Peel Back The Stone

A new Easter song whose first two lines came to me in a dream. After the first line arrived early in the morning, I knew another would follow, so I stayed under the covers for another hour until it appeared. After that I knew the rest would follow. Interestingly I got up and went right to the piano where I played a chord progression that I had never played before. The song was complete by the days end. I just needed to tinker for a couple of weeks with a couple of awkward words.

Peel Back The Stone

Peel back the stone Day is upon us First light has woken Birds on the wing Birds in the hollow Flight of the swallow Morning has woken Each living thing

Peel back the stone Day is upon us First light has woken Him from the dead Life sweet and pleasing Death overreaching Linen is folded On a stone bed

Peel back the stone Day is upon us Sunlight has woken Seeds from the ground Here in the garden Where He is walking Birdsong unlocking Silence profound

Sweet Christmas Jesus

This is the image of one of my nephews years back and his fascination with the nativity scene, the creche.

Sweet Christmas Jesus

There’s a little boy kneeling at a stable Standing up the shepherds just right Joseph standing so straight and tall Next to Mary his wife Seeing with the eyes of a shepherd boy Offering the gift of a king There’s a little boy kneeling at a stable Under the angel’s wings

He can hear the cattle lowing He can see a newborn lamb Sees the sure-footed feet of the donkey Shuffling into Bethlehem He can hear the joy of a songbird Singing from the rafters high If a little boy sees with the heart of a child Oh Lord why can’t I

Sweet Christmas Jesus Lying so meek and mild Sweet Christmas Jesus Love is in the heart of a child

Soon it will be bedtime Counting only one more sleep Little baby Jesus still in his hand The one that he wants to keep Under the wings of an angel Bathed in a heavenly light There’s a little boy dreaming of a stable all on a miracle night

Melvin

Doctors said our neighbor Melvin wouldn’t live, then they said he wouldn’t walk, but his sons wouldn’t take “won’t” for an answer. His local gym was the parish church, where he would learn to walk again, around and around. One Good Friday, he was able to walk up the aisle where he venerated the cross as we watched in humble silence. It was a moment many will never forget.

Melvin

Austin takes his father by the hand Passing all the stations of the cross Walking with him through Jerusalem Past the frozen panes of winter frost Winter coats and boots on cobblestone’s See where Jesus fell the second time Past the altar down the middle aisle Melvin walks with Austin by his side

Just outside the church a stand of birch Branches bend towards the Chapel Lane Down below the church a farmer’s field Down below the fields a frozen bay

Melvin barely speaks but he can walk Up the aisle to stand at Calvary Hill All the world outside is passing by All the world inside is standing still Watching as he venerates the cross Here’s a man the doctors said would die Humbly walking through Jerusalem Melvin walks with Austin by his side

*

Just outside the church a stand of birch Branches bend towards the Chapel Lane Down below the church a farmer’s field Down below the fields a frozen bay

*

Near where they lay Jesus in the tomb All around the church on feet of clay Just the place to stretch a farmer’s bones Where a man can learn to walk again

The Bonny Grand

One of the all time Maritime Gothic stories took place in Margate PEI. Mary Tuplin, aged 17, was killed by Robert Tuplin, aged 19. The murder was precipitated by her pregnancy, which in 1887 was no small matter. The story was well known throughout the Maritimes. It is worth a bit of research and has a modern twist that would raise anyone’s eyebrows.

The Bonny Grand

Come meet me Mary Tuplin To stroll as lover’s do You in high boots and stockings And I in wing tipped shoes I’ve no bouquet of flowers But a pistol in my hand I’ve crossed the Sou’West River Aboard The Bonny Grand

Come sail with me Mary Tuplin Or shall I sail alone And tie around your middle This heavy anchor stone And slip you in the water To sleep on rock and sand And then to make the opposite shore Aboard The Bonny Grand

They’ll find your kerchief floating Beside the river bank And drag you from the water From that same spot you sank Then find the child within you That raised my murderous hand Then call for Robert Millman Aboard The Bonny Grand

They’ll hang me in the Springtime Beneath an April sky Where fifty dark eyed strangers Will come to watch me die And as the hang rope tightens And the pulse flies from my hand I’ll sail into the darkness Aboard The Bonny Grand

Come meet me Mary Tuplin It’s dark I cannot see I’ve slipped into the river The current’s taken me As from the murky bottom I upwards reach my hand Mary Tuplin sails away Aboard The Bonny Grand

