The Things That People Say

A celebration of the richness of the language and turn of phrases that this Island and it’s characters provide on a daily basis.

The Things That People Say

If the things that people said Were like the things that people do It might not leave a very good impression But if the things that people said came from the heart and not the head We might begin resembling their expressions

Like the time I played for some older folks, and told a few stories because I don’t know many jokes I wasn’t sure what they thought of my stories I couldn’t tell by the looks on their faces Then after the show I heard, second hand, that one of the older ladies had said, “That man, was like an old soul in new pants” Imagine her being so gracious

Sometimes the things that people say… Make you want to resemble their expectations

If the things that people say were like the things that children say It wouldn’t be a stretch to think this world an almost honest place To see a thing just as it is And say the same just like a kid Perhaps the whole world needs a good regression

Like the time I arrived at a daycare door A little guy ran right across the floor Looked up at me and said, “Music Man, I need a hug” Well I picked him up and gave him a great big squeeze He pulled back and looked me right in the eye and said, “Music Man, you drink the same stuff me grampy drinks”

Sometimes the things that people say Leave you speechless

If the things that people said were half as true as half the things my uncle Tom says half the time You might think the world a bit contrary If we could tell it like it is With sayings half as good as his We’d never need to use a dictionary

Like the time a dancer got up on stage and gave a few steps while the fiddler played It wasn’t her first time in front of an audience and it showed Uncle Tom never took his eyes off of her feet Then cleared his throat and she got back to her seat and said, “She was as light on her feet as a new car on a wet road”

Sometimes the things that people say Could be taken either way

If people did as people say, and people said as people do I think it would be fair to say that we’d be in an awful stew But if the things that people said were like the things my granddad said I wouldn’t waste this time of day I’d throw my foolish pen away

Like that time, close to the end, when he said, “Michael, when you’re old, you’re not young”

Sometimes the things that people say are short and sweet Unlike this song Which could go on and on and on As long as people keep talking And I keep hearing The things that people say

The Moth

Moth Lane Brewery in Freeland, PEI, is named after a certain relation of the proprietor who was known to stroll down the road in the evenings and drop in for a visit if your porch light was left on. He was known as “The Moth”. I thought it would make a good song. Somehow, with an unmeasured mix of bonfire smoke, rustling leaves, moonlight, and romanticism, the words came out much differently than expected. It’s part of the mystery of song making.

The Moth

In the faded frock of evening Powdered wings to darkness clinging Beneath this ballroom sky of wonder Sets the moth her wings aflutter

On a path of porch light blinking Beaded cloth of twilight winking Beneath the velvet skirt she’s under Sets the moth to find her lover

Chorus: Come close to the fire, my love Draw near to the flame In the hollow of the sky, where the smoke is rising shy There are stars that have no name Still they sparkle just the same Come close to the fire my love Draw near to the flame In the hollow of the night, embers spark and rise in flight In the ashes love remains And the faith to try again

On the windowsill this creature Where no living hand can reach her In a spiderweb she’s resting In a looking glass reflecting

So the light is taken from her At the awkward end of summer Sleeping in the silk she’s borrowed Waiting for her flight tomorrow

Love is for the Birds

“Bird’s don’t fly on just one wing” is an old saying that justifies having more than one pint. Somehow that turn of phrase was transformed, by this little love song, into an uncertain sadness and a certain resignation.

Love is for the Birds

I can’t hold you , if I do I might fall in love with you Don’t you know that love Love is for the birds Fly fly away

You can’t hold me, don’t you see You might fall in love with me Don’t you know that love Love is for the birds Fly fly away

Love is a feather floating free Falling on the sea Far away from me Maybe we’ll Fly away

I can’t love you, here’s the thing Birds don’t fly on just one wing Don’t you know that love Love is for the birds Fly fly away

Maybe I’m afraid to fall Like I got no wings at all Don’t you know that love Love is for the birds Fly fly away

Love is a feather floating free Falling on the sea Falling endlessly Maybe we’ll Fly away

The Ballad of Big John MacNeil

Just a fun, lively ode to a classic fiddle tune which is played at the end of each chorus. Only one of the fiddle tunes in the chorus is not an actual tune. If you want to know which one…. I’m not telling.

