Death

Modern medicine has turned most natural human processes into medical events. Mothers are discouraged from having home births and physicians jealous of their turf have put up obstacles to block the certification of midwifes.

All human beings are mortal but too few people today get to die in their own homes surrounded by loved ones. Instead all too many get shunted off to sterile hospital rooms and denied the opportunity to die with dignity. Indeed unless a no code, do not resuscitate order has been signed the dying will be shocked back to life in a painful undignified attempt to delay the inevitable and extreme measures taken to prolong life where no quality of life can exist. It is now possible to maintain some semblance of life even when the brain is dead and the bodily processes can be continued when the person involved has no awareness and will never regain consciousness. Death has become something to be fought at all costs and not a natural part of living. In a hospital environment a person's loved ones are put in the untenable position of making a decision to let a patient die, to pull the plug. And if the event occurs past visiting hours even wives and husbands may be denied access by inflexible staff.

Death has been so sanitized and made taboo in our modern society that most reach middle age without ever having seen a dead body. It is lost upon most that some animal died to make possible that steak or chicken breast on their plate. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the language used to describe the event. People do not die, they pass away and even individuals dead for centuries are described as having passed. (To hell?)




 

Monday Rant

Just fought off the protective plastic ring protecting a bottle of Bread and Butter Pickles. I'm nostalgic for the days when such falderal wasn't considered necessary. When I could go to the hardware store and buy the single screw or bolt I needed without having to buy a blister pack with 5 or 9 items I didn't need and will probably not remember stashing away should I ever need them again. A regular customer at Spencer-Fraser Ironmonger in Oakville I miss walking their uneven floors and being told all too often, just get out of here with that.

How often have you come close to damaging a delicate item attempting to break it out of its protective stiff plasic wrapping? That new container of vinegar, mustard, of ketchup will not squirt until you fight to remove the flavour/security seal. That tub of yogurt, sour cream, or cottage cheese has a seal glued to the container's top. There's a zip seal to remove from your block of butter or box of crackers. An easy zip to pull off before you get to your bacon bits--easy? How often have you fought your way into a plastic or foil container of chips or cereal after unzipping the box.

Remember when grandma's baked cookies or made candied apples for Hallowe'en secure in the knowledge that no nervous parent would automatically dispose of them when their child got home. Now there's the additional concern that candies come impregnated with THC--the active ingredient in Marijuana. When   you didn't have to be concerned about finding nails or stick pins in a bag of potatoes? When the green grocers wasn't a possible source of some viral infection? When processed meats weren't a source of listeria? When letters weren't a source of anthrax? Today E-mail from an unknown source has the potential of viral infection--electronic viruses, a whole new class mischief. When medications didn't come in childproof containers only a child can manage to open--I've asked my druggist for non-childproof containers!

Walking the Streets of America

As a generalization I find Americans more litter-prone than Canadians hence American Cities have more litter. There are several processes at work here.

First smokers seem to treat the outdoors as an ashtray of infinite capacity.

Since most states lack deposits on beverage containers there is no impetus for youth or the homeless to collect empties for their value in redemption. Hence walking most roadways allows the pedestrian to assess the most popular soft drinks and beers in that neighbourhood.

It would seem not everyone subscribes to the virtues of "poop and scoop" laws. Even some who pick up their pet's feces leave the bag behind on a public or private lawn thus defeating the purpose.

Campaigns such as Don't Mess with Texas seem to be slow to catch on. Too many drivers seem to balance the limited chance of being caught or fined with the convenience of opening their vehicle windows and tossing. Orange-clad prison chain-gangs along major highways in States such as Florida are an all-to-common sight. The amount and diversity of the litter such operations collect is staggering.

The state of communities on Reservations on both sides of our border is a sad commentary on their poverty and depression. I distinctly remember pausing on a walk in the Saanich Peninsula of Vancouver Island to photograph Mountains perfectly reflected on a mirror-smooth lake. It was only later I realized I'd also captured a rusting metal bedstead sticking out of the water in the foreground.

Back in Austin, 2015

When I finally reached Austin on November 24^th I didn't stop for gasoline being thankful to back into a driveway and settle into a spot where moving wasn't necessary. Ten days later I still haven't moved the van or been shopping for groceries, Monday, December 7^th I expect to gas up and go shopping.

