Can I Get a Witness?

 Musically, I'm all over the place. There aren't many limits to what I like, though once upon a time, I couldn't handle loud music at all. As the years passed and heavy metal came into being, I realized that I really didn't mind ACDC, or Metallica. It's the volume that's an issue. My older sister feels the same. Once when I was playing my Led Zeppelin II album, she came screeching into our room. "Have we died and gone to hell?" (When stressed, we all tend to quote my mother.) For some reason, Led Zeppelin gets a pass from me. I think it's because Robert Plant's voice is so agile and almost feminine at times. 

Linda and I are not alone in our response to loudness. Some years back I went to a movie with my five sisters. The moment the music swelled and the violins/whatever the hells/ were screaming, I looked around. Every single one of us had our fingers stuffed in our ears. We're all a bit like Dustin Hoffman in the Rain Man movie. If the sound gets too loud, we have a tendency to slap ourselves about the head. Or slap those responsible. So in spite of all the talented screamers out there, this disability prevents me from appreciating them.

I like rap music, but during the rapping part, I'm always secretly wondering if the artist can sing. It feels like cheating if they can't. The notion that rhythmically chanting poetry is an easy thing to do is obviously wrong. I can recite a poem or two...maybe even write one. But I truly don't know how these artists squeeze all the words together, convey a message and still make me want to dance. And yet in spite of my growing appreciation, I feel comforted when the rapping stops and the crooning starts. "Ah, okay. They deserve to be famous, because they have a really nice voice." Silly, I know. And probably an age thing.

I've always loved gospel, which is different from the usual 'hymn sing' type music you hear in your average mainstream protestant church. Because we're not allowed to sing during Covid, my minister has been playing taped music. This last Sunday, he took a real chance and played a gospel version of a hymn we've sung many times. It got off to a good start and then quickly went off the rails. It was fine until one of the singers started screeching, 'Can I get a witness!' about thirty times in a row. First, let me set the stage. No. In the United Church of Canada, you cannot get a witness. Not the kind that will jump to their feet and shout, Amen, sisters and brothers! Preach it!' We do say Amen, though. After someone has prayed, or maybe after a hymn we really enjoyed, you can hear some muttered Amens. To give Steve credit, he's really trying to mix it up and have some fun, because we're all just sitting there, not able to pray out loud or sing, or even stand. I myself plan on trying out a gospel song when I do a service in a few weeks. However, thanks to Steve, lesson learned. I will not ask for any witnesses. Especially ones with loud, high voices. 

I grew up listening to two kinds of jazz. The stinky kind (Stan Kenton, Miles Davis) which had my mother repeating the phrase about dying and going to hell. Then there was the other kind... a light, loungy jazz like my sisters sing. Dad played big band music, with guys like Glenn Miller and Duke Ellington. I also love any kind of World War II era songs, like White Cliffs of Dover or I'll Be Seeing You. (Billie Holiday!) It's good they don't play these in grocery stores anymore. I'd be found in the produce section weeping into the bananas. It gets me, that music. 

Everyone loves pop. I know there are many of you out there climbing up on your high horses and saying, 'No way! I'm too good for that crap!' No you're not. We know you secretly listen to Lady Gaga or Shawn Mendes. But don't worry. It can be our secret. I remember lying to a friend about liking Donny Osmond, because it wasn't cool to admit it back then. But I loved his voice, and wished only that he had better material. 

I learned to like classical music in university when I shared our dormitory bathroom with a music major, Shari. She scoffed at my small Strauss collection, who I considered the pop star equivalent of his day, and introduced me to Prokofiev and Debussy and some others that I can't remember. When I joined our community choir, I fell in love with Mozart and Beethoven and all the guys who wrote really great requiems or symphonic pieces. 

And then there's Country Music, which wasn't allowed in our house when I was growing up. I think this was the greatest barrier between Clarence's parents and mine when they first met. My mother liked Julie Andrews and Harry Belafonte. His mom loved Loretta Lynn and Hank Snow. I remember the first time we all gathered in his parent's rec room and had a drink while listening to Vic's favourites, 'The Moms and Dads.' My parents looked shell shocked when we got home, muttering to themselves and asking me if I was really sure about this guy. 

