For 11 years I had a teaching studio on the River in North Vancouver.
I had a full teaching schedule at my studio by the river in I preferred to teach over few days and stack my students in less days to free up time to compose later in the week.
At my studio one day, I was visited by an ex-student of mine Steve, who stopped in to say hello and drop off some cookies he had baked for me.
Steve had gone on to be a talented songwriter that was working hard on his performing career. He supported himself by working as a cook in a restaurant with a quite good reputation. There was an up and coming concert in the works and he wanted to let me know about it in the hopes that I might entice a few of my students to come to the concert. When he arrived, I was preoccupied in preparing for the days teaching and still had some preparation to do before my first student arrived. I told him I would tell my students about his concert and excused myself for not being able to have a proper visit.
Soon after he left my first student of the day arrived and I taught for an hour. I then had a one hour break before the major part of my teaching day began which would take me till 9:00 PM. I walked by the small bag of cookies and decided that I was hungry so I took one out and started to munch on it as I went to the filing cabinet to find a piece of sheet music for a student. Once I found the music I was looking for, I noticed one cookie hadn’t filled me up and had another one on my way back. (When you work alone restraint if difficult with no one to answer to.)
I had a few things to do and before my next student came I decided to visit the washroom as it would be more difficult later on when I was teaching. While I was sitting there, I noticed the room tilt slightly for a second. I looked around puzzled. What was that? I thought there was an earth quake. It happened again and this time I shook my head like someone trying to stay awake. When tried to stand up I knew something very strange was happening to me. I stumbled out of the washroom and headed strait for the telephone.
Pulling out my student telephone book, I furiously started dialing the parents of students informing them that I had contracted stomach flu and had to go home. They were all very gracious but as the calls continued, I sensed some puzzled responses from some of the parents. As I hung up the phone canceling my last student, I noticed colors fluttering in my periphery vision.
It seemed like a movie was going on either side of me just out of view. When I turned my head to try to watch it the movie would move with me just out of reach.. It was a scary feeling and was steadily getting more intense by the minute. Concentration was now proving difficult as I turned the pages of the phone book trying to look up the number of the local taxi company. I dialed the number and gave the address of the studio to the dispatch operator. I hung up and crumpled into my chair in relief. All I had to do now was to close up the studio and get in a taxi.
The colors were now like a halo around my field of vision. My eyes felt like I had been swimming in a chlorine pool for hours, and everything had that misty look to it.
The ride home was uneventful as sitting in the back seat, I mumbled the address over the seat to the driver. I looked out the window at the rain soaked streets and wondered how on earth l I had ended up in this predicament. The cookies my friend had left for me were laced with something and thanks to him, I was passing through the threshold of lousing control. One of the worst feelings imaginable.
When I got home I paid the driver and stumbled inside.
I did a b-line for the bed tossed off my shoes and lay on my back looking at the ceiling as a symphony of colors and sounds painted the ceiling in an ever changing collage. When my wife came home she helped me get undressed and I lay there frozen, eyes open for the rest of that day. Every time I tried to close my eyes I got the ‘dreaded whirlys’ and had to open my eyes again. It was all that night and into the next morning before I could finally fall asleep. I slept most of the next day and when I finally woke up I was furious.
Who knows what could have happened from this irresponsible act. I could have given one of those pot-laced cookies to one of my young students or my own child. I could have had to drive somewhere and not noticed until I was on the road behind the wheel somewhere across town. I could have lost it and done something irrational to myself or someone else.
I called my friend Steve and took to him like a school of piranha fish welcoming a stray goat. I called him everything I could think of that resembled the word irresponsible. His excuse was that as I was a musician, he assumed that I would “get it” when he said he made some “cookies” for me. I’m sure most of his friends smoke pot on a daily basis so someone like myself who is “out of the loop” would be a rarity. Because I played a musical instrument I was whitewashed with the same brush as all those “groovy cats that lived to get high, play music and float across the tops of cities contemplating jazz.