It rained the first week I was here and then turned cold, well cold for Austin. I finally got around to reading some of the books I'd had on hold and became available earlier than expected. I'm still in recovery mode from driving 2600 miles.

Day two in Austin had BBQ at Mann's Smokehouse to mark their final day and exchanged hugs with the owner, that evening was the youth-led Thanksgiving Service.

Thanksgiving Day was November 26^th on which I was thankful for the company of my friends the Berrys and their Thanksgiving Table. The next couple days were spent staying dry and warm as I settled into my winter home and did some laundry.

Renewed acquaintance with friends at church on Sunday and sat to catch up online with my tablet during second service. Sunday afternoons tend to be quiet.

Last Monday I finally got online in earnest and caught up with my bills. The trip down cost me $1100.00, essentially gasoline and camping fees.

By Wednesday this past week the sun finally broke through the clouds and it has warmed up by day. I joined a good showing for the Newsletter Party—folding, sealing, and labelling. At noon I joined the worship group for coffee and cookies. That evening enjoyed chicken vegetable noodle soup, Holden Village Mass and choir practice. One practice for a piece we're to do on Sunday.

Thursday enjoyed more BBQ at Smokey Mo's in Round Rock with friend George, then off to see the round table rock in Brushey Creek that gave the place its name.

Friday evening, yesterday at time of writing joined Gethsemane Choir and 8 others for a Carol Fest at Saint Louis King of France Church in a benefit for Drive a Senior. The host was mercifully brief in offering comments. The singing was an experience as always. I enjoy the opportunity to sing with enthusiasm in a large crowd with great organ accompaniment.

Today, Saturday the 5^th learned about Altar Guild and the duties appertaining. About time I was properly trained I suppose.

Heading South in 2015

November 16, 2015

When it comes to travel by motor vehicle, boring is good. In part that involves proper preparation and packing. Certainly there are always those little things. Having to jump start the battery before departure and having to repair the battery tender connections before getting off, at least the generator started. American Customs was routine, I'd shaved my beard to ensure my physiognomy matched the passport photo. Driving through Buffalo and Lackawanna in the dark is not pleasant but preferable to rush hour traffic. I paused at the Erie Welcome Centre to make coffee considering myself lucky that I wasn't seeing white stuff flying. Before heading due South I skirted the edges of Cleveland Ohio.

In Ashland, Ohio stopped for fuel ($1.99/American Gal) and brunch at Dennys where I took the opportunity to read the day's comix. An hour later I found Cross Creek Resort in Delaware, OH without incident. After a few miss-steps I've figured out the difference between South and North Old State Road—a difference my guides failed to mention. The park is already celebrating Christmas. I caught up online and went to bed.

Decided I deserved to sleep in and so miss rush hour traffic in Columbus, OH and Indianapolis, IN. Stopped at a travel centre for fuel and brunch at Dennys once more. Since I visited Terre Haute last they commenced highway construction hostilities making finding the KOA there a challenge, not something one appreciates after a long drive. The donkeys welcomed me with a nibble at my coat tail.

Day three began with fueling north of the highway. Gusting crosswinds and early morning heavy showers made this the worst day for driving I had in my travels. This day I encountered the other bugbear of driving, mile upon mile of highway construction and rough roads. I got through St. Louis, MO without incident and continued the long drive to Lebanon, MO. There was a sale on traffic lights when the city was built, they have one every block. Fourteen miles out of town in the boonies the campground was obviously closed for the season—their web site made no mention of fall closure. Drove over to my fall-back position, the Bennett Spring State Park. Their campground was open for self-pay. Oh Joy! After finding a site that had working electricity put the money I had in an envelope, wrote up the required info and dropped it in the vault. I considered it a minor miracle that their Wi-Fi was up and working and since I was the only person spending the night there I enjoyed excellent service. The warnings about bears proved an exaggeration, expect they'd trundled off for hibernation. It was one very quiet night.

Next day I took the north exit from the park which crossed a canted Bailey bridge that gave me cause for trepidation before I gingerly crossed it. The detritus from recent flooding had been pushed to one side. Got gas in town and headed toward Tulsa, OH. This day's drive seemed long and involved a toll highway for part of the trip. Hoardings along the highway remind one that one is entering the Bible Belt culminating in the sign for Oral Roberts U. For once there was someone in the office at Warrior Campground when I arrived.

