Dear Mr. Eaton

When my mother was about twelve, she went to a Bingo at the Palmer Road Hall while visiting her cousins the Doucette’s. That night she won the Jackpot, about forty nine dollars. That was more money than she had ever had before and she found a good spot to spend most of it. On page 184 of the Eaton’s Catalogue was the musical instrument section and she picked out the more expensive Hill Country jumbo body guitar that had the fancy F holes instead of the round opening. She learned to play with some help from the neighbors and sang all the old country songs that were popular at the time and even a song from Cape Breton called The Ghost of Bras d’Or. Unfortunately, Mom lost all her possessions, including her guitar, in a house fire. Mom was the band leader in our house growing up, and Dad was the entertainer. Happy Mother’s Day Mom. I love you and the gifts of music you have passed on to us.

Dear Mister Eaton

My mother won the jackpot At the Bingo as a girl More money in her little hands Than she had ever earned Found a place to spend the win Filled an order writing in For a guitar that she saw In the Eaton’s catalogue

Counting days until it came Got a notice from the shop Pepe brought it home one day Opened up the cardboard box Held it high with both her hands Marveled at the shiny top All the world became her stage With that guitar that she’d bought

Chorus: Dear Mister Eaton Hope this letter finds you well I would like to place an order A guitar I see you sell Page one hundred eighty four Thirty nine and forty five Hill Country number eight Just one colour, just my size

Made her way to Meddie Tom’s Showed her how to tune the thing Other neighbors show her chords Placed her fingers on the strings Just a thumb pick and three chords Strummed along to country songs Suited to that new guitar From the Eaton’s catalogue

Sitting out there on the step In the spotlight of the sun Pepe’s off to work again And the day is just begun Breakfast on the table waits Here’s a song that we all know Think she heard it yesterday Playing on the radio

Chorus:

I remember as a child All the shows that we were in How she taught us how to sing Placed our fingers on the strings Often times she strummed along With her children lost in song And it started with a picture In the Eaton’s catalogue

Chorus:

Between the Lines

Back to some “down home” lyrics. Is there any small town that this song wouldn’t apply to? Started out with the images of lines between people like roadways, hedges between fields and old Island party lines (telephone, religion and politics). I ended up with a song that tended toward the literal rather than the figurative.

Between the Lines

“You know who” said “this and that” to “so and so” Seems that folks were there to listen in Tried to tell “a certain someone”, all the “goings on” Until they said they’d heard the whole darn thing

Chorus:

You can’t keep a secret in a small town People try to do it all the time They don’t say the words, to hide the things they’ve heard So neighbors here, they read between the lines

“That one there” said “pass the word” to “I can’t say” News got round the village pretty fast Thought I’d be the first, to spread the very worst Turns out in the end I was the last

“That’s a shame” and “truth be told” and “quite a thing” Scandalous” and “thought I’d heard it all” Funny how the one line we’ve forgotten Warns us how “pride comes before the fall”

Unkindness of Ravens

Having time to write more than usual, I am experimenting with images and words. A group of ravens is called an unkindness of ravens. I wanted to use a number of references in this song including a murder of crows, a parliament of owls, a descent of woodpeckers, a siege of herons, etc. In the end, I kept coming back to an unkindness of ravens and gradually that particular term became the dominant image. Ravens are associated with warfare, battle, and death. They are also linked with prophecy. With a bit of light spring snowfall one day I was inspired to complete a chorus that references Lady Macbeth. There is a lot going on image wise, but I tried to keep the mix of light and dark in a tight structure.

Unkindness of Ravens

Unkindness of ravens Dark wings on the pavement They sing for their payment While standing their ground The bottomless battle The throat of death’s rattle A soft Adam’s apple An ominous sound

Chorus:

I’ve been feeling much better The days I don’t remember Falling snow on afternoons Yet, here’s a spot, a spot or two Unkindness of ravens In shadows are waving

Like coal mine canaries With burdens to bury Too heavy to carry They tarry awhile So death on a cold cold day You’ve come such a long long way To stand in the doorway You’ve wasted your time

Chorus

Wee Little Man

This is a call and response song that I used to sing with my son when he was four. Now that he is all grown up it’s not as cute to perform together so I sing the whole thing myself. He was the wee little man, and I was the sailor man.