The Ballad of Big John MacNeil

The old man stares down at his wrinkled hands that hold the bow And wishes he could still remember tunes he used to know The jigs and reels these lines reveal The airs that make the man The sharps and flats of ninety years are written on these hands

He remembers all the times he played in little country halls The times he got a dollar, and played from dusk til dawn He remembers smiling faces As the dancers crossed the floor And how they’d call for one more tune til he could play no more

Chorus: He’d play the Road to Boston, and The Pigeon on the Gate The Irish Washer Woman, and if it wasn’t late He’d play the Mason’s Apron and the lovely Princess Reel But best of all, that one they call, Big John McNeil

Tune

Every tune he’s ever played are on these hands you see For every one remembered, he’s forgotten two or three His life has been these jigs and reels By times these sad laments His hands are getting tired now, his fingers worn and bent

Chorus: But he plays the Road to Boston, and The Pigeon on the Gate The Irish Washer Woman, and if it’s not too late He’ll play the Mason’s Apron and the lovely Princess Reel But best of all, that one they call, Big John McNeil

Tune

Some day they’ll lay him in a box With the fiddle in his hand And he’ll be playing somewhere Where the people love to dance

Tune

Charming Willy

My Father-in-Law, Maurice, told me years ago about a fellow from Tracadie who would swim the Hillsborough River to see his girl on the Fort Augustus side, saving a long walk to the bridge at Mount Stewart. To keep his clothes from getting wet, he’d strip, fold them up, and place them on his head for the swim across. His shoes were tied and placed on the top of the pile. My imagination did the rest.

Charming Willy

Charming Willie swims the river, with his clothes upon his head And his fancy dancy shoes, there on the top His lassie's waiting eagerly, she’s handy to the Shore Charming Willy sees her there, And then he stops

Chorus: Don't be shy Charming Willy, meet her eyes Charming Willy It's not anything she hasn't seen before, wearing just your bonny grin With the whiskers on your chin, it’ll do the lass no harm to see some more

He rises from the water, just around the river bend Waiting for his lassie to draw near, imagine his surprise  When there before his eyes, her father with his horse and cart appears 

Chorus: Don't be shy Charming Willy, Meet his eye Charming Willy It's not anything he hasn't seen before, Wearing just your bonny grin And the whiskers on your chin, It will do yourself no harm to swim some more

In his jacket and his hat And his fancy dancy shoes Charming Willy's at the Fort Augustus dance He does the highland fling, Til it loosens up a string Then down around his ankles falls his pants

Chorus Don't be shy Charming Willy, Meet their eyes Charming Willy It's not anything they haven't seen before, Wearing just your bonny grin With the whiskers on your chin, It will do them all no harm to see some more

The Worst Was Yet To Come

It would be hard to make this story up. I’m not sure what was more shocking, the events that took place at the Serenity Funeral Home (Berwick, Nova Scotia), or what little effort it took to turn the true account into a song that satirizes in the grand old wordy style of Island song making.

The Worst Was Yet To Come

The husband stood beside the box The coffin lid so firmly locked His teary face as white as chalk But the worst was yet to come… Two fellas bent to lift the lid And lying there so cold and dead An angel on a satin bed… But the worst was yet to come The worst was yet to come An angel on a satin bed But the worst was yet to come

The husband stared then shook his head This lady’s not my wife he said The one with whom I shared my bed But the worst was yet to come… This one I see is far too thin As slender as a mannequin My dearest had a double chin… But the worst was yet to come The worst was yet to come My dearest had a double chin But the worst was yet to come

Their faces turned all doom and gloom They wheeled the casket from the room And said they’d be returning soon But the worst was yet to come… Then wheeling in at half past three Apologizing profusely A fresh new corpse for him to see… But the worst was yet to come The worst was yet to come A fresh new corpse for him to see But the worst was yet to come

The husband said I know this dress The one she called her Sunday best But this is not my wife at rest But the worst was yet to come… Despite the dress you’ve stuffed her in This lady’s far too masculine For I see hairs upon her chin… But the worst was yet to come The worst was yet to come For I see hairs upon her chin But the worst was yet to come