Most of Day 5 was spent in Oklahoma State which lived up to its rep with a steady headwind blowing across the plain all day. The sunshine reflecting off the soil gave it a fluorescent Orange cast. The Oklahoma Welcome Centre provided half-decent free coffee. Little but prairie farmland to see save for the passage through Oklahoma City. I pulled off the highway there for gas. West of there farmland gives way to open rangeland dotted with scrub. Entering Texas one begins to encounter their countless wind farms. I stopped in a few miserably small towns before I found a place to stop for lunch made in my RV. The Overnight RV Park in Amarillo proved to be at the end of the airport runway and had non-working Wi-Fi as had everyone else in the area.

I did break down and accept a limousine ride complete with longhorn hood ornament to the Big Texan Steak Ranch. Staff were accoutered in Stetsons and cowboy boots. Christmas tree and decorations already in place. A plaster model missing a thumb was seated at one of the long tables. Did he complain about the service? I did not order the 72 oz steak. After overeating I took a look at the rattlesnake in the gift shop and the facilities for “Cowboys” and “Cowgirls” before I caught a ride home. Overnight the temperature plunged to 28.

Next day it dropped as low as 24. I wore winter coat and gloves as I gassed up. The wind turned during the night pushing me West to Albuquerque, NM. The terrain was flat and dusky until a dark patch of cloud proved indistinguishable from the foothills ahead. A cold front was plainly visible as I passed through it. After the height of land I entered the basin that holds Albuquerque at 5000 ft. No word from the gentleman I went there to visit for the next 24 hours. American RV Park was welcoming as ever. After several visits to the area I finally got to drive old Route 66 into Old Town. Finding parking was a challenge. Haggling is expected in the many gift shops and sidewalk displays where turquoise and silver jewelry, ceramic pots, along with Copper Arm bands bear prices in the $500 range. I did break down and buy a nativity collection with a Pueblo inspired theme for a price that would have scandalized my mother.

Monday, November 23^rd I got ready for travel and took in the complimentary continental breakfast provided by the Park before leaving. For the first 125 or so miles I retraced my route toward Texas before turning South on Hwy 84 at Santa Rosa. In Fort Sumner which may or may not be the burial place of one Billy the Kid I stopped not at the museum/fort but at the local grocery store. Just East of Clovis I crossed back into Texas and the Central Time Zone, Albuquerque is on Mountain Time. Here one enters the cotton belt where half the crop is yet to be harvested and the fields are dotted with pumpjacks. Highway here is a two-lane rated at 75 mph with slower zones through small cities. The KOA in Lubbock is North-West of town just off HWY 84 too near a railway track. There's a ring road surrounding Lubbock, a 'town' famous for country music, government, education, and medical facilities—shopping.

Tuesday Morning got off early to beat traffic gassing up first. The four hundred mile drive was through rolling countryside on two-lane and four-lane roads sometimes divided headed in a generally South-Easterly direction. Somehow I'd forgotten how miserable it is to drive into the rising sun. Albuquerque was 5000 ft, Lubbock 3000 ft so it was essentially downhill to Austin at 700. A slight crosswind and unstable winding roads made the posted 75 a might too fast for me. All was well until I reached a large gathering of emergency vehicles 10 miles North of Leander 30 miles from Austin blocking 3 of the four lanes. Lots of mangled cars. Made Austin without a fillup but the low fuel light came on as I backed into the driveway here in Austin.

I got here just in time, a few days ago Chicago got 12 inches of snow. It's greener in Austin:

Scottsdale Farm

Scottsdale Farm is an Ontario Heritage Property administered by the Halton Conservation Authority accessible as a side trail from the Bruce Trail or from the onsite parking lot off Trafalgar Rd at 13607. Calling a 15-car lot large is a matter of perspective. 

The working farm was bequeathed by the Bennett Family to the people of Ontario in trust. In the year 2015 the farm houses have been leased to tenants but the farm itself remains unworked and the barns empty. The unmown fields and garden plots remain untended and are rapidly returning to weeds and scrub. To a former farmboy it is sad to see barns slowly mouldering away their board and batten sides turning grey and growing moss. The asphalt shingles may protect the roves but they look out of place along with the modern white eavestroughing in which grow a crop of weeds and small trees. The outbuilding and former farm homes feature multiple gables and a white paint job. Most buildings have air vents or dovecots up top. 