Good Times In The Maritimes

Just a little summer fun and teasing when people come from away for a visit

Good Times In The Maritimes

There’s good times in the Maritimes So the Maritimers all say They don’t live for tomorrow Or long for yesterday They’re living in the here and now Together come what may There’s good times in the Maritimes So I’m headed back that way

I love it in Toronto Driving on the 401 They beep their horns to say hello So I wave at everyone Now they don’t use all their fingers When they’re waving back at me It reminds me of the Maritimes So nice and neighborly

Chorus

I love it in Vancouver All the lovely sights to see I’m going to buy a bungalow If I win the lottery I love that vegan leather And the stretchy yogi pants Like the duds I wear Letting down my hair At a local legion dance

Chorus

I love it up in Montreal Where they parlez vous francais And I love them kisses on the cheek From fellas named Rene They say they don’t like Canada I don’t believe in that Every time I say Canadians I get a cheer and a pat on the back

Chorus

I love it in Saskatchewan Where they say the world is flat You look one way you see Winnipeg And the other way Medicine Hat I love it in Regina Where perogies make a feast But I’m trading Moosejaw for Moosehead And I’m on the road back East

Chorus

I love it out in Calgary All the cowboy boots and hats I fit right in when I put on my rubber boots and cap I love them prairie oysters And I don’t mean to brag But I’m getting good at shucking them When I’m half in the bag

Chorus

I love it up in Ottawa Where the politicians go And I love the House of Commons Where they put on quite a show They’re working on the budget And there’s one thing they agree There’s good times in the Maritimes Where the best of times are free

Chorus

I love to go to Newfoundland The place they call the Rock They got winter storms in April And that funny way they talk I kissed the cod in Dildo Come by Chance I had me screech There’s plenty of fun in Newfoundland Just a little to far East

Roll Along, Roll Along

This is a mostly true story that happened to me early in June. The poor doctor got his tire back but still doesn’t know that there is a song made about it.

Roll Along, Roll Along

Doctor G*** Mac**** lost his tire as he drove Which left the poor physician in the ditch beside the road He had all the bells and whistles on his shiny SUV But he counted all his tires he could only count to three

Roll along, roll along, dear doctor roll along Roll along dear doctor roll along

He calculated angles and the tires velocity Then marked an X upon the spot he thought the tire would be He marched into the lupins and he stood there on the spot But he did not find his tire for a tire there was not

Chorus

He stood there in the lupins with a frown upon his brow And thought he’d use deductive powers to track the tire down He is highly educated and he has a brilliant mind But he searched more than an hour and the tire he could not find

Chorus

In the field of medical science he’s a master in his class With a sterling reputation and a wealth of knowledge vast He knows all the methodology to keep a man alive But he could not find his tire so he isn’t fit to drive

Chorus

I saw the man dejected as I stopped along the way And rolling down the window I could here the doctor say I cannot find my tire so your service is required For I will not be back to work until I am retired

Chorus

I wandered through the lupins til I came upon a track Which I followed through the field until I stumbled out the back Then through forty feet of alders and a fence of rusty wire I came into a clearing and I found the doctor’s tire

Chorus

I wheeled the tire back to him the doctor staked his claim Compared it to the others and the tire was the same He opened up his wallet then to pay a finder’s fee But says I to make a song will be reward enough for me

Chorus

There’s something I must clarify before he gets the blame It wasn’t faulty driving that would tarnish his good name He is not a speedy driver so I offer this excuse The incident occurred because the doctor’s nuts were loose

Chorus

Another Lonely East Coast Christmas

Just another lonely East Coast Christmas A skirt of ice has formed round the bay There are no stars tonight, just a broken harbour light Where three ships come sailing in the morning

Captain Charlie’s buried in the churchyard Sonny’s all grown up and moved away A rusty tub is moored, near a shanty by the shore Where three ships come sailing in the morning

I saw three ships, come sailing in On Christmas day, On Christmas day I saw three ships, come sailing in On Christmas day, in the morning

Keep a lookout, for the lovely Mary Keep an eye out, for her husband Joe If you hear a crying child, they might want to stay awhile And the woodshed out in back has got a stove

It’s another lonely East Coast Christmas A coat of snow has fallen round the bay From her window by the road, she can see the dock below Where three ships come sailing in the morning