I continued to let him have it as I thought he needed to know what catastrophe he might have put into motion. When I calmed down, I informed him that he would be paying me, in full for my lost wages for the whole day’s teaching including the taxi fare home. If he didn’t I would go to the police and make a complaint against him. I think he got off easy and I hope he thinks twice in the future before offering anyone drugs as a gift.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Too Many Notes—Not Enough Seats
I met Massa in my twenties when I used to hang out as guest in a Bohemian household occupied by classical musicians in Lynn Valley, North Vancouver. Massa was from Osaka Japan and at one time he played with the Osaka Symphony.
I never did hear the reason he decided to settle in Canada. He was very tall for a Japanese man and spoke French and some English. Another tenant of the house was a concert pianist from Nice, France. They loved to talk for hours in the kitchen and if I were present the conversation would politely start in English but would invariably end up in French. A typical conversation would take place around the kitchen table with a bottle of good scotch, lots of filled ashtrays, foreign cigarette boxes and lighters strewn across the table. The room would have a smoky haze and talking would usually last well into the night. In those days I couldn’t get enough of the sound of Parisian French
and would sit quietly and listen by the hour gleaning what little I could from the animated tête-à-tête with a pair of world-class musicians.
I first heard Massa play from inside a locked room where he would practice his clarinet. I had never heard anything like it and got a chair to sit and listen. He could articulate notes up and down the clarinet so fast that I was dumbfounded. He had exquisite tone and would fly through any key with lighting speed. Major, minor, whole tone, diminished, augmented and altered all came streaming effortlessly out of the room. At the end of his scales and arpeggios sessions he would move on to a stirring rendition of wonderful classical solo clarinet pieces. He didn’t know I was outside listening and when he ended his practice I would quietly move away from the door as I heard him packing up his instrument. Here was a master and I didn’t even have a clue as to the realms of music he must know.
Over the next years we became friends and talked for hours usually around the kitchen table with a good bottle of scotch. He told me that he had tried to audition for many symphonies since he came to Canada. One audition story comes to mind:
It was in Chicago for the Chicago symphony where there was one opening offered for third clarinet. There were 240 applicants from all over North America that descended upon Chicago for their chance for this one position. Massa practiced six to seven hours a day for the two weeks leading up to the audition: scales, arpeggios, long tones, and a number of very intricate pieces. And then there was the reed selection. He told me that in a typical box of 12 Rico clarinet reeds he would be very lucky to find one or maybe two that would be good enough to perform at his level of playing. So as he neared the date of departure he opened box after box of reeds and examined them carefully to finally end up with 4 reeds that he could trust for this very special audition.
On the day of the audition, Massa took a taxi to the airport, picked up the ticket he had paid for in advance, and sat on the plane with his clarinet case on his lap and his reeds in his breast pocket—he at last was ready and on his way. With eyes closed he practiced various pieces with his fingers playing an imaginary clarinet in mid air: a common exercise of traveling concert musicians.
When he arrived in Chicago he went straight to his hotel and checked into his room to try and do a quick warm-up before the audition that started an hour and a half later. He opened his reed case and un-clipped one of the special reeds he had carefully chosen, placed it on the mouthpiece and slid the custom ligature he had had made in Paris over the reed. Adjusting the placement of the reed with tiny screws placed it exactly in the right position to obtain the response needed. He placed the mouthpiece to his lips and squeak! He adjusted his lower lip against the bottom of the mouthpiece. Squeak! Not a single note would come out of one of the finest instruments money could buy. He tried another reed. Squeak! And another squeak!
Suddenly Massa’s world began to crash around him like thundering waves. Not one reed would work! It was now 35 minutes before his audition time. He hurriedly packed his clarinet case and ran to the taxi stand and caught the first taxi to audition hall. The drive took almost all the remaining time he had left and he stumbled into the audition room with minutes to spare. Massa has a very thick accent and he had some trouble explaining that his reeds had been selected in Vancouver but the humidity was completely different in Chicago and the reeds wouldn’t work at all. He finally begged a fellow clarinetist for a reed and when his number was called he walked into the audition hall still adjusting the reed as he walked. He was allowed to play for exactly two minutes and then heard “Thank You” coming from the judging table.
He bowed slightly turned and left the room pausing in the hallway to thank the person who had lent him the reed. He returned to the hotel, packed his things and went to the airport to wait for the plane home. When he returned to Vancouver he had to go straight to work as soon as he got back. This trip had been expensive as were all the others
before it. All paid for with his own money to try to get a job doing what he loved to do.