Pictures of former draft horses and winning bulls are no substitute for the real thing. There's a so-called wishing well and an untended pond with bridge crossing the dam on the Cold Creek. The Marsh appears a prime breeder of mosquitoes but probably supports a good crop of frogs and toads as well. The trail was a pleasant walk through muted Autumn Foliage. 

Alas, the tone of this entry betokens the fact that I expected more. Even the barns are off-limits today. 

Sponsoring Refugees

A programme on CBC got me going on the topic. The concept of international law makes it illegal to interfere in the affairs of a sovereign nation as say the US did in Iraq. The moral issue of what is our responsibility to people forced to flee persecution by their own government or neighbours is quite another matter. Uprooting populations from their homes and cultures and transporting them to a different climate, a foreign language and customs will always be a second-best solution.

First there is the terror of fleeing and life in a temporary refugee/resettlement camp—Israeli Arabs have lived like this for up to 5 generations. The minimum wait for government sponsorship is one year and as much as 3. Refugee sponsors may welcome their guests with all the best of intentions and good will but nothing can prepare someone who has lived in a tropical climate for snow and cold. A language unknown to them and customs and mores they don't understand. This comes down to matters as simple as never having encountered indoor plumbing and the need to flush a toilet. Being gifted with clothes but having no concept of the fact that one doesn't send children to school clad in pyjamas. Dealing with the ridicule that results.

How do you prepare food when you've never seen an electric stove, refrigerator, a can opener, a water tap and the food stuffs are all foreign and you know not how to prepare them and have no appreciation for the flavours involved.

How do you deal with post-traumatic stress when you don't even have the same language as a potential counselor?

How do you find work and a means of self-support? A lawyer or doctor faces many barriers before they can practice in this country and driving a cab is demeaning.

Fools Rush In....

It seems modern readers are surprised that Atticus Finch expresses what in today's terms would be defined as racist sentiments. Should we be surprised that he is a child of his time. After all the writers of the Bible took slavery for granted. I grew up with the rhyme:

“Eenie Meenie Miney Mo

Catch a Nigger by the Toe”

and the saying, “nigger in the woodpile”.

Today even the word Negro is freighted with such baggage that a black Canadian Writer had to change the title, “The Book of Negros” before it was considered saleable in the US.

The Civil War is associated with the struggle in the South to preserve the institution of Slavery. The Confederate Flag used by the breakaway states is seen as expressing Southern defiance of their defeat and the advancement of Civil Rights. Suddenly flying it and its appearance on cars and other chattels is seen as objectionable.

I would judge a man by his actions. Atticus Finch took the case of a black man accused of molesting a white despite the probable damage to his professional reputation and the risks to his family. His treatment of Calpurnia and their mutual respect speaks volumes.

Similar broodings rumble near the surface on my side of the border. The French may have lost the battle on the Plains of Abraham but the province's motto is “Je Me Souviens”, I remember. I just drove by the sign on HWY 20 marking Quebec City as the National Capital Region and once again noted that Quebec Provincial Parks are termed National Parks. The premier of the province is referred to as Prime Minister and everyone has their nose rubbed in the struggle to eradicate English from the province. It continues in the province's insistence on opting out of the Federal Pension Plan and their squawking at any Federal move seen as an intrusion on provincial jurisdiction.

Do we gain anything by over-reacting to these provocations? Dose allowing rhetoric and emotion to boil over do anything to resolve long-standing contentions? Is not inclusivity more productive than argumentation. Cannot we allow the past to be the past and move on. Does over-reaction do anything to resolve matters? Would it not be smarter to choose our battles: like low minimum wages, discriminatory hiring practices, weak labour codes.

Homeward Bound

Got going before breakfast while the coast was relatively clear. I'd fallen into bed upon my return Sunday Night. Got out to walk around my RV just to make sure nothing was amiss. Just kept driving until I finally had to stop somewhere beyond Pictou to run the generator to make coffee and toast. Rough roads made using my laptop dicey so I listened to Radio or played the CD's I'd picked up at the festival.

Stopped once more at Masstown and took my brother-in-law's advice to buy a quart of Grapenut Ice Cream rather than spend nearly as much on a single cone. Picked up fresh strawberries and some jam though they were out of Strawberry Rhubarb. I'll try Blueberry Rhubarb as a consolation. Opted to drive up old highway 4 bypassing the tollway. Made it to Sackville on the gas I'd bought in Enfield over a week earlier.