I saw three ships, come sailing in On Christmas day, On Christmas day I saw three ships, come sailing in On Christmas day, in the morning

The Night the Boys Went Fishing

Quite a tale… It was recently pointed out to me that drinking, fishing and hockey are the three ways that men get away from their wives, so I suppose this is an accidental allegory

The Night The Boys Went Fishing

Three fellas from our village went out on a little tear Off they went a strolling with a bottle of rum to share The first one lost his glasses The second lost his voice The third in line was not inclined to listen The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

Down around the harbourfront they broke into a shed Then bending low to enter it the first two bumped their heads Near senseless to the floor they fell The last one tumbled in as well They picked each other up in poor condition The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

They found a wooden dory and they rowed with all their might But couldn’t get the boat afloat, the keel was stuck in tight Close at hand an antidote They climbed aboard a fishing boat And shortly found a key in the ignition The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

All around the bay they sailed, on that moonless night Three fishing rods they brought along, the fish just wouldn’t bite The first one slipped into the drink Before the second one could blink The third he steered avoiding near collision The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

Suddenly the sky above became as clear as day They rubbed their eyes and stared about to see see they’d gone astray The boatshed was a hockey rink The sea of ice was phony The fishing rods were hockey sticks They sailed on a Zamboni The moon above was a scorer’s clock The dory was a penalty box How foolishly they felt in this position The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

They left their craft at center ice and headed for the shore A man jumped on the bleachers and he let a jeezly roar We’re sorry sir the first one said The second cried and bowed his head The third reciting his act of contrition The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

They had to go to court next day to see the referee Three nights in the dory was her honour’s harsh decree A hefty fine you’ll pay my friends Apologies to make amends Their sentence for the crime they had commissioned The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

So now you’ve heard my story I’m stuck here in the dory For I was one found guilty by admission The night the boys went fishing (repeat)

This Old Life

This soft picked country song started with a series of competing words and images and it was the image that won out in the end. That means some of those initial written lines are gone forever, but the warmth of the image, an old man heading off for some “later in life” courting, begat a whole new series of sentences that held the image up and carried it to the finish line. The original song idea was more cynical, but the final product turned romantic in both the literary and “wordly” sense

This old road gets a little longer This old bridge crossed a lot of water Every summer night gets a little hotter Trying to make a living out of this old life

This old lane gets a little dusty This old porch swing gets rusty This old blanket keeping us comfy Trying to make a living out of this old life

Oooh, this old life’s a sight to see Oooh, this old life, plain as can be This old life’s done a lot of living Sometimes hitting Sometimes missing All the way down Coming up kicking Trying to make a living out of this old life

This old doorbell keeps ringing These old crickets keep on singing These old stars keep on winking Trying to make a living out of this old life

This old porchlight keeps burning This old doorknob keeps turning This old heart keeps on learning Trying to make a living out of this old life