Wee Little Man

[1] Sailor man where have you been I’ve been sailing on the seven seas Wee little man Why do you ask I thought you might never come back Wee little man Hush your tongue Go to sleep Wee little one

[2] Sailor man what did you bring Home from sailing on the seven seas Hold this shell Against your ear Wee little man what do you hear Sailor man I hear the sea Wee little man Go to sleep

[3] Sailor man Why did you go Sailing on the sea so far from home Wee little man Why do you ask I thought you might never come back Wee little man Hush your tongue Go to sleep Wee little one

Wee little man My little son Go to sleep Wee little one

Grampy's Moving Furniture

Songwriting can turn you into a spy of sorts, listening in to conversations and stories meant for someone else’s ears. I overheard the story of a young couple and their explanation of thunder and lightening to their little girl in a storm. This song comes from the public narrative of a very private moment.

Grampy’s Moving Furniture

The little girl stood shaking Outside their bedroom door The thunder and the lightening Had her nervous of the storm So her daddy held her tight Whispered she would be all right She asked him what makes stormy nights And this is what he said

Grampy’s moving furniture Up there in the sky You know he’s in a better place Ever since he died What a joy we have in Jesus Grampy always said So now and then he moves his chair Closer to his friend

Thunder shook the window Lightening split the night She nestled in between them Where they could make it right Then her Momma held her tight Whispered she would be alright She asked her what makes night so bright And this is what she said

Grampy’s taking pictures Up there in the sky You know he’s in a better place Ever since he died What a joy we have in Jesus Grampy always said So now he’s takes your picture And shows it to his friend

Then the night grew quiet The storm came to an end The little girl was sleeping now Back in her own bed We make our own true stories For answers in a world When we don’t have the reasons For little boys and girls

Bones in a Bag

A Maritime wordplay on mortality

Bones in a Bag

Bones in a bag Canvas sewn Tied with a knot Weighed with stone Holding on tight to your cap Wait for the sound of a splash Mumble a prayer Wind in your hair Such is the fate of the sailor

Bones in a cove Egg shell white Beach blanket mauve Sailor’s delight Pieces of rum bottle glass Bold epaulets of brass Ribbons of oak In a fine admiral’s coat Such is the fate of the sailor

Chorus:                                                                                                                                                                        Bones in the sea Picked and clean Pieces of eight Silvery gleam Tidbits for tiny crustaceans Craving their salty libations Knuckles and toes Tattoos and old bones Such is the fate of the sailor

Bones in a hand Waving at you Under the sea Deep in the blue Life at the end of a rope Holding a fine telescope Finding their rest Tied to a chest Such is the fate of the sailor

Chorus:

The Farthest Cove

Part of the Folk Music tradition is borrowing, paying homage to, and just plain ripping off melodies, words and ideas. It sounds deceitful but it’s an essential part of the genre and all the greats have done it for hundreds of years from Bobby Burns to Bob Dylan. We learn by listening and copying. I heard a wonderful song in Maine last year while playing in a pub called The Drouthy Bear. It wasn’t a formal gig and a local musician sat in “informally”. He sang a hymn-like composition called The Farthest Field. I thought afterwards I would like to make a Maritime version.

The Farthest Cove

We are sailing, to a far and distant cove Far from pain, and the sorrow we have known On the water, lost in place, without a plan Hoping for the day we find this distant land

Chorus: Sail with me and you shall see, revealed the foggy shore All the troubles of the raging sea shall cease and be no more When the trial of night is past On this distant shore we’re cast Our new home the farthest cove Where we shall find A resting place at last

In the rising, and the setting of the sun At the farthest cove, the journey said and done There is grace, in the sea that salts the air At the farthest cove and I shall meet you there

The Underwear Song

A chance visit to the Thrift Store in Montague, PEI lead to a fortuitous find: Brand new, still in the package, grey 5X men’s briefs. Songs come from the oddest places. I couldn’t help but be inspired to write one of the few songs I get regular requests for. The grand finale to this song is to get two kids up out of the audience, then have each one gets in a leg hole of the giant underwear. Linking arms, they lead an underwear parade with other kids marching behind them singing. The biggest stage in the world couldn’t be that much fun.