Short drive from there to Stonehurst Golf Course near Magnetic Hill. I'd been running A/C for some time to remain alert. The 'campground' wasn't much and the Wi-Fi was pitiful and turned off overnight. Met a retired couple who were interested in picking my brains about local music. Originally from Pictou they'd retired to Florida.

Tuesday took off for the drive to Quebec. Stopped along the way for lunch at a Subway North of Woodstock, NB, and ran into a long lineup at the counter. Stopped North of Edmundston to fill-up so I could make it through Quebec without spending 10¢ more per litre on gasoline there. Between Déglis and Cobano HWY 185 is still under construction so traffic was diverted to the southbound lanes. At least everything was paved.

My once favourite park in Rivière-Du-Loup has degraded Wi-Fi. Couldn't get online once I arrived having gained an hour crossing the border. When it started thundering with heavy rain the gang beside me in a tent packed up and left. Made it online just long enough to pay my bills late in the evening.

On Tuesday drove 346 miles, Wednesday the hop to Montreal was a hundred less though the roads were rough and the sun hot. Stopped at a St. Hubert Express west of in Drummondville for counter service and self-serve condiments. Decided to drive on to West End Montreal so I'd be West of Thursday Morning traffic and give KOA Montreal West one last try. Propped between the CN Mainline with level crossings to the south and HWY 20 just outside the park office the place is almost fully occupied by seasonal campers with fancy park model homes. The patch of grass between tree stumps was ill-marked and uneven. The Wi-Fi worked mind you and with the A/C blasting the noise was tolerable. Ten miles from the Ontario Border.

On Wednesday made coffee and was on the road shortly after 7:00 AM. Rough roads again but Montreal Classique en français beguiled the first section of road. Made it to Landcaster, Ontario before I had to fill-up my gas tank. The machine balked at completely filling my tank. Stopped at my favourite Dennys in Napanee for Brunch and moved to avoid the loud chatter of two woman having a businesswoman's lunch.

Save for a rude female driver who honked at me in the right-most lane because she seemed to think I should tail gate the car in front of me the way she was my Van, the drive proved merely tiring. No slowdowns despite lanes marked for Pan Am HOV traffic. Made it to Oakville shortly before 2:00 PM with classical music still playing on CBC.

Stanfest

There's a poignancy inherent in an event that commemorates the life of a singer/songwriter who died far too young. It continues in the life of a town that died because its principal employer closed up shop. In an event cancelled last year due to a blow-hard named Arthur.

Folk Music is the language of the working people; be they migrant workers, the man behind the plough, the men who go down to the sea in ships, the colliers who enter the deeps, the factory worker, the housemaid on her knees. Too often the pay is too little, the jobs short-lived, the work too hard. In consequence the tone is often melancholy.

Arriving at Stanfest it is hard to believe that matters will ever come together but 800 volunteers pulling together with a will and a co-ordinated purpose seem to always make it happen. The Thursday Night Pre-Party appears to be an opportunity for old friends to renew acquaintance. It is nearly impossible to hear the acts who perform in the dreadful acoustics of the Canso Arena above the chatter.

Stanfest is a party animal kind of place. Quiet hours are between 3:00 AM and 8:00 AM. Generators allowed between 8:00 AM and 11:00 PM. Remember concerts go to 1:00 AM. Waiting until 8 to make one's first coffee is a bit of a strain for early risers. As with most seaports getting anywhere involves a hill and so it was, puff, puff, as I walked into town to shop at the CO-OP. On Thursday July 2^nd their truck had just come in and pallets of food were plopped everywhere in the aisles. They'd just gotten a load of fresh Maritime Strawberries. Bread was from the local bakery I'd just walked past. Sauer Kraut from Lewis Mountain, NB.

Just to tease us it rained overnight twice but managed to clear before concert time each day. Friday Night presented an azure blue clear sky and as the sun set Venus and Jupiter lit up the sky just to the right of stage while a bird flew back and forth with worms to its nest under the eaves above the speakers stage right.