Chorus

Review of "Second Wind" Album by Shane Pendergast

In the words of Socrates: The unexamined life is not worth living. There is probably no better starting point to approach Second Wind, Prince Edward Islander Shane Pendergast’s second album of folk music, conceived in a period of history where disruption of the world we knew has allowed for an opportunity to turn inwards. In the initial listening, it would seem that Pendergast has used this time well. On the surface, this collection of Maritime and Folk flavoured odes, ballads and melodies is well crafted and musically pleasing, but with a deeper listen, as with most significant recordings, the album can be seen as a reflective puzzle that touches on some of the biggest questions of life. There is a trickery in the way that questions and ideas are cached throughout the album, and one of the cleverest touches is that the song tracks take on added poignancy when listened to from end to beginning. Life Will Settle Down Sometime is the final cut of the album but a good starting point for an album of introspection. “Life will settle down some time, until then I’ll keep moving on”, and move we do through songs that touch on the core of human alienation. The Song of 52 is a song about the loneliest whale in the world, one whose whale song, at 52 hertz, is incompatible with members of it’s kind, forcing it to roam the sea in solitude. Man With Stories juxtapositions the weight of the past with the shallowness of modern life. Even in the most upbeat tracks of the album there are lingering doubts. Yours to Borrow is a spin of words straight of a dance floor and a celebration of heady desire, but the fun is tempered with suspicion, “Will you feel the same tomorrow”. So the overwhelming brooding heart of the album is track by track revealed. Fiddle Playin’ Girl is as romantically and sentimentally East Coast as is gets… or is it? “Gonna to be a cold and quiet winter/Still I wish you’d change your plans/Gonna be a cold and quiet winter/Gonna be a cold and quiet man”. Echoes of disappointment are found throughout Second Wind. And in a careful balance, trust in the deeper meaning of past traditions becomes the travel companion of angst. Tell Me What’s Changed as the middle track of the album is symbolically the most protected by the songs around it. There is found a cautious query. In a time that questions and tears down the wrongs of history, Pendergast questions if we also lose, in a rush to reform, some of the noble human qualities that have made the inner “life worth living”: bravery, perseverance, truth, discipline. The deft trickery of the album is again found in Waltz of the Figurehead Maiden. It is in the flawless weaving of language that Pendergast excels, and this track is not just a nod to the definitive sea shanty but an instant classic that would not be out of place in a dusty collection of songs of the sea hidden at the bottom of a sea captain’s chest. Once again, the brilliance of the song is not just the writing, but the hiding symbolically of deeper questions, in this case about death itself. In a sense we all live out our days as a tipsy stroll on the sands of life and are tricked into death, the “siren’s cruel snare”. To know folk music is to appreciate that motifs are central to the depth of the songwriting craft. The themes are universal and the reason why “old” songs still please the ear and touch the soul. So now two of the most heartbreaking songs of Second Wind. Autumn Rain is at once beautiful, dark, and terribly sad. It is a song that you never tire of listening to because the melody and lyricism are perfectly matched. What Waltz of the Figurehead Maiden is to salt water, Autumn Rain is to the earth. There is a sense of the human position between the rich loam and the cruel rain that is equal parts hopeless and yielding. This is the human condition and with “collar flipped up” we exist even when life is “ wipers on a dry windshield”. It Slips Away is as plain language as it gets. “It slips away/The world we knew/It’s turning gray/Like old things do”. There in those lines is a profundity that can be found all through this album, and the cunning switch of “like all things do” to “like old things do” to match the “it’s turning gray” lyric is so so typical of the simple elegance with which Pendergast engages and masters language. Behind the simplicity of the writing is a thought and effort that is obviously unobvious. So now the beginning of the album which this writer sees as a fitting end. The track Cassady’s Hill is loaded with literary and folk music references. Once again the significance of these references is hidden in a feel good, country fair, moonshine soaked, campfire frolic. The characters however are ghosts from the past, beginning with Neil Cassady, a prominent figure of both the Beat generation and the Psychedelic movement and even Butch Cassidy, the notorious bank robber of the 1880’s. If there is one line that is a key to the song it is the portrayal of the “ne’er do wells”, flocking to this unruly gathering. It is here that Pendergast aligns himself with the gritty romanticism of the past, written and lived. There is much going on behind the scenes on this album, much thought, and a good dose of wistfulness, but that can be missed in such tunes as the title track Second Wind which is a holler along, upbeat ode to renewal and resumption. The lead off to the album is in this reviewer’s viewpoint a fitting “end” to an album this wise. Every verse is not only a spiritual comeback but even a physical resurrections as is shown most bluntly in the final stanza where, on “your death bed”, the second wind, by way of the “window”, is either the breath of life in, or the flight of the spirit out. Second Wind is at once a starting point and a fitting end. The album is masterful and moving, and has enough hidden contemplations to say definitively: “The unexamined album is not worth a listen”.

Half n'Half

Here’s a drinking song about a wild night at the the Black Horse Tavern back in the days before prohibition. The building is long gone from the Irishtown Road near Kensington PEI but there is a statue of a black horse on the corner where it once stood. It’s always been a favourite landmark of mine. On an interesting side note, Mary Tuplin, the teenage victim of the infamous Millman-Tuplin murder in 1887 (immortalized in a once well known Maritime folk song), was born at the Black Horse Corner.