The Underwear Song

Chorus: Underwear, underwear This is a song about underwear They say you can’t sing it but I don’t care Everybody’s wearing their underwear Everybody’s wearing their underwear

Boys and girls Big and small Mommy’s and daddy’s Oh so tall Gramp’s and grannies This we share Everybody’s wearing their underwear

Chorus:

I asked my neighbor Are you rich or poor? He said it doesn’t matter When you’re in your drawers Underneath all those fancy clothes There’s nothing but shorts And pantyhose

Chorus:

I see a little guy over there Sitting right up On his potty chair Hey, throw away your diaper Take a little chance Pull up your big boy underpants

Chorus:

Obstetricians and morticians Rumour has it Politicians I can guarantee musicians Everybody’s wearing their underwear

Chorus:

The Wooden Cross

What does the canon of great Western literature and songbook of Americana have in common? As my father would have said, ”Three guesses and the first two don’t count”. It’s the poetry of the Bible and it’s greatest themes… fall and redemption.

The Wooden Cross

A wooden cross upon a hill Just the way that scripture tells As I stood there standing still I tried to turn away

A thorny crown upon his head Just the way that scripture said Someone whispered he was dead I tried to turn away

Then that cross became a tree Spread its branches over me Promising eternity I bowed my head to pray Bowed my head and prayed

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ our risen Lord

An empty tomb, dark and cold Just the way that scripture told On that hole a stone was rolled I tried to turn away

Then that tomb became a spring That all the world was bathing in To take away the stain of sin I bowed my head to pray Bowed my head and prayed

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ our risen Lord 

A stranger on a dusty road Just the way that scripture told On a night so dark and cold  I tried to turn away

Then that stranger became a friend We lit a fire and he broke bread And in that light I knew him then I bowed my head to pray Bowed my head and prayed

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus Christ our risen Lord  

40 Days and 40 Nights

I grew up in a rich tradition of hymns and spiritual songs, an integral part of my musical education and sensibility. I played the church organ as a kid and these days it’s piano and guitar. I’m always inviting people to my “free” show, 9:00 am on Sunday mornings at St Bonaventure’s. I don’t get that many takers…

40 Days and 40 Nights

Jesus went out to the desert Walking where the Spirit lead Forty days can make you hungry You could turn these stones to bread Jesus said that it is written We do not live on bread alone But on the living word of God Bread that is not hard like stone

Lay la lay, lay la lay la lay la lay la la lay la lay

Forty days out in the desert You hear voices in your head Through yourself down from this temple Prove the angels are your friend Jesus said that it is written Do not test the Lord your God He knew this temple would be broken In the shadow of a cross

Lay la lay, lay la lay la lay la lay la la lay la lay

All the glory and power of the world The Devil laid beneath his feet All you see there could be yours If you kneel and worship me Jesus had a simple answer Get behind me and be gone Don’t you know that it is written Only serve the Lord your God

Lay la lay, lay la lay la lay la lay la la lay la lay

Brad Richards Hockey Cup

The Stanley Bridge Women’s Institute wanted to celebrate the 150th anniversary of Stanley Bridge by inviting local hockey star Brad Richards to make an appearance at River Days with the Stanley Cup. After all, both were named after Lord Stanley, Canadian Governor General and Commander in Chief of Prince Edward Island from 1888-1893. When no response was forthcoming, the members of the institute headed down to Murray Harbour one fine night after a meeting.

