Cape Breton Fiddlers
Like many other folk I sat down to watch “The East Coast Music Awards” last night, mostly because I was curious about the Trailer Park Boys being the hosts. We were visiting our good friends (The Vopnfjords) and had enjoyed a good old Manchester favourite (Fish & Chips) before the award ceremony. Our fingers were greasy and we had already partook of a few beers and were ready for these east Coast Misfits to enter the not so real world of network television... Their entrance was perfect, never leaving character for a second and sprinkling themselves all through the sacred properties of the CBC. With, I must add, an expertise that was not completely unexpected. It was almost like they knew they could get away with anything, and they did, right from their opening segment (in a trailer) to the grand finally where we saw Bubbles leading the whole arena in his rendition of "Liquor & Whores", I nearly died right there on the couch.
Anyway, a little story comes to mind due to this TV encounter last evening. As Natalie McMaster and old Buddy McMaster did their bit I recalled another tender “Cape Breton Fiddlers” encounter way back in the early eighties, twenty five years ago. I lived in the small hamlet of Rollo Bay, a remote seaside escape near the eastern tip of Prince Edward Island. Now everyone in that neighborhood of the world knows all about the “Rollo Bay Fiddle Festival” taking place every summer on the Chaisson Farm, what an event that was, and still is. I’ll say it now before I tell you my little story, “if your ever in that neck o' the woods during the summer, make sure you get to this event, it’s one of the best in the world when it come to fiddles and their McMasters".
The Story: Titled “Dog Bite”.Photo of Little Lisa:
I remember it like it was happening right now, and in those days, in the quiet protection of our Rollo Bay home we listened mostly to the light wind wheezing through whatever flora it could find. It talked to us through the scant leaves of a few brave trees but mostly by means of the long shimmering grass that extended itself all the way down into the sea like it was part of it. The waves seemed to roll all the way from Antigonish across the straight onto the beach and up our field; it was total tranquility at our doorstep. But now there was a new sound added, a quiet hum in the distance, at first it was just a minor intrusion, perhaps someone cutting down one of our brave trees for winter wood. Anyway, there wasn’t much heed to it at first except that it got louder over minutes then faded, then we could hear it again. I looked in the general direction of the hum towards the main highway which missed us most of the time, today however there was a very large object reflecting the sun in its glass sides and it was heading our way. As it drew neared the humming tires of a Cape Breton school bus turned into our circular driveway and promptly screeched to a confident stop, turned off the engine and threw open it’s doors. Up until now there were no other sounds, just the hum of tires and motor, but as soon as that door opened it was like they were all gasping for air, I suppose they’d been locked up inside for hours now, stuffy from all their closeness and good cheer, which there seemed to be no shortage of. The inevitable ferry crossing and the ride from the Causeway before that had made for a long day.
We were expecting them; the organization had called well in advance to book all the rooms in our motel. We were very excited and somewhat ready for the famous "Cape Breton Fiddlers" coming, but no preparation was enough for this fiddling swarm of fun and good times. They settled into their rooms almost without flaunt or strut, just ordinary men to look at, certainly not the illustrious idols we had prepared ourselves for, just plain and simple tired folk looking for a warm and cozy place to put their weary heads. No fanfare, no excitement, no fuss. If my memory serves me well I think it was a Friday night, the sun was fast setting and the bright evening skies kept watch over our legendary tenants. I felt some genuine pride that we had just about all the best fiddlers from Cape Breton under our roof, our little motel seemed very important all of a sudden, hell maybe they were even the very best in the world who knows. I slept very little that night because of this enormous liability, the reward was great though as their sweet notes of Auld Scottish Aires rose out of the cabins like cries to heaven.
The morning brought with it total bedlam, and as I walked along the front of the motel I heard the unholy sound of forty fiddlers tuning, playing (not the same tune of course) talking laughing. Everyone was out on the front porch which ran the full length of the building, it looked like a vagabond camp with laundry (socks and unmentionables) draped over the railing, no bashfulness here. I have to say that the music coming from the rooms that morning was all blended together in a deadly collision of fiddle strings; it was fit to scare the devil right off the Island. After feeding breakfast to the multitudes, the famous fiddlers loaded back into their bus and disappeared in the direction that they had come. We had a lot to do, cleaning the rooms, laundry, preparing for the next innings which would begin around suppertime we had been told. The day settled right down after the work, there was even enough time to go down to the beach with our little ones, the sun was up for it and so were we.
We returned around three o’clock in the afternoon and I left the kids, Lisa and Lochey, outside to play and just a few minutes later I heard screaming that could wake the dead, I was in the kitchen at the back so I ran out that way and around to the front of the building, the dog next door was making a hasty retreat. The old maingy hound had just taken a piece out of my little girls face, thankfully a quick trip to the ER and a few stitches later we were home before supper. Our poor neighbor was so distraught that he taken the old dog out to the back shed and put her down right away before we even got home. I always wished that he hadn’t done that...
An impromptu concert: The Cape Bretoners had got wind of this unfortunate incident and that evening they all made their way to the motel lounge, asking if they could see little Lisa, sitting her down on a stool in front of them all, firing up the old piano and playing an impromptu concert just for her. I can tell you there wasn’t a dry eye in the place as my little scar faced daughter sat soberly and listened, if you can image what it sounded like, forty fiddles in such a small area, I think every cat in the neighborhood went missing for days after that. We’ll never forget it, we’ll never forget them, true gentlemen with a real caring for family and kinfolk.
Sunday morning they were all up early, breakfast on the run and back into the old school bus. I have a vivid memory of that bus leaving, windows down this time, arms and I think maybe the odd leg out, with laughter and the music of Cape Breton escaping every vent as the sun rose over them to welcome a new day. Thanks again boys...
Posted by John Ellis
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posted by Unknown at 11:05 p.m.
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1 comments
Lindy was a powerhouse of music and song by the time he entered into my little world (Melodeon Studios) and to say there was a colossal buildup of vim and vigor lodged in his melodious pipes would be an understatement. This rampant potential was attempting to break out through the same minor orifice as his breathing apparatus, but somehow the force was laid to rest, first the bed tracks and then a finished master.