Half n’ Half

The Baltic boys came down the road and paused along the way Some said, “Carry on me lads” and some said, “We should stay” Half were on the wagon and half were in a sleigh Half n’ Half Half n’ Half

There at the Black Horse Tavern they banged upon the door A window slowly opened up on the second floor They heard the barman shouting, “What are you looking for”? Half n’ Half Half n’ Half

“Get up you lazy Irishman, your patrons have arrived We left the dance hall early and took a North Shore drive We’re thirsty for the Black Horse Ale with Porter on the side” Half n’ Half Half n’ Half

Then high up at the window, the barman heard their plea And emptied out his chamber pot while shouting angrily “Half is from the missus, and half was made by me” Half n’ Half Half n’ Half

A night of fun was ended in the early morning dew That fell from high above their heads upon this rowdy crew Half went home on horseback and half went home by shoe Half n’ Half Half n’ Half

The moral of the story is one you shan’t forget Be careful what your asking for you don’t know know what you’ll get Half the time your just reward is one you might regret Half n’ Half Half n’ Half

C'est pas Les Morts Qui Me Font Peur

My mother, Eileen, remembers the local storyteller, Manuel Gaudet, visiting their house in the wintertime. She would sit with her sister Lorraine, two little girls in their nightdresses, back to back on the oven door to stay warm. There on their perch, they would listen to his tales of ghosts, forerunners, and spell casters. One night she asked him if he was afraid to go out in the dark after his terrifying storytelling and he responded, “C’est pas les morts qui me font peur, c’est les vivants”, or, “ It’s not the dead who worry me, it’s the living”.

C’est Pas Les Morts Qui Me Font Peur

 “Two sleepy heads, ready for their beds

Sitting back to back on the oven door

Listening to, Old Manuel

And all the tales he’s bound to tell

Hey Manuel…

Are your stories true?

That one you tell

 About “La Vielle Dollar”

Hey Manuel, ça me fait peur

These awful tales…

That we have heard

Ce n’est pas les morts qui me font peur

It’s not the dead that worry me

Only the ones that still have breath

C’est les vivants, C’est les vivants

C’est les vivants, C’est les vivants

Hey Manuel…

Why aren’t you afraid?

Out in the dark

Les jeteux de sorts

Hey Manuel on n’dort pas bien

We hear a knocking…

Upon the door

Hey Manuel…

Are your stories true

No one believes in

Les fantômes

Hey Manuel, you’ll have to run

They’ll follow you

All the way home

Ce n’est pas les morts qui me font peur

It’s not the dead that worry me

Only the ones that still have breath

C’est les vivants, C’est les vivants

C’est les vivants, C’est les vivants

Deux petites filles, avant d’aller au lit

Dos à dos, Sur la porte du four

En attendant, Vieux Manuel

Et tous les contes, à son retour

La Tempete

This is an Acadian “Complainte” which is a many versed story of tragedy set to a slow melancholic air. This paticular creation is the story of two drowned fishermen from Tignish PEI, and the miraculous escape of the young man fishing with them. The style of singing is ancient but the true story is from 2018.

La Tempête

On the 18th day of September

Sailing from Jude’s Point they made their way

Out upon the treacherous water

For three men, just another working day

There was Captain Glen Desroches

With Moe Getson whom he called his friend

And the young man Tanner Gaudet

They could not know, how this sad day would end

Venez entendre la tempête

Les pauvres âmes disparues

Venez entendre la mer inquiète

Deux pecheurs, ils sont cachés de nous

Near the reef a wave washed over

Then another larger in its wake

As the Kyla Anne went under

Through a hatch, Tanner made his chance escape

Looking back he saw no other

Not a hint of those two men in sight

Just the cover of a fish tub

Which he clung tight to to save his life

In the presence of two seagulls

And a seal to whom he sang a song

Tanner kicked his feet and paddled

Poor drowned spirits, urging him along

Chorus

Finally on the shore he landed

Where he had to gather his last strength

Forced to walk more than an hour

To find shelter, at the Wind and Reef

From there they called to tell his father

And inform the R.C.M.P’s

They stripped his clothes and tried to warm him

With some tablecloths, they dried to heat

So the search began in earnest

All along the North Cape shore

Fishermen out on the water

Thinking, of these men, their search was for

Chorus

Glen Desroches was found at North Cape

Close to those he loved the most

Moe Getson on the beach in Roseville

With some items, washed up from the boat

Some peace then for the suffering families

With these two men laid to rest

Some peace for those who searched to find them

Neighbors giving all and nothing less

In the churchyard Tignishers gather

Lifting lobster traps to form a tree

In the memory of these poor men

And all family members lost at sea

Chorus

Are You Ready For This Child

On this, the first day of Advent, I have a song from the perspective of three wise men who are searching for a king but will find a helpless child. At the heart of Christian joy is this profound surprise. Under every dusty book of theology is hidden the frailty of humanity that informs our compassion.