Brad Richards Hockey Cup

Come gather all around me And I’ll tell to you a tale About the ladies from Stanley Bridge Who had to go to jail It happened on an August night When they got liquored up And headed to Murray Harbour To steal Brad Richards cup

They arrived in Murray Harbour And stole into his house The ladies of the Institute As quiet as a mouse Anita said we’ll have it back Before he knows it’s gone They stole Brad Richards hockey cup Before the break of dawn

They borrowed Phillip’s T Bird To lead the big parade The people came from miles around To smile and cheer and wave Then over to the Oyster Bar To order up a round They filled Brad Richards hockey cup And Helen drank it down

The RCMP arrived soon after And found them at the bar There was an awful commotion As they stuffed them in the car Then off to Sleepy Hollow To spend the night in jail But they used the Fifty Fifty draw To get them out on bail

The Fiddle

This is meant to be recited. recitations were a standard back in the day but have gone to the wayside in the modern world of entertainment. My uncle Bill Pendergast recited “The Cremation of Sam McGee” with much fanfare, and my uncle Tom Pendergast was fond of “Albert and the Lion”, mimicking the English working class accent of the famed monologist Stanley Holloway. You have to imagine the sound of the fiddle as a backdrop to the telling of my story of…

The Fiddle

The auctioneer’s voice at the end of the day\ said here’s an old fiddle that someone can play The strings are still tight and sound right when you pluck it\ Though my wife says I can’t carry a tune in a bucket With a chuckle and snorting he started the bidding\ but I saw little interest from where I was sitting There was only one hand in the air at the time \ and the hand that was raised was the hand that was mine

 So the fiddle I acquired with a case and a bow\ I paid at the entrance and off I did go Arrived at my car and holding onto my key\ when a voice from behind me said, “Friend, pardon me” Standing just off with his hat in his hands\ an old-timer spoke from an awkward stance You got a good deal on that fiddle today\ you’ll see what I mean if you would let me play

 I passed him the case which he laid on the ground\ he took out the fiddle and turned it around Yes… it’s the same one”, the words whispered low\ put it under his chin as he picked up the bow And then from inside it a tune sauntered out\ one that had hidden for years without doubt So I stood in the parking lot nodding in time\ as the old-timer played on that fiddle of mine

The waltz that he played had me lost in a trance \ memories of courting, a first wedding dance A christening, the soothing of new babies cries\ family reunions and tearful goodbyes I heard a beginning, a middle, an end/ the shape of a long life with twists turns and bends When the tune was completed, I opened my eyes/ But the stranger no longer stood there in disguise

 So all the way home as I drove past the shore/ I hummed what he’d played me until I was sure That the tune in my head, every note was complete/ and the fiddle was safe in it’s case on the seat So don’t see a fiddle when you look onstage/ just think of a man who lived well to old age For the tune that I play is not one of my own/ but the gift of a spirit whose name is unknown

Somewhere Someplace

Whether it is fair or not, it’s always a vicarious thrill to avoid a line and get in the back door. Usually it’s because you “know” someone. If questions of existence, meaning and metaphysics, I have a fondness for the same approach . I don’t want to be left “standing in line” for eternity.

Somewhere Someplace

Some say that heaven’s between you and me How can I tell when I’m down on my knees I’m on my way I’m on my way somewhere someplace Some say that angels fly close to the ground All that I see are the folks in this town I’m on my way I’m on my way somewhere someplace

Chorus: Somewhere is someplace, when you arrive Where all of the people are standing in line Somewhere is someplace when you’re in the door Some people say that’s for sure Some say that love is a feeling inside What if it is then so why would it hide And why are the people all standing in line Are they waiting to get somewhere someplace I’m on my way Somewhere someplace

Some say that hell is a place here on earth Someplace between us A place that it hurts I’m on my way I’m on my way somewhere someplace Some say the devil is shaking my hand All that I see is the face of some man I’m on my way I’m on my way somewhere someplace

Chorus:

You're My Friend

A song for children. When performed, I explain that a word is missing from the song, a word we use to describe someone we like to be with, we enjoy doing things with, we like to be around. When they guess that it is the word “friend”, they then are able to sing “friend” wherever it appears in the song. I pause and they sing. Gives me a chill thinking about it. They are so good to listen carefully.