They weren’t so swift in their return And this time with an ash filled urn It seems that her remains were burned But the worst was yet to come… The husbands anger grew and grew For all the grief you’ve put me through It seems that I’ll be forced to sue… But the worst was yet to come The worst was yet to come It seems that I’ll be forced to sue But the worst was yet to come

And now at home in fading health Feeling sorry for himself Though he has come into some wealth They paid him off to shut his mouth But now his wife sits on the shelf And so the worst has come And so the worst has come His wife sits there upon the shelf And so the worst has come

North Shore Tea

You’ll never get a better sendoff than a funereal lunch across the road at the Tracadie Cross Recreational Centre. I only wish you could all be so lucky as to die here so your loved ones and neighbors could experience the abundance and hospitality that reflects so well on the popularity of you, the dearly departed. The variety of sandwiches, cookies and squares is unrivaled, and I’ve been in almost every hall on PEI for various functions. Best of all, you will not find a better cup of tea. Whatever alchemy takes place in those urns, I defy anyone to find a better brew. A good strong black tea in these parts is called “North Side Tea”.

North Side Tea

When you rise up from your bed, with a sore and aching head You were cutting quite a rug, now you’re in the hole you dug When it’s time to sober up, pour yourself a steaming cup When you’re bent it’s hard to see, straighten up with North Side Tea

Chorus: North Side Tea Knock her back and you shall see Early risers you and me Start the day With North Side Tea

With the North Wind on the blow, warnings on the radio You’re still in your comfy chair, in your thermal underwear With a day of work to come, There’s no point in looking glum When it’s time to put to sea, take along your North Side Tea

Chorus:

Fill the kettle to the top, get the water scalding hot If you want your perfect brew, boil the bags a day or two In your thermos strong and black, you don’t know when you’ll be back There’s no telling where you’ll be, bring along your North Side Tea

Chorus:

Heaven is for Carpenters

The doors of the 100+ year old St Bonaventure church at the head of Tracadie Bay were glass and aluminum when I first arrived in the community. They had been modernized sometime in the seventies. When renovations were done, a local man, Mike Smith, repaired the original doors and replaced the glass with the heavy wood portals of previous years. It’s a beautiful old church with multiple brass plaques to acknowledge the many donations of furnishings, windows and statues over it’s lifespan. There is no such sign on the door. Mike Smith’s donation of time and effort on the doors only came to my attention at his funereal. Like all Island communities, much of the work that is done to build and sustain community is anonymous and thankless. This song is a tribute to him and his kind.

Heaven is for Carpenters

Heaven is for carpenters who build the doors of churches Hoping for a just reward, one that can’t be purchased Doors that greet the sunrise and the early morning traffic The sounds of old men talking over the heads of children walking Through these doors

Every building needs a door like rivers they need bridges And every door needs a carpenter, to hang it on its hinges And the labour of his hands blesses each women every man Each child of God who climbs these steps to stand Between these doors

People dream of pearly gates all lined with precious jewels But churches doors are built with boards, cut and joined by tools There is a place for carpenters who build the doors of churches Doors they never lock up tight to keep out any person

Heaven is for carpenters who build the doors of churches That open wide and stand aside for anyone who searches Within these doors

One Little Boat

Just a simple image of summer days. An innocent timeless moment at the shore caught in my mind.

One Little Boat

One little boat in the ocean afloat Two little boys on the shore Sand in a pail and a paper bag sail Isn’t it grand to have wind in your hair

Just you and I counting shapes in the sky Clouds never made up their minds Off to the races, excitement on faces With schooners and clippers and big bearded skippers

Chorus: Wasn’t that you, wasn’t that me? Where the years go it’s a crime Hard to recall us being so small When we had nothing but time

Seeing the world with sleep in our eyes We never counted the days Why would you walk, when you could run Why would you worry when your having fun

Blue bathing suits and old rubber boots We never knew what was in style Just me and you and all we could do To keep our feet dry getting chased by the waves

Chorus:

Irish Snow

Have you ever noticed that everything has more cachet when you add the word Irish to it: Irish coffee, Irish cream, Irish linen, Irish lace, Irish spring, Irish crystal, Irish whiskey, luck of the Irish, Irish stew, Irish pubs, Irish accents, Irish dancing, Irish sweaters, Irish lullaby, Irish wake, Irish eyes (are smiling). I challenged myself to write a song by starting with a most unlikely pairing of words to prove this point …