Are You Ready For This Child

Are you ready for this child Do you think that you will find a king Are you following a star Do you hear the angels singing

Emmanuel, Emmanuel I bet you think you’ll find a king Not the peace… this little child can bring

Are you looking for a rich man Will you knock upon a palace door Are you looking for a king Will you kneel upon a marble floor

Emmanuel, Emmanuel I bet you think you’ll find a king Not the peace… this little child can bring

Are you looking for a stable Do you think you’ll find a fancy home Are you looking for a manger Do you think you’ll find him on a throne

Emmanuel, Emmanuel I bet you think you’ll find a king Not the peace… this little child can bring

How Much To Semelle My Hole

Imelda Arsenault went from Abram Village to Holman’s in Summerside to see the shoemaker. She needed some repairs but was unsure of what to ask the cobbler since her English was limited. When she asked her husband what she should say, he took the opportunity to play a bit of a trick on her. The word for sole (as in the sole of a shoe) in French is “semelle”. This song is based on that interaction between “Melda” and the poor shoemaker. The best Island stories are never just made up.

 How Much to Semelle my Hole

Elle a allée à Summerside

Elle portait her broken shoe

She had come to get it fixed

For her bottom had a trou trou trou

And the hole it went right through

But her English wasn’t good

So she was misunderstood

When inside the shop she stood

The shoemaker had no clue clue clue

Il comprennait pas de tout

How much to semelle my hole?

I have heard you do it well

And my bottom’s got a hole

You can see from Mont Carmel, mel, mel

But there’s something I must tell

There’s a fellow in Miscouche

Who would like to semelle it too

But he semelled it once before

And my hole is sticking through, through, through

C’est pourquoi I come to you

How much to semelle my hole?

Do you have a deal for me

Moi je voie the work you do

And I know it’s not for free, free, free

C’est comme ça tu gagnes  ta vie

But I’ve come so very loin

Payed beaucoup to take da train

Is the cost to semelle one hole

Less than semelling two or three, three, three

Sur le prix we should agree

See I have another hole

And it’s not so nice to feel

And I think it opened up

Digging in my neighbor’s field, field, field

For potatoes I could peel

And the wear and tear, it shows

Walking from St Chrysostome

Underneath a heavy load

You can see it when I kneel, kneel, kneel

For my hole is near my heel

The shoemaker was in shock

Why he couldn’t even speak

He could only shake his head

Staring down at his own feet feet feet

But her eyes he could not meet

So he stood there in a sweat

Such an awful sigh he let

When he lit a cigarette

Melda’s anger was complete, plete, plete

Elle disait quelque chose à lui

So you will not semelle my hole

Non monsieur le cordonnier

All the people they will laugh

When I walk through Egmont Bay, Bay, Bay

So to each of them I’ll say

You would semelle the English holes

I can see them on your bench

But you will not semelle my hole I think

Because my hole is French, French, French

Because my hole is French

The Captain's Chair

An image from my experience lobster fishing out of Tracadie Harbour has stayed with me and inspired this recitation. I wanted to create something personal yet epic. There is greatness in some of the smallest moments and gestures, especially on the sea, where we are so small and the ocean is great. There is an intensity of movement, meaning and symbolism that is hard to match on land.

On a side note, the chair I refer to below was just recently retired.

The Captain’s Chair

I arrived at the wharf at quarter to five

The sun tucked tight in the bib of the sky

From a battered truck stepped a figure dark

Then towards the wharf walked he and I

The crew awaited with faces stone

Assembled, we were soon to part

The captain’s hand upon the wheel

This master of the mariner’s art

Not a word he spoke but we fairly flew

Stem to stern in a flurry of steps

Ropes and buoys, knots and gloves

Us in a blur while the whole world slept

From the harbour we churned through the channel’s mouth

Markers of green and red to guide

The sea, the sky, and the dunes as one

And us just a speck on Neptune’s side

The sea was rough that blustery day

The tangled waters roiled and pitched

No sooner did we see the shore

Then back we went in a watery ditch

Our work began with the first eight traps

Pulled by winch from the ocean floor

He knew the bottom sight unseen

From a life devoted to this chore

Traps on the washboard, filled with bait

Flew from the boat at his silent nod

A rush of rope, a splash a spray

And the roar of the wind like a salty god

We fought the sea, these three and I

Lobsters held from human hands

Again and against the Leviathan’s reach

Hands in gloves, claws in bands

Mackerel to cut tubs to carry

Much was done and little was said

Work for the grace of work alone

All at a nod of the captain’s head

I yoked my neck to chores that were mine

Time was neither set nor clear

Hardly a chance to feel fatigue

My fate in the hands of the man who steered

Then under a grizzled, grey tone sky

The engine slowed we rode the swells

A crewmate said “we’ll take our break”