A Duo called Fortunate Ones from NFLD led off proceedings followed by Catherine MacLellan from PEI. Talent really seems to run in families. Guy Davis' harmonica truly sang next. The Pictou Prince Dave Gunning found reason to scowl before he bloomed for the audience. Guitar picking is rarely lacking at these events but Thom Swift stood out, particularly on National Steel. Alan Doyle of Great Big Sea fame to quote others put on an object lesson in how to work an audience. As the night's headline act he held the crowd enthralled. His guitarist Corey Tetford pranced about the stage and watching the expressions on his face proved to provide an act in and of itself. He and the accordionist mugged with Alan while the bassist from Halifax stood expressionless and unmoving. Fiddle and drums completed the group. Harry Chapin's brother performed with Livingston Taylor—a music professor, and EVA, an all female trio. RURA from Scotland were rather loud and featured a mixed group, one in peaked sailor's hat on tin flute and bodhran, a guitar, fiddle and bag pipes. I found the entire evening rather over-amplified and heavy on the bass in particular—the recording from John Allan Cameron as I waited for the show to start boomed. By wrap up time the sky was clear and cold and returning home was about getting warm again.

Morning came all too soon on Saturday. Decided to try out the Shamrock Club for breakfast. It proved to be a continental breakfast with fried dinner ham and boiled eggs thrown in. I was underwhelmed.

Daytime workshops from 11:00 to 6:00 PM provide an opportunity for solo acts to give an extended performance and to highlight acts that don't get their moment on the main stage. When groups of performers join up for a themed presentation the magic happens when up to four groups use the opportunity to jam together. Alas egos often get in the way. It is also instructive to see whether event hosts choose to lead off or let others go first. With 5 stages performing simultaneously plumping for one group is a dilemma.

For Bards and Ballads Nathan Rogers, Rachel Sermani and Mike Doyle played nice and supported one another.

The next grouping of Ryan Cook, Fortunate Ones, and Shiretown performed as solo acts. Seeing performers up close and personal gives them the opportunity to supply background to their songs and personal details. Ryan Cook from Yarmouth grew up on a dairy farm—“You can whip our cream, but you can't beat our milk.” The farm is no more.

The Fitzgerald Family are Everything Fitz from Bancroft Ontario playing Ottawa Valley style fiddle and tap dancing. With the second act a no show they put on an impromptu hour-long bravura performance with one of their own number a late arrival due to travel problems. Great fiddling even more impressive when done while tap dancing. Just watching them made me feel sore. Their novelty fiddle act is sheer magic. Tom loosened the hair on his bow and pulled it over his fiddle to play all four strings at once.

I remained at the Queensport Stage for About My Home. All these groups seem to blend together in one's mind. A break for late lunch at 3:00.

At the Fox Island Stage Garnet Rogers led a workshop called There's Something Wrong in the World. Garnet told us about the county expropriating a family's land to ship crushed rock to China. As Sam Baker put it, “Don't they have rocks in China.”

Songs by my Heroes So who were their heroes?

Singalongs Alas the songs selected tended to give one the message that audience participation was not really wanted.

Something about a Saturday Night Audience dating back to my days in Amateur Theatre. Granted that I've been spoiled by the classical music experience for the not so subtle differences of the pop music genre. But the gang who moved in behind me Saturday Night had zero interest in listening to the acts on stage which begs the question, if all you want is a family reunion why go to a concert and spoil it for those who want to listen. I finally had to get up and move elsewhere. People so boorish wouldn't give it a second thought.

I'd already seen Chuck Brodsky and Sam Baker in the afternoon. Matt Anderson, a surprise replacement for the third act was popular with the crowd. Lennie Gallant followed and then Bruce Guthro headlined. He brought out his 24-year-old son and then in succession filled the stage with 10 other musicians. Breabach from Scotland brought twin bagpipes, end blown flute and transverse, fiddle, guitar and stand-up bass plucked and bowed. Modern young celtic performers do their own interpretations of traditional ballads and seem to shun performing unplugged. Maddy Prior strutted regally on stage amid the wall of sound her backup group provided. When the noise became painful I made it a night missing the final group—Shanneyganock. I'd long since moved so I could hear the performers above the audience racket.

Sunday Morning began wet for those up that early. I walked up to the arena for their breakfast in paper machete box after brewing my own coffee at home. Seven bucks gets you scrambled eggs, hash browns, curled bacon, three sausages, and buttered toast—single slice. Grab your own condiments. There's a reason for the term greasy spoon.