Massa had more qualifications and had paid more for his education than most doctors or lawyers. He had taken expensive private lessons since early childhood, studied with world masters, attended expensive music retreats and sought after and bought the best clarinets money could buy. He was, in my opinion, one of the elite of the classical music world. Perhaps it was his age or his thick Japanese accent or perhaps there are just too many really good musicians at that level and not enough jobs for them all. Massa returned to his regular job as a short order cook at a greasy spoon called Franky’s at the bottom of Lonsdale Avenue and never picked up the clarinet again.
This sad story reminds me of my last visit to London when I saw a lineup of well over 500 people, the longest I have ever seen stretching all the way around a city block. I was curious as to what it was for so I walked over and asked one of the people in the endless cue what they were waiting for. One of the tired hopefuls explained to me, “It’s a dance audition for two parts in the The Lion King”
Vive l’artiste!
I never did hear the reason he decided to settle in Canada. He was very tall for a Japanese man and spoke French and some English. Another tenant of the house was a concert pianist from Nice, France. They loved to talk for hours in the kitchen and if I were present the conversation would politely start in English but would invariably end up in French. A typical conversation would take place around the kitchen table with a bottle of good scotch, lots of filled ashtrays, foreign cigarette boxes and lighters strewn across the table. The room would have a smoky haze and talking would usually last well into the night. In those days I couldn’t get enough of the sound of Parisian French
and would sit quietly and listen by the hour gleaning what little I could from the animated tête-à-tête with a pair of world-class musicians.
I first heard Massa play from inside a locked room where he would practice his clarinet. I had never heard anything like it and got a chair to sit and listen. He could articulate notes up and down the clarinet so fast that I was dumbfounded. He had exquisite tone and would fly through any key with lighting speed. Major, minor, whole tone, diminished, augmented and altered all came streaming effortlessly out of the room. At the end of his scales and arpeggios sessions he would move on to a stirring rendition of wonderful classical solo clarinet pieces. He didn’t know I was outside listening and when he ended his practice I would quietly move away from the door as I heard him packing up his instrument. Here was a master and I didn’t even have a clue as to the realms of music he must know.
Over the next years we became friends and talked for hours usually around the kitchen table with a good bottle of scotch. He told me that he had tried to audition for many symphonies since he came to Canada. One audition story comes to mind:
It was in Chicago for the Chicago symphony where there was one opening offered for third clarinet. There were 240 applicants from all over North America that descended upon Chicago for their chance for this one position. Massa practiced six to seven hours a day for the two weeks leading up to the audition: scales, arpeggios, long tones, and a number of very intricate pieces. And then there was the reed selection. He told me that in a typical box of 12 Rico clarinet reeds he would be very lucky to find one or maybe two that would be good enough to perform at his level of playing. So as he neared the date of departure he opened box after box of reeds and examined them carefully to finally end up with 4 reeds that he could trust for this very special audition.
On the day of the audition, Massa took a taxi to the airport, picked up the ticket he had paid for in advance, and sat on the plane with his clarinet case on his lap and his reeds in his breast pocket—he at last was ready and on his way. With eyes closed he practiced various pieces with his fingers playing an imaginary clarinet in mid air: a common exercise of traveling concert musicians.
When he arrived in Chicago he went straight to his hotel and checked into his room to try and do a quick warm-up before the audition that started an hour and a half later. He opened his reed case and un-clipped one of the special reeds he had carefully chosen, placed it on the mouthpiece and slid the custom ligature he had had made in Paris over the reed. Adjusting the placement of the reed with tiny screws placed it exactly in the right position to obtain the response needed. He placed the mouthpiece to his lips and squeak! He adjusted his lower lip against the bottom of the mouthpiece. Squeak! Not a single note would come out of one of the finest instruments money could buy. He tried another reed. Squeak! And another squeak!