And break we did as I shall tell

He searched and found in a dark abode

Down below where I hadn’t been

A chair, hand fashioned, now revealed

A chair he placed beside the wheel

A rough contraption truth be told

With an awkward list it tried to stand

Begging the aid of knotted twine

Patchwork tape and the captain’s hand

Four bad legs of splintered wood

A cushion of canvas torn and frayed

Galvanized nails to hold in place

This pedestal form, chaos had made

It seemed more a wreck, a remnant, an ode

To an earlier time a distant age

There was barely a hint of comfort found

In the curve of the back that formed a cage

Life on the sea had taken a toll

The roll of the waves had the chair inclined

But hard as well on our captain too

For the lines on his face were by nature designed

The captain sat with twist and fidget

He and the chair became as one

They rocked on the sea with nods to agree

That the work of the day was not yet done

A growl, a scowl, and the image broken

A blink a swallow, our break was done

The chair disappeared with the deepest of bows

And our day recommenced as it had once begun

Then I heard as we lifted the wind in our traps

The chair I had seen had been here on the boat

Since the very first morning the captain had fished

With a gear of his own and a pride in his throat

The damage of years and them still standing

Patriots sharing their ups and their downs

Seen worser days, hoping for better

Occasional triumphs, oft time frowns

And I saw clear as salt that somehow the two

Had weathered the worst and were grumbling still

With a lean, a bend, a hint of the end

And a stubborn pride that bore no ill

So the morning continued then back to the shore

The catch of the day was lifted and weighed

The rise and the fall of the sea in my knees

My fingers unfolding the cash that I’d made

Then I saw the same captain in my retreat

Framed as he was by the boat and the sea

He resembled two hundred years plus in reverse

Under a mast cut from a tree

He worked some repairs on his weathered old seat

Knowing tomorrow was soon to appear

And his crew, and they would rely on the sight

Of the captain’s chair and his vision clear

No cause for alarm, all is well

He takes his seat so we can rest

The hand of the captain has guided us here

Upon the waves as cautious guests

From his vantage point, we are put at ease

He is high enough to see the shore 

While rising on unending swells

He guides us close to the evermore

Nike

Nike is the winged goddess of victory. There is a Nike box we have saved in the bedroom closet to wrap Christmas presents in and I think it inspired this song. In the old days, foundlings were left on the doorstop in a nondescript box. I think a sneaker box makes it much more interesting. If you were abandoned in a box that bears the name of a winged goddess, then it seems more plausible to dream of a return to the stars.

Nike

Nike was left in a box at the door And grew to the height of a mid sized boy The child was as strange as a child can be Talked to himself mysteriously He was named for the shoe on the side of the box And never stopped thinking of the folks he’d lost He kept that box for the journey he planned To the stars and beyond to an alien land

Chorus: My momma was a comet at a country fair My daddy was a meteorite I was found in a box when I touched down And I’m waiting for the circus to come back to town

We looked in the shoe box late one night While he was dreaming of the milky way And there was an engine of a mighty ship Primed and ready for his long trip Elastic bands and alarm clock hands Copper wire, St Elmo’s fire A calculator and a spaceman’s hat And the swoop on the side of the cardboard craft

Chorus:

When we awoke, little Nike was gone An empty bed with the clothes he’d shed He’d flown away and he’s flown that far Through an open window to the field of stars To the circus tent and the wheel of light The moonlit chairs and the flying trapeze He flew his box to infinities end And we never spoke his name again

Chorus:

James Kenny

I found myself at the Gold Rush Cemetery in Scagway, Alaska years ago on a summer adventure. What a shock to find the grave of James Kenny, Prince Edward Island with what I would call a “high class” tombstone. I was able to go to the local museum five minutes before closing time and found his death certificate. The curator was extremely helpful and also told me after a brief but intense conversation that I was meant to go to a town just across the border in British Columbia called Atlin. He also said, in a mysterious fashion, that if I visited this small town with it’s vibrant artistic community, I would never leave again. Superstitiously I made it a point not to go. This is a ballad about a young man who finds himself trapped in place and in time.