Irish Snow

She bends to light a candle, her lips a silent prayer Staring through the window as she combs her jet black hair Her love’s across the ocean, the letters come so slow Her love’s become a field of Irish snow

He’s sleeping in a bunkhouse, a cold and wintry night Wrapped in woolen blankets, beneath the Northern Lights He’s far from dear old Ireland, and the girl he used to know His love’s become a field of Irish snow

Chorus: Irish snow hides the shamrocks, that grow again in spring And settles on the steeple where St Bridget’s bells still ring She’s dreaming of her wedding day, the seasons come and go Her love’s become a field of Irish snow

She rocks beside the turf fire, as summer turns to fall Holding faded letters, beneath her Galway shawl The little cottage empty, the candle’s burning low Her jet black hair as white as Irish snow

Chorus

The Feisty Irish Priest

A tribute to the exploits of my uncle, Father Art Pendergast, a retired local parish priest, and as they say on the Island, an “able” man. I grew up hearing the stories of his abilities in the “sweet science” and never thought of them as anything out of the ordinary. He did some impromptu bouncing at the parish hall dances back in the day, and when he played Rec hockey in Tignish, PEI, was known by the nickname “Bone Crusher”.

The Feisty Irish Priest

He came from seminary school in black from head to toe His shoes all spit and polish and his collar white as snow He’d the manners of a gentleman but the temper of a beast Father Arthur Pendergast the feisty Irish priest

Chorus: With me right me rowdy rah, Father stood his holy ground With me right me rowdy rah, as he moved from town to town With one big hand for fightin’, and the other for keepin’ peace He earned his reputation as the feisty Irish priest

One evening at a parish dance as Father Art looked on Three fellas started fightin’ but it did not last for long He grabbed them by their woolly necks and carted them cross the floor Then he gave them all his blessing as he fired them out the door

Chorus:

He came around the altar, one night at midnight Mass And headed for the porch door where a bottle of rum was stashed And the twenty rowdy men he faced that fateful Christmas eve Ran helter skelter for their seats as Art rolled up his sleeves

Chorus:

One evening at a local rink a man he cursed and swore Til an uppercut from Father drove him through the swingin’ door He staggered to his feet and said, “Is that the best you got”? “No, this is”, shouted Father Art, and dropped him on the spot.

Old Bags

A terrible rumour has been circulating the Island. Apparently one of the Women’s Institute Halls is so tight with money they have decided not to supply tea to the musicians who play the weekly summer Ceilidhs. Not able to believe that the Island tradition of hospitality and congeniality had been usurped by such frugality, I did some of my own research, and this song is the unfortunate result of my investigation.

Old Bags

We called the annual meeting at the hall And the members who attended were appalled To see the stack of bills and the cheques to sign and fill And they asked us how the revenues had stalled (Old Bags) They asked us how the revenues had stalled

We told them why the revenues were down Why the tourists chose to stay in Charlottetown We blamed the Thursday crew for the paltry crowds they drew And the reasoning we use was mostly sound (Old Bags) The reasoning we used was mostly sound

The fellow in the middle’s gotten old Telling stories that should never be retold We wish he would retire or join a celestial choir Instead of sitting here and acting bold (Old Bags) Instead of sitting here and acting bold

Sitting there beside him is a bloke Who sings a style of music known as folk We ask for “Sonny’s Dream” but he tunes to open G For he only wants to sing the songs he wrote (Old Bags) He only wants to sing the songs he wrote

They say they’ve got a fiddler that’s a sham He plays as if he doesn’t give a damn You hear the awful squeals as he plays his jigs and reels We can only recommend that he be canned (Old Bags) We can only recommend that he be canned

They tease the dancer til she’s in a rage Then in a fury damages the stage They will not pay the cost of the fortune we have lost For the man who did the flooring was well paid (Old Bags) The man who did the flooring was well paid

The fellow at the other end’s the worst He talks until you think your ears will burst Then if you do him wrong he puts you in a song And you wonder why we’re tightening the purse (Old Bags) You wonder why we’re tightening the purse

Our days of making tea for them are done They have put us in the hole with all their fun Motivation will go up when there’s water in their cups On the vote we are unanimously one (Old Bags) On the vote we are unanimously one

The price of tea has grown rather dear So we’ve saved the old tea bags from previous years They will beg for tea that’s new but the old bags they must do On this point we are unanimously clear (Old Bags) On this point we are unanimously clear

So now they sit upon the stage with scowls You’ll appreciate why their moods are foul They dry the old tea bags with the aprons and dish rags On a line above the stove between tea towels (Old Bags) On a line above the stove between tea towels (Old Bags)

The 50/50 Song

Prince Edward Islanders love a good 50/50 draw. And what’s not to love?