Went outside to access the Pourhouse Stage. Though the place has dreadful acoustics it affords an opportunity to sit inches from the performers and see them eye to eye.

The first act was Lennie Gallant from PEI accompanied by two sons on drums and guitar. A fourth musician on fiddle. The latest in drums is an enclosed box the performer sits on getting different timbres depending on where they strike it with hands or brushes or padded sticks. First saw one 4 years ago at Louisbourg Playhouse. Lennie is a folky who has written many hockey ballads having played left wing in his younger days. He told of drilling a hole in the ice on a backyard pond to flood the ice to smooth it out. When he met Brian Trottier at a community game he was told. We had one of those backyard ponds, somewhere out west, when we wanted to flood it we just kicked a couple of logs out of the beaver dam—can you get any more Canadian than that?

I hung around to see Everything Fitz a second time. With both sisters present the act was somewhat different. I marvel at their father's ability to keep an act involving three growing young adults together for 10 years. I haven't checked to see what's happening with the Leahy Family lately.

What followed was termed Fiddle Fever. Fiddlers from 3 groups accompanied by mandolin and guitar. Elsewhere at another time and location I missed the guitar workshop, always a highlight. Watching fiddlers jam together unrehearsed is a treat.

Slipped home for lunch and missed the blowhard intro to Singing Stan. Seeing some twenty performers on stage to work together was worth the price of admission.

Opted to settle at the Fox Island Stage near my campsite for the last three workshops.

Hard to single out individual performances after all those acts but interesting at the time to see what choices were made.

At a session titled Songs about Underdogs Bruce Guthro and Nathan Rogers exchanged some rather pointed barbs while Sam Baker and Chuck Brodsky tried to avoid the verbal fencing. Some of the humour and the songs were rather X-rated.

Rita Coolidge's handlers spent 25 minutes setting up and perfecting sound check. The few numbers she performed were sonically perfect but was all that worth it? I first saw her at about 1000 ft from the balcony of Karl Marx Theatre in Havana, Cuba with her husband of 8 years Kris Kristofferson. Seems I missed a few of her exes. She hasn't aged well but make-up and plastic surgery help. She ran over. Aside from her parade of husbands she talked of her Cherokee heritage and sang Amazing Grace in her native tongue. I am not a fan of Gospel Songs or any ballad drawn out in agonizing fashion.

Barely time for supper before finding a place to park for the evening. Found a “window” between two female beached whales that moved into preplaced seats. Their smoking buddy walked all over my feet in the dark going out to smoke every half hour. At least the gang this night were relatively quiet.

Garnet Rogers came on first to a lawn that was packed with empty chairs. He was gracious and pulled out two sheets of paper that contained an excerpt from the book he is writing about touring with his brother to come out this Fall.

Hat Fitz and Cara were a pair from Australia. He played National Steel and she sat in a long dress with her legs splayed in front of a set of drums and wore a brilliantly red hat of bird feathers. She drummed, sang, played washboard with steel studded gloves and penny whistle. He sang and reacted badly to his wife translating his thick outback accent.

Coig—Scottish for five are a group formed after a Cape Breton workshop placed them together. Interesting sound but over loud.

Room was made for an Ozark group that failed to make it Saturday. Looking like the cast from Dueling Banjos in the movie Deliverance the men had flowing beards and long flaxen hair. Ten-year-old EmiSunshine left we wondering what constitutes child abuse as she sang lyrics I hope are beyond her years.

Rita Coolidge performed non-stop for over an hour songs spanning her decades and husbands. Note perfect performance but I tire quickly of that long drawn out ballad style of singing.

Long haired young Jordan Musycsyn was raved about by the hosts with his past shoulder-length hair, patched jeans and 8-piece band including black blues pianist in white suit and red tie. I didn't see what the fuss was about. They did make a lot of noise.

The Standfields, a local act were 5—guitar, bass, drum, bouzouki, and electric mandolin. They weren't as bad as I'd expected is the best that I can say.

The closing singalong was for the 40 some people on stage but didn't include the audience who couldn't have read the words printed in the program anyway at 12:30 AM in the dark. I'd brought my light and was disappointed. They skipped two of the numbers including the final Amazing Grace already performed in Cherokee by Rita Coolidge.