James Kenny (1876-1901)

My name it is James Kenny As my tombstone does proclaim And you have traveled all this way To stand upon my grave

I am cursed to tread this rocky path Since those heady days of old When many walked the Chilkoot pass With a thirst for Klondike gold

I came here with my father Far from our Island home To seek our share of fortune In this dreary land of cold

I am but one of many Who held no pick or pan But lost his soul to gold dust Washed out from river sand

And so I died here lonesome A broken hearted boy Buried by his own poor father Who lost his pride and joy

We came from many places Leaving all we knew behind And I have left my mother Who on her pillow cried

Say hello to Harley Baker Soapy Smith and John Malone For each day they walk the pass with me And each night they rest alone

We a weary band of spirits Who in truth are strangers still For we march in silence each long day Then return to Gold Rush hill

Take warning all you foolish men Who long for danger found You’re like me and my companions Lying in a burial ground

I climb a path each evening To rest here in the clay I am doomed to walk tomorrow Until the end of days

Tracadie Bay Lady

I was an extra hand on a lobster boat last week and it led to a song. Cheers to Allan, Luke and Ashley on the Tracadie Bay Lady. It was good to get away from everything for a while and be busy. Ashley showed me the ropes and this song is for the women who work side by side with the men at a hard and dangerous job.

Tracadie Bay Lady

She’s at the wharf In the early part of morning    Zips her coat While the wind whips up its warning She knows the boat She’s on the crew Does the work Like me and you

Chorus: She’s a fisherman’s wife And a fisherman’s daughter She’s even so much more Out on the water No excuses No regrets You ride the waves And you get wet

She takes the wheel Makes the harbour in the afternoon A day of work is nearly done And morning comes too soon She does the job Earns her pay Loves the sea She’s born that way

Chorus:

She finds her car Beside a line of four wheel drives A bag of canners in the back She leaves the rubber boots behind Heads for home To get some sleep Tomorrow comes She’s back on the sea

Chorus:        

This I Know

14 years ago today my father died. I was cutting wood with a chainsaw today and it reminded me of the many times I worked with him in the “woods”. He could be so easy going. The last time I was working with him, I cut my leg with the saw. Several jagged cuts in a line actually. I kept cutting until I saw blood and peeked through the holes in my pants. The cuts were pretty deep. Dad took a look and said,”you better go to the hospital in Alberton and get some stitches”. Then he reached in his pocket and threw me the keys to the van. I had to laugh at how nonplussed he was about it. I drove to Alberton. For some reason I didn’t have a health card but the doctor was on his last shift before heading to a new job in Florida and really didn’t care. There was no nurse available so the doctor got me to hold the thread as he cut his stitches. That was a typical day “Up West” and I still laugh about it. Dad certainly had his way of doing things.

After my dad’s death, these words came as a comfort to me. I wrote the song in grief but also in peace. My father didn’t leave a big estate in his will but he passed on to me his voice and timing and his love of an audience. He sang wholeheartedly and I rarely reach that level of performance. I remember the time I asked him up for a song at a local traditional pub. In the middle of a particularly raucous ballad, he spied a musket hanging on the wall and proceeded to take it off its perch and use it as a prop. Aiming it around the room as he sang, several people hid behind tables or headed out the door. The following week, the musket was back on the wall, but chained and padlocked in place. He had a way of making a song memorable.

This I Know

Every summer turns to winter Every branch will bend and wither When the last light fades and flickers Turns to shadow Frees the soul

In the giving there’s a taking With the building there’s a breaking In the sleeping and the waking God is waiting this I know God is waiting this I know

Every season ends tomorrow Every face will turn in sorrow Every day we live is borrowed Turns to shadow Frees the soul

In the taking there’s a giving In the sorrow there’s a singing Every voice a new beginning God is living this I know God is living this I know

Every son and every daughter Everyone must cross the water On their journey to the Father Where we hope To rest our souls

In the giving there’s a taking With the building there’s a breaking In the sleeping and the waking God is waiting this I know God is waiting this I know