The 50/50 Song

Where two or three are gathered with their feet on Island soil You’re sure to find a 50/50 draw Perhaps it’s something in the water makes us want to play This Island institution meant for all

Chorus: Half the 50/50 will go into your pocket The other half will go towards the hall The government takes half your half And half you owe your better half So in the end there’s nothing left at all In the end there’s nothing left at all

Pat has been a member of the Women’s Institute For more than sixty years if it’s a day You enter and you exit where her table blocks the door She could sell a ticket to a corpse they say

Chorus

Somewhere at a Ceilidh A cry of joy is heard Someone from “away” has got the win All the local people fake a smile and clap their hands Wishing that the loot had gone to them

Chorus

The Perfect Maritime Man

What better better way to illustrate the Maritime way of life than to describe the “perfect” Maritime man. It just so happens that my sister Monique is married to him and we’ve been living under his shadow for years.

Andy The Perfect Maritime Man

He can wire a house with a blindfold on Fixes pipes when the plumbing’s gone Rosin up the the bow and he’ll fiddle all night He can’t do wrong and I can’t do right

He’s salt of the earth and a family man A phenomenal dancer and a one man band He never quits until his hands are blistered I’m playing second fiddle since he married my sister

Chorus: Fiddler, Plumber, Electrician Good things come in threes We all feel inadequate Since he joined our family I won’t back down til I find a flaw Because I can’t keep up to my brother in law We all feel bad since he joined our clan He’s Andy the perfect Maritime man Andy….. the perfect Maritime man

He’s got a full time job at the windmill station Does a real good Elvis impersonation An easy smile and a musical soul He’s Mr Fix-it with a heart of gold

He hooks things up and turns things on Fiddles right along when you’re playing a song He gets things done cuz he’s so handy When things break down We just call Andy

Chorus

The Old Belly Rubbers

This song is based on a story told to me by Island musician and longtime friend Leon Gallant. Playing at the Rustico Lion’s Club he received a request from a local lady for “An old Belly Rubber”. Not sure whether it was a song or a fiddle tune, he informed her that he’d never heard of it. She responded, “just slow things down so we can do a little belly rubbing”. Who ever said that Prince Edward Island wasn’t a romantic place?

The Old Belly Rubber

The old gal came up from the back of the room And called out her special request “Would you play us an old belly rubber?” I hadn’t a clue I confess “A what? “ says I to the silver haired girl She said “belly rubber” again “You know like a waltz or a slow country tune” I could feel my whole face turning red

We got the band playing in three quarter time She hauled up her beau from his chair They cozied up belly to belly And circled the room without care She lay her gray head on his shoulder Whispering soft while they swayed Words that were meant for her only These words that we heard from the stage

Chorus: “Walk with me into the garden Waltz with me under the trees Stroll with me over the sand dunes Waltz with me down by the sea Carry me into the the sunset Follow me into the night Stand by my side in the shadows Waltz with me into the light”

That winter I saw in the Guardian Her name and the words “will be missed” His name showed three months later “May the Lord give him eternal rest” I thought of them there on the dance floor In ‘the Crick’ on a Saturday night Two belly rubbers together Together again in the light

Chorus

Ten Minutes That Way

Our Island is small, and crisscrossed by roads. Getting from one place to another depends on personal whims and entrenched biases rather than an intelligent preference for efficiency. Immune to the tedium of route numbers, an Islander gives directions more akin to alchemy than simple rote instruction.

“If you see a little white church on a hill … you went too far”

“Up West? Follow the signs until you get to Summerside, then keep driving”

“It’s on a dirt road. Third house on the right”

“I would cut across at Hunter River … it’s a lot quicker”

“When you get to Tignish it’s near Johnny Pump’s corner”

“Halfways between Souris and Montague”

“Which Rustico?