I learned to enjoy some country music, even Tammy Wynette, famous for the D.I.V.O.R.C.E song. Although, who did those parents think they were fooling? You can spell things out all you want, but you can be sure little J.O.E knew about it already. Country music is like a Hallmark movie that's been twisted a bit. It seems pleasant and melodic, but the siding keeps falling off all the houses in town. That's Country. 

My all time favourite music, besides the gold standards like the Beatles or Simon and Garfunkel, is emo. Give a whiny guy or girl a guitar and set them loose. There is not a sad, slow song that I won't listen to on repeat, unless I'm with one of my sisters. 'Shut it!' is their usual response. Anyway. 

My least favourite music is really about the performer. I should not throw anyone under the bus, because God knows, my voice would not soothe anyone's soul. But there is something about the artist, Daniel O'Donnell. Every song he sings sounds the same. Irish lullaby's, hymns, dramatic songs like 'The Impossible Dream.' They're all very...pleasant. If you've ever watched one of his concerts on PBS, you'll notice that his audience is white haired and elderly. (And now it seems like I'm throwing seniors under the bus. I'm not! I know that many of you are at home right now listening to your Black Sabbath albums!) Daniel O'Donnell fans definitely offer a different kind of witness. "Wasn't that lovely, dear?" 

Thank goodness there's something out there for everybody. If only politics was so easy to navigate. Come November, we'll finally know the results of the US election.  We all get to be witnesses for that momentous event, and even if we can take the tension of the next six weeks, we'll all feel the fall out, whoever we're cheering for. If things continue on the way they have for the last four years, I'll probably find myself in the mood for something like this. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUr7rdsFdOU

A Loon Walks into a Bar

 Well, not really. More like I met it out on the lake, shortly after dropping my butt into my kayak. That's how you do it...you put in a leg and then drop your butt. It doesn't matter what your other leg does, because you're already secure. Anyway, I was paddling merrily along the shore, staring at the rocks and belting out the Christian standard, 'How Great Though Art." For those who love to sing, there is no better place during Covid than being alone on the water. First came the hymn...I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder...and then I met the loon.

Immediately, the lake, rocks and forest around me were transformed into a smoky lounge. Think Rick's Café in Casablanca. Grabbing a barstool, I silently wondered if the loon came here often, but since I'm writer, I try to avoid such clichés. "Did you come here alone?" I said, knowing they like to travel in pairs. 

"Did you?" it replied with a languid but lonely look. 

Pointing to the spot where I'd scattered my husband's ashes a month before, I took a second look at the bird. It seemed melancholy, and gave a forlorn wail as proof. "Did you get left behind?" I asked. It nodded. "Yeah?" I said. "Me too. You'll be okay." We chatted about the lake, how empty it seemed and how all the beavers had disappeared. I'd gotten used to the steady sound of their slapping tails. It seemed eerily quiet without them. 

"Beavers are just so bitchy,' the loon said in a low voice. "Always in a bad mood. Like, no one else is allowed to swim around? I raised my glass, saluting its bitter sarcasm. 

"Here's to those who love us, and bugger all the rest." We toasted and sipped. I must mention that while we were deeply engaged in this conversation, the lounge was growing darker and more intimate. As we leaned our elbows on the counter, I tilted my fedora...(okay, Clarence's Tilly hat) and said, 'Of all the gin joints in all the world..."

"You had to walk into mine,' the loon finished with a heavy sigh, just before we heard a booming sound. We looked up. Dark clouds crowded the sky, and in the distance, thunder rolled across the heavens. Oh, the irony. I'd just been singing, "I hear the rolling thunder," before I met the loon. Sadly, its meaning had not registered. 

Quickly the loon flew upward and the lounge disappeared, leaving me to desperately paddle back to my car. As lightning teased the sky, I asked myself this. Would my rubber soled Keene's ground me? Was my paddle just a lightning rod in disguise?