Suddenly Massa’s world began to crash around him like thundering waves. Not one reed would work! It was now 35 minutes before his audition time. He hurriedly packed his clarinet case and ran to the taxi stand and caught the first taxi to audition hall. The drive took almost all the remaining time he had left and he stumbled into the audition room with minutes to spare. Massa has a very thick accent and he had some trouble explaining that his reeds had been selected in Vancouver but the humidity was completely different in Chicago and the reeds wouldn’t work at all. He finally begged a fellow clarinetist for a reed and when his number was called he walked into the audition hall still adjusting the reed as he walked. He was allowed to play for exactly two minutes and then heard “Thank You” coming from the judging table.
He bowed slightly turned and left the room pausing in the hallway to thank the person who had lent him the reed. He returned to the hotel, packed his things and went to the airport to wait for the plane home. When he returned to Vancouver he had to go straight to work as soon as he got back. This trip had been expensive as were all the others
before it. All paid for with his own money to try to get a job doing what he loved to do.
Massa had more qualifications and had paid more for his education than most doctors or lawyers. He had taken expensive private lessons since early childhood, studied with world masters, attended expensive music retreats and sought after and bought the best clarinets money could buy. He was, in my opinion, one of the elite of the classical music world. Perhaps it was his age or his thick Japanese accent or perhaps there are just too many really good musicians at that level and not enough jobs for them all. Massa returned to his regular job as a short order cook at a greasy spoon called Franky’s at the bottom of Lonsdale Avenue and never picked up the clarinet again.
This sad story reminds me of my last visit to London when I saw a lineup of well over 500 people, the longest I have ever seen stretching all the way around a city block. I was curious as to what it was for so I walked over and asked one of the people in the endless cue what they were waiting for. One of the tired hopefuls explained to me, “It’s a dance audition for two parts in the The Lion King”
Vive l’artiste!
Light The Darkness
In 1995 our family lived in a co-op housing complex in North Vancouver. We lived in one of about 60 condos that were built by the Lions Club. Our kids had a ball in those years, constantly surrounded by so many friends to play with just outside our doors. In the years we were at Bowron Court we were young families and shared each other’s lives by the close proximity that we co-existed. We probably knew more about each other than necessary but that’s how it goes.
A few units down from us lived a single mother with two children. She had a daughter age 10 and a son age 12. Our children often played with them. One afternoon the mother’s ex-husband came home for his daughter’s birthday and proceeded to attack
the two children with an axe. Her daughter was murdered and the son was eventually reduced to a wheelchair for life.
During the period after this event there were candlelight vigils and other grieving sessions for the family, neighbors and friends. I thought it would be nice to write a song for the family to help them try to make sense of their shattered world. I recorded the song and gave them 15 copies of the lyrics with a cassette of the song:
We Just Want You to Know We’ll Be Here
There are times throughout this life of ours
When we feel we are standing alone
The chips they fall for no reason at all
And we’re left in the dark on our own
Now you’re going to grieve and you have to believe
That there’s one more thing you can do
Just look around and hear the sound
There’s love and it’s calling to you
CHORUS:
Anyone can help a heart fly higher
Anyone can help a soul to heal
Anytime you need someone
To guide you through the night,
We just want you to know we’ll be here
There’s a friend just around the corner
Caring friends from across this land
United together to lend a hand
We just want you to know we’ll be here
Sometimes it takes trouble to bring us together
From the heroes and villains alike
Sometimes we forget all that matters
Is the love we all share in our hearts
You know you are missed and we’re going to try
To get you back home once again
Just look around there’s a lot to be found
There’s love and it’s calling to you
CHORUS
BRIDGE:
When all you see is tragedy
You’re left out on your own
You can’t see past the doors
That lie in front of you
We can help you make the steps
To get you back on the road
Just give us this chance
To lend a helping hand
CHORUS
Years later I was doing a concert on Saltspring Island and I happened to run into our friend from up the street. She immediately asked if I would go with her to see her son. They now lived in a school bus that had been converted into a very nice living space, sparse but comfortable.
When I was reintroduced to her son as the man that wrote the song, he burst into tears and gave me the warmest handshake I think I’ve ever had. I don’t think he remembered me so much as he remembered the song and I believe it was a bittersweet flashback for him to a terrible time when he was surrounded with love and understanding. I assume few people were told of how his life had gone after the incident. After he had spent a long time in the hospital, mother and son had chosen to move to a smaller town where they would be left alone by the press and would not be recognized.