“Down East or Up East?”

Visitors to Prince Edward Island desperate enough to stop and ask for directions are usually most of the way to their destination and so are met with a singular and definitive response: “Ten minutes that way”, and a hearty point of the finger.

Ten Minutes That Way

Fold up your fancy map my friend You’re on Prince Edward Isle Turn off your GPS my dear Stop fiddling with the dial You’re going to need directions Pull over on the side And ask a local what’s the fastest way To Summerside

Chorus: They’ll say “Ten minutes that way You can’t miss it You’ll never stump an Islander They’re always “in the know” Ten minutes that way If you miss it Find an Islander to tell you where to go”

You can tell your navigator Sit back put up your feet You can tell your back seat driver Lie down and go to sleep You’re going to need directions So flag a local down And ask them what’s the fastest way To get to Charlottetown

Chorus

You’ll have to take the shortcut The highway’s far too slow Turn left at the little red barn The one that burned two years ago And if you hit a roundabout And think you’ve gone too far Just find another Islander To tell you where you are

Chorus

Pieces of String

Walking into the shed where my Pepe kept his tools, I would see the row of bottles whose covers were nailed along the top frame of the window. Each bottle held the various sizes of nuts and bolts and screws that he needed for his carpentry work. Much of his life seemed to me like that window, simplified through organization. I will take some inspiration from him as I begin the task of sorting the original songs that are my craft and my passion.

What better way to begin than with a tribute to my Pepe, Sylvere Chiasson

When he died, we found a ball of string with his other tools. It was made up of many short pieces saved from various projects. Each piece was useless on its own, but as Pepe tied them together they became long enough to roll into a ball.

Many of the stories we have of my Pepe are quite short, like those pieces of string. It’s in the tying of the stories together that his character is revealed.

Pieces of String

When my Grandfather died we found a ball of string in his old work shed That man never threw anything away At least that’s what my Grandmother said Little pieces of string too small to save that he had tied together Like all the memories that make a good life Ways we can remember

Chorus: Pieces of string, each of them small Tied in a row, all wound up in a ball Little pieces of string, saved in a can Memories, tied to that man

My Grandfather knew how to put in a day’s work, that’s for sure They never had too much to come and go on But no one called that man poor One time he told my mother he was gone so early in the morning and home so late at night, nobody noticed if he had come or gone Someone must have noticed somewhere along the way That’s probably why I wrote this song

I learned to pray in their kitchen, kneeling on the hard tile floor I’d pray so hard, I wouldn’t even notice that my knees were sore One time Pepe said, You must have been praying hard Michael You didn’t even notice that fly crawling across your hands Well, I felt like a saint when he said those words Coming from such a good man

Chorus

We’d sit and watch Atlantic Grand Prix Wrestling on Saturday afternoons He’d always say, that dirty son of a B When the Cuban Assassin pulled a foreign object out of his shoe One time, on a commercial, he saw children in the Third World walking miles and miles to get clean water With tears in his eyes, he said he would pump water all day long for those little children It was as if they were his own sons and daughters

Then there was that Easter Sunday when my brother came home from university with a new girlfriend, all the way from Zaire She certainly stood out Up West I don’t think there had ever been a sighting in our church that rare In the aisle after Mass, my Grandfather leaned into my brother and whispered “she’s awful pretty” You see my Grandfather was pretty worldly, for a man who’d never lived in the “big city”

Chorus

There are those who would say that my Grandfather’s life didn’t have much colour After all, he lived most of it on the Harper Road, born at one end and buried at the other There are those who would say that my Grandfather could only see the world in black and white I guess that’s why he always seemed to know the difference between wrong and right

When my Grandfather died, we spent hours and hours beside his bed I don’t know how many times I lifted his head up onto the pillow As he tried to catch his breath He seemed to suffer so much, and all we could do was stand there and wonder why? But then I saw the face of the Man on the cross, when I looked deep into his eyes

Pieces of string, each of them small Tied in a row, all wound up in a ball Little pieces of string, saved in a can Memories, tied to that man Little pieces of string, leading me to that man