Your My Friend

When you’re sad I shed a tear When you’re happy I can smile When you’re mad I stamp my feet When you’re scared I run for miles

Chorus: ‘Cause you’re my friend And I love you Through thick or thin To bitter end And all that really means is I’ll be there To truly care And be your friend

When you’re lost and can’t be found I’ll be standing by your side When you’re far away I fall When you’re near I touch the sky

Chorus:

When you’re blue I cry with you When you’re up I can’t be down When it’s you I stick with glue When you call I turn around

Chorus:

Whe

Lovers and Losers

I was reading a history of the Crusades a couple of years ago and was struck by how so many people, in a mass fervour, left all they knew, in periodic waves, for the uncertainty of a grand vision, a cause bigger than themselves. Most would lose their lives to sickness or turn back, or be slaughtered in battle. But the spirit of a quest lifted both noble and peasant from their predictable medieval existences into something greater than themselves.

Lovers and Losers

Lovers and losers, beggars and choosers This ragged band, headed for the Holy Land Beggars and choosers, divine yet discontent Hand in hand, headed for the promised land

They lose their way Despite directions given them in passing They lose their hearts Stolen from their sleeves As they reached out for The everlasting

Lovers and losers, beggars and choosers This ragged band, headed for the Holy Land Beggars and choosers, divine yet discontent Hand in hand, headed for the promised land

They lose their sleep Jacob sheep who’ve gone to graze where waves come crashing They’re lost in time In the sands of distant lands Their bones relaxing

Lovers and losers, beggars and choosers This ragged band, headed for the Holy Land Beggars and choosers, divine yet discontent Hand in hand, headed for the promised land

The Little Lane

Where there is countryside there are little lanes, overgrown and disheveled, some of them leading to abandoned buildings, some to apple trees that signify someone has lived there. They mean something only to the people that return to find their roots. Otherwise, they are completely insignificant. Dedicated to the memory of Glen Trainor

The Little Lane

The little lane lies empty Where the man stands staring in Trees behind the hedges Join their branches over him Judging by his eyes you’d swear He’d been here once before And it’s him the little lane’s Been waiting for

Then walking up the lane he finds The remnants of a well He wonders where the old house stood For the grass will never tell Instead he finds a feeling That a fortune couldn’t buy And turns away to Keep these tears inside

Chorus: This little lane This country road A hedge of branches All overgrown A quiet place Of falling stone He’s come so far to see This little lane that He can call his own

He follows footsteps taken In days of troubled times Where once his own ancestors Bid their neighbors sad goodbyes They swore that for their children’s sake They’d never shed a tear The very ones he’s carried back After all these years

Corus:

The little lane lies empty Where the man stood staring in Footsteps by the roadside Are the only sign he’s been He turned away And shed a tear For this little lonely lane The he didn’t know He’d never ever see again

Chorus:

Old Seaward

A lonely old salt who has only the figureheads of sailing ships for company.

Old Seaward

Old Seaward sets out at the break of the day His peg-a-leg thumping the length of the quay Each figurehead nodding at him as he passes And he sings an old sea song to each of these lasses

Chorus: Singing torralie tooralie up laddy dee With me me manny wee manny barnacle bree Singing tooralie tooralie up laddy doo With me me manny wee manny barnacle brew

He nods at the Mermaid in her sea foamy gown And bows to the Duchess in her bright painted crown To the Rose of Seville and the Dame of Dundee He sings his old sea song to each one he sees

Chorus:

At the good ship Belinda he stops and he stares At the fine featured maiden and her long flowing hair Neath the burl of her bosum hand-carved in soft lines He drops to one knee saying won’t you be mine

Chorus:

The Ballad of Ranald MacFarlane , Some Assembly Required

Ranald MacFarlane. One of our local Island celebrities who raises free range pigs. Yes, that’s not a misprint. Free range pigs. They’ve pretty much taken over the farm and the adjoining woods at this point. I had read about a hog farmer in the States who disappeared a few years back. At some point the pigpens were checked and, sadly, only the farmers dentures were found. I grew worried about Ranald, and thought I would immortalize him before any unfortunate incidents. By the way, you can find him at the Summerside Farmers Market every Saturday until 2:00 pm.