We talked for a quite a while, carefully avoiding any sensitive topics. We talked about his interests and dreams. Just like any other teenager his age he liked high school and was learning how to program computers.
I had to leave and prepare for the evening’s performance. We said our goodbyes and on the way back his mother told me how much the song had helped him get through it all.
Every once in a while you may be lucky enough to receive a small glimpse of the
positive good that can result from an act of kindness we may have done. This
experience made me realize that you can do wonders if you give unconditionally.
If we can creatively find ways to help make changes for the good, I’m pretty
sure that one’s good will continues to sprout long after you have forgotten what
you did.
A single candle can lighten the darkness.
A few units down from us lived a single mother with two children. She had a daughter age 10 and a son age 12. Our children often played with them. One afternoon the mother’s ex-husband came home for his daughter’s birthday and proceeded to attack
the two children with an axe. Her daughter was murdered and the son was eventually reduced to a wheelchair for life.
During the period after this event there were candlelight vigils and other grieving sessions for the family, neighbors and friends. I thought it would be nice to write a song for the family to help them try to make sense of their shattered world. I recorded the song and gave them 15 copies of the lyrics with a cassette of the song:
We Just Want You to Know We’ll Be Here
There are times throughout this life of ours
When we feel we are standing alone
The chips they fall for no reason at all
And we’re left in the dark on our own
Now you’re going to grieve and you have to believe
That there’s one more thing you can do
Just look around and hear the sound
There’s love and it’s calling to you
CHORUS:
Anyone can help a heart fly higher
Anyone can help a soul to heal
Anytime you need someone
To guide you through the night,
We just want you to know we’ll be here
There’s a friend just around the corner
Caring friends from across this land
United together to lend a hand
We just want you to know we’ll be here
Sometimes it takes trouble to bring us together
From the heroes and villains alike
Sometimes we forget all that matters
Is the love we all share in our hearts
You know you are missed and we’re going to try
To get you back home once again
Just look around there’s a lot to be found
There’s love and it’s calling to you
CHORUS
BRIDGE:
When all you see is tragedy
You’re left out on your own
You can’t see past the doors
That lie in front of you
We can help you make the steps
To get you back on the road
Just give us this chance
To lend a helping hand
CHORUS
Years later I was doing a concert on Saltspring Island and I happened to run into our friend from up the street. She immediately asked if I would go with her to see her son. They now lived in a school bus that had been converted into a very nice living space, sparse but comfortable.
When I was reintroduced to her son as the man that wrote the song, he burst into tears and gave me the warmest handshake I think I’ve ever had. I don’t think he remembered me so much as he remembered the song and I believe it was a bittersweet flashback for him to a terrible time when he was surrounded with love and understanding. I assume few people were told of how his life had gone after the incident. After he had spent a long time in the hospital, mother and son had chosen to move to a smaller town where they would be left alone by the press and would not be recognized.
We talked for a quite a while, carefully avoiding any sensitive topics. We talked about his interests and dreams. Just like any other teenager his age he liked high school and was learning how to program computers.
I had to leave and prepare for the evening’s performance. We said our goodbyes and on the way back his mother told me how much the song had helped him get through it all.
Every once in a while you may be lucky enough to receive a small glimpse of the
positive good that can result from an act of kindness we may have done. This
experience made me realize that you can do wonders if you give unconditionally.
If we can creatively find ways to help make changes for the good, I’m pretty
sure that one’s good will continues to sprout long after you have forgotten what
you did.
A single candle can lighten the darkness.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
From Bad Things can come Good Things
My oldest friend, Ed Mohoric, came by my studio one day.
“What are you up to, Ed?” I asked.
“I'm going to the music store to sell my guitar,” he said.
“Really,” I answered. Over the years I have slowly come to the realization that I am the music store he refers to.
At this point I have owned many of Ed’s cast offs. “Lemmie have a look.” I said.
He went to his car and brought in a steel string acoustic guitar in an old case that was supposedly hand-made in San Diego, California by an amateur guitar builder.