There are different kinds of prayer. Singing is one type; a celebration of being alive and able to breathe freely. Ordinarily when paddling, I sing a lot, gazing at the fallen trees, (compliments of the beavers) lying beneath the waves like ship wrecks and the gray boulders resting on the bottom like sleeping dinosaurs. As I paddled swiftly, the loon disappeared from sight and I practiced the desperate person's prayer. (Many of us know it.) 'Please don't let me die here. My kids will kill me.'  

Life holds all kinds of lessons for us. Like, remembering to put a foot in your kayak before dropping your bum. Like understanding that time spent with Mother Nature is like applying lip balm to a chapped soul. And then there's this. If you meet a loon in a bar, don't be seduced by its pretty feathers or lonely wails. Just doff your Fedora, wish it well, and leave. But feel free to call over your shoulder like I did before paddling away. "Loony, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." 

A tremulous answer came from somewhere far above me. I took it as a yes.

Dear Clarence, Who Art in Heaven

 It's been a month since I've written a blog post. And in case you didn't know it yet, we're in the middle of a pandemic. You'd laugh if you could see me heading into Walmart or the Co-op. I adjust my mask...yes, I said mask...looking like I'm about to rob the place. This is the new normal here in 2020. 

When I go inside a store, I say hello to random people in case I know them. It's very hard to tell. We've been isolating from each other since March. Happily, summer finally came along and saved us all. It's been thrilling just working in the yard and kayaking every day. Remember last summer, when I thought you were the dragon fly I saved from the water? I didn't know for sure. But you'll be glad to know I've been a little less nutty this year. I think.

Our daughter Michelle got married on August 15th. Thankfully, you met her fiancé, John. The day was lovely in every way, but small because of the whole Covid 19 thing. The wedding party was large: six bridesmaids, six groomsmen, but the guest list was tiny. Just family, with a couple extra people. I performed the ceremony and you'll be relieved to know I stayed dry eyed. I'm not sure how I did it, and I worried about sobbing through my Welcome to the Family speech, later. Fortunately John's best man Dave cried during the wedding, and this saved me. I felt completely calm speaking because I mentioned his teary face about five times. 

John's parents, Gerry and Pat, offered their back yard for the celebration. They'd worked so hard on it, and it was stunning... like something out of a movie. Think Meet Joe Black, but on a smaller scale and nobody dying at the end. (Not even of covid... we're all okay!)

Michelle placed one of your Hawaiian shirts on a chair during the ceremony. After it was over,  everyone toasted you with a tot of Irish whiskey while John, his parents and our family sang The Wild Rover. I might have cried a bit during that part. It felt like you were there.

I've had vertigo again this summer, and not the light kind, either. It's the tougher variety, where I lift my head to look at the sky and the earth tilts. I had to paint the pillars in front of our house, they were long overdue. I stood on the ladder, weaving like a drunken sailor and gripping an overhead nail to steady myself. I also, ahem, cleaned the front eavestroughs, which used to seem so scary. There were three small trees growing inside them. All maples. They're gone now, and the water definitely flows better.

Because of the vertigo I didn't have a drink until after Michelle's wedding. During supper I had some wine, which might be why I mentioned Dave in my speech, referencing his sweet tearstained face. I talked to him about it later. He didn't seem to mind. Some of the bridesmaids were tearing up, too. Just more quietly. (Sorry again, Dave.) 

Fall is definitely here, but friends and neighbors are all still out and about, boating and doing yardwork. But as they say in Game of Thrones, winter is coming. Fortunately, Michelle is already married, so there'll be no Red Wedding. (Another G.O.T. reference. I can't help myself.) 

Our former neighbors Rick and Pat paddled with me onto one of the many lakes around Flin Flon and together, we scattered your ashes. It was time. We sipped Amaretto from tiny plastic bridal shower glasses, told stories about you and sang the Hockey song in memory of all the things we used to do together. You'd love the location. I plan on joining you there someday.

So, that's me, done for now. I'll catch you up again someday, but I want you to know that in spite of this strange pandemic down here on Earth, I'm living the best life I can. And I love you forever, honey. I'll see you in my dreams.