The Ballad of Ranald MacFarlane, Some Assembly Required

Come gather friends and neighbors And listen onto me I’ll tell you of a farmer Who lets his pigs run free His name is Ranald MacFarlane And his hogs are running wild Rooting through the fields and forest In their birthday suits and smiles

I heard him on the radio Before we’d ever met He said I got a gal for you Who’d make a lovely pet Come meet her at the market She’ll be every man’s desire Next Saturday here on display Some assembly required

Chorus: Some assembly required It’s the way that his mind works Some assembly required For better or for worse At the Summerside Farmers Market Where the sellers greet the buyers Buying the tall tales he’ll be telling Some assembly required

I arrived down at the market Before the morning rush His sign said pigs are friendly The farmer not so much You might know the legend But you’ll never know the man Til you’ve seen his ugly wieners And become his biggest fan

He said I had a dream last night That made no sense to me He said the pigs were running the farm And I was running free He said he woke up wondering If this world is run by liars Or just paved with good intentions Some assembly required

Chorus:

They said that he was different They said he was unique To make a judgement for myself I had to take a peek I went down to the market I admit I was inspired To put a few words down on paper Some assembly required

Chorus:

Just Say Lonely

Entertainers spend a lot of time in front of people but the stage is, at the same time, a lonely place. In the setting of an open mic night, this song explores the relationship between the solitary songwriter and the audience of strangers, that desperate tension.

Just Say Lonely

I know a place Where lonely hearts all go To hang their heartbreak on A broken microphone The chair is empty The lights are turned down low Some night I’m going to sing this song for you Some night I’m going to sing this song

I see you with your friends Beside the bar One more glance and I’ll have Gone too far So I hide behind This old guitar Some night I’m going to sing this song for you Some night I’m going to sing this song

Chorus: Just say lonely I will fly To you Just say lonely I will fly… Even only for a night or two Just say lonely I’ll leave this chair And take my lonesome over there

There’s a lonesome in the song I sing Your back is turned You don’t hear anything Fingers soft upon The open strings Some night I’m going to sing this song for you Some night I’m going to sing this song

Chorus:

I leave my chair and someone Takes my place Another night another Stranger’s face I memorize the words Just in case Some night I’m going to sing this song for you Some night I’m going to sing this song

Chorus:

Back to the Maritimes

I received a odd compliment one summer. A visitor to PEI informed me that they had purchased some of my recorded music four years earlier and hadn’t played it since. The point they were trying to make was that, four years later on their return, they had started playing the recording again on the trip over the bridge and had kept playing the songs each day since their arrival. Local music is a soundtrack to a place in time. The voices of the East Coast set the tone for those home from away.

Back to the Maritimes

When I get back to the Maritimes, I’ll head for the place to be Where they take you round and sit you down And fill your cup with tea Or a nip of something stronger, served up in a mason jar And I’ll be back home in the Maritimes… Where they take you as you are

I’ll greet my friends and neighbors, with a pat on the back and a roar I’ll shake the hand of my old man As he comes through the door I’ll pull my chair up to, the kitchen table for a game of cards And I’ll be back home in the Maritimes… Where they take you as you are

Chorus: I’ll wear Charlie Chamberlain’s flannel shirt, and Harry Hibb’s old cap I’ll wear John Allen’s tartan kilt And nothing under that (whistle) In a pair of Stompin Tom’s old boots, I might not get too far But I’ll be back home in the Maritimes… Where they take you as you are

I’ll see a girls who’s waiting, underneath the front porch light She’ll look me up and look me down and I’ll be quite a sight I may not walk the straightest, as we stroll under the stars But I’ll be back home in the Maritimes… Where they take you as you are

Chorus: I’ll play Don Messer’s fiddle, with Buddy MacMaster’s bow I’ll call the old-time dances As they line up row by row I may not be in fashion, when I pick Hank Snow’s guitar But I’ll be back home in the Maritimes… Where they take you as you are

I’ll wear Charlie Chamberlain’s flannel shirt, and Harry Hibb’s old cap I’ll wear John Allen’s tartan kilt And nothing under that (whistle) In a pair of Stompin Tom’s old boots, I might not get too far But I’ll be back home in the Maritimes… Where they take you as you are