It had 5 different kinds of exotic woods including birds eye, maple, Hawaiian koa, spruce, flaming maple and ebony for the fret board. The shape of the top was noticeably imperfect which I thought added to its charm. The guitar had a ‘Fishman’ electronic pickup installed, and I knew the pickup alone was worth over $400 new.
“How much were you thinking of asking for it?” I asked, casually, as I checked for buzzing at the highest frets up the neck.
“I just want to get what I paid for it,” he said.
I handed the guitar to him as all potential buyers of instruments anywhere will do when they really want to hear what it sounds like. “Play something for me.”
Now my friend Ed could make a cigar box with one wire string sound great and
before he handed it back to me to try for myself, he recognized, like any good salesman would, that
my mind was already made up. I played it for a few minutes and as I tried a few chords he casually inserted; “I'd probably take 500 for it, as that's what I paid for it.”
I slowly nodded my head and pursed my lips together knowingly then walked over and picked up my chequebook.
“You'll be happy with it,” he said. “I just don't like it any more”.
“ Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said as I handed him the cheque.
This is an old ritual and like two old chess players in the park we had played
this gambit many times before. As my collection of ‘hand me down guitars’ has grown over the years I can thank my friend Ed for most of them. My favourite part of this game is that sooner or later Ed forgets how good a guitar he has sold me actually is. He will visit again years later, pick one up and play it for a while. I will take on a “oh that old thing” attitude and smile as his eyes light up while he dances with an old friend. He will sometimes say, “If you ever sell this guitar let me know. I’ll buy it off of you.”
To this day I have, on principle, never sold a guitar back to Ed.
I am afraid to. He would invariably get sick of it again and sell it to someone else.
He is constantly looking for that perfect guitar; the musical equivalent to the play: ‘Waiting for Gadot’ and in all the time I have known him, he has owned over a hundred guitars, amps and pedals.
After some months of playing my new instrument I noticed that there was some
buzzing now appearing near the 12th fret and concluded that the guitar needed a fret dressing to smooth all the frets to the same height. I contacted a guitar technician highly recommended by another friend of mine and asked him if he could do the work. He suggested that I get a fret replacement as some of the frets had worn down quite low. It is a standard procedure where the old frets are carefully taken out and replaced, much like the replacement of the break shoes of a car. Even guitars can wear out and usually this would cost around $250 and take a couple of weeks to complete. I agreed to the quote and dropped off the guitar at his workshop, noting that I would be doing a tour of Sweden in a couple of months and would definitely need it before then. He said that would be no problem and would call me when it was ready.
Now I can't remember exactly how many phone calls transpired in the months that followed but I can tell you that there were many. The first call was to tell me that the technician had some good news and some bad news. The good news was that the fret job was completed and it turned out fine. “What's the bad news?” I asked.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I had a bit of an accident on my workbench.
I had a wrench lying there and it marked your guitar.”
There was a long silence and I then asked how bad it was. “Well, it's quite obvious but I think I can take some wood from under the bridge and, as it is the same wood grain, I should be able to patch it in a way that you won't see it,” he said.
I was worried. “I think I'll come over and have a look at it,” I said. I drove over to his shop and he showed me my guitar. The gouge in the top was not as bad as I had imagined it to be. It was a gouge, however, and it was his fault so I listened calmly to what he had in mind to rectify the situation. He suggested that I take the guitar and use it on the tour and bring it back when I returned home. I agreed to this and when I returned from Europe I went back to his workshop with the guitar. He told me again how bad he felt and how he would fix the mark and re-varnish the body for me. I was excited about getting the guitar re-finished so I said, “make it so” like John Luke Pickard and I left the guitar with him again.
Some months went by before my next inquiry and when I called I was told that
the guitar was coming along nicely but the spray booth he was going to use to spray the guitar was not set up yet and that he had to wait to set up the room for it.
“No problem,” I said in my most reassuring voice. I didn't want to seem at all
impatient. I wanted him to do a good job so I told him that whenever he could get around to it was fine with me.
In retrospect I may have been a tad relaxed in this attitude but I did hear from
him again in 2 months. He called to tell me that he had another problem with the top sheet. When he had tried to sand it down, the rosette design around the sound hole had rubbed off rendering the whole top sheet unusable. “I'll have to replace the top sheet. I hope you don't mind but it will take a little longer.”
“No problem,” I said again. “As long as it gets done right.”
The next call regarded the struts of my guitar and how many of them would have to be replaced, as the original maker of the guitar was, as he put it, “inexperienced.”
“Fine,” I said “Whatever it takes, you do it.”
By the next call, the guitar tech was excited as the guitar was nearing completion. This time he informed me that the body of the guitar was ready but now the neck finish was wearing out in many places and would not match the newly varnished body so it would have to be sanded and varnished as well.
The reader has probably guessed my answer but there was a new urgency now detectable in my voice as I was soon to be teaching at the Hornby Island Blues Festival and needed the guitar for the workshop.
At last the day arrived when, low and behold, almost one year after I had given him the guitar to do a 2-week fret job, my guitar was ready. When I arrived to pick it up my friend was lovingly putting on the new set of strings I left with him. He looked like a true craftsman as he explained all the things he did to my guitar. The new top sheet and binding he had used were perfect and completely flawless. He had filled the small cracks in the back and the finish was like glass. He played the guitar for a while and for the first time I detected a hint of melancholy. I suspect he felt much as one would after preparing a favorite puppy from a new litter to be picked up by new owners.
The guitar was gorgeous and sounded so bright and clear that it was like owning a brand new instrument. In a way I couldn't help but feel bad. I’d written him a cheque for the fret job and now I took out a 100 dollar bill and handed it to him. “For the top sheet wood,” I said. “It's the least I can do.”
When I put the guitar back in its case it smelled of my friend’s little workshop. “Are you going to make any more guitars soon?” I said.
“That was my last one for a while,” he answered. “I think I'm going to switch to violins.”
To this day that guitar smells of that workshop and remains my favorite one.
As an epilogue, one only has to imagine the look on Ed’s face when I opened up the case and showed him the completely refurbished guitar that he had pulled out of his car over a year before. He was flabbergasted to put it mildly, and no, I didn’t sell it back to him.
“What are you up to, Ed?” I asked.
“I'm going to the music store to sell my guitar,” he said.
“Really,” I answered. Over the years I have slowly come to the realization that I am the music store he refers to.
At this point I have owned many of Ed’s cast offs. “Lemmie have a look.” I said.
He went to his car and brought in a steel string acoustic guitar in an old case that was supposedly hand-made in San Diego, California by an amateur guitar builder.
It had 5 different kinds of exotic woods including birds eye, maple, Hawaiian koa, spruce, flaming maple and ebony for the fret board. The shape of the top was noticeably imperfect which I thought added to its charm. The guitar had a ‘Fishman’ electronic pickup installed, and I knew the pickup alone was worth over $400 new.
“How much were you thinking of asking for it?” I asked, casually, as I checked for buzzing at the highest frets up the neck.
“I just want to get what I paid for it,” he said.
I handed the guitar to him as all potential buyers of instruments anywhere will do when they really want to hear what it sounds like. “Play something for me.”
Now my friend Ed could make a cigar box with one wire string sound great and
before he handed it back to me to try for myself, he recognized, like any good salesman would, that
my mind was already made up. I played it for a few minutes and as I tried a few chords he casually inserted; “I'd probably take 500 for it, as that's what I paid for it.”
I slowly nodded my head and pursed my lips together knowingly then walked over and picked up my chequebook.
“You'll be happy with it,” he said. “I just don't like it any more”.
“ Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said as I handed him the cheque.
This is an old ritual and like two old chess players in the park we had played
this gambit many times before. As my collection of ‘hand me down guitars’ has grown over the years I can thank my friend Ed for most of them. My favourite part of this game is that sooner or later Ed forgets how good a guitar he has sold me actually is. He will visit again years later, pick one up and play it for a while. I will take on a “oh that old thing” attitude and smile as his eyes light up while he dances with an old friend. He will sometimes say, “If you ever sell this guitar let me know. I’ll buy it off of you.”
To this day I have, on principle, never sold a guitar back to Ed.
I am afraid to. He would invariably get sick of it again and sell it to someone else.
He is constantly looking for that perfect guitar; the