, an action thriller or a comedy.  No, it was something much more intriguing and the title certainly got everyone’s attention: “Sex and the Single Girl”.  The only conceivable way to see this classic was to sneak in, something that the more adventurous guys did routinely.

It is still exciting to go and watch a flick on the big screen. A night out will always feel more special than an evening at home.  Back then, I couldn’t wait for the lights to go out so that I might be so bold as to hold a young woman’s hand, one of life’s greatest thrills.

Today, if I’m lucky, my better half will hold my hand at the movies. I’m not certain whether this is a sign of affection or whether she’s just checking my pulse to make sure I’m alive when I nod off.

 

Posted on October 11, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

The hallways of the old Antigonish High School

 

 

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Sometimes words alone simply don’t do justice; it is hard to describe the wonder of nature painted in a sunrise or sunset.  But just as often pictures don’t tell the whole story.  Sometimes a word can say more than a thousand pictures.

When you hear someone yell “Fire!” you immediately spring into safety mode. The triumphant shout of “Bingo!” indicates the end of the game … and the possibility of a stampede.  And if you’re a golfer, the cry “Fore!” means duck your head because someone has launched an errant shot.

I was at the Farmer’s Market recently and bumped into a couple of old friends. The subject of education came up and we shared stories about the impact that certain teachers have had on our lives.  In some cases, their influence has been life-changing.  In the middle of this animated conversation, one of them uttered a word that stopped us all in our tracks.  We gave each other knowing glances.  No need to explain or draw a diagram for this one.

Provincials. As in provincial examinations.

In life, there is black and there is white and there are shades of gray. It’s ok to have an off day at work or to have a sub-par (over par!) round of golf.  But when your entire academic year hangs in the balance, depending upon the successful completion of a set of exams set by the province, there are no shades of gray.

Pass or fail. All or nothing.

Not everyone thrives on pressure. Standing up in front of a crowd to make a public presentation is among the hardest things for most mortals to do.  Sometimes you nail it while other times you just stink out the joint.  But you almost always have a chance to redeem yourself.  Provincials leave you either standing or lying in the dust.  You pass … or you fail.  Period.

Provincials were always held in June and invariably exam day was unseasonably hot.  When I think about it I remember sweaty palms, perspiration on the forehead, and palpitations of the heart.  The walk into the examination room made me feel every bit as uneasy as Daniel in the lion’s den.  Luckily, just about everybody in the class came out, like Daniel, unscathed.  Thanks in large part to those extraordinary teachers we were talking about the other morning.

I’m not sure how I feel about the ordeal of Provincials. We all dread a root canal but when it’s over and we have relief, we look back and say it wasn’t so bad.  These “make or break” exams certainly prepared us for the life challenges that were ahead.

I sometimes take the pressure cooker out of the cupboard to prepare the spuds, especially for large gatherings. Writing provincials was another kind of pressure cooker – I’ll keep that one in storage, thank you very much.

That is, until the next time a crony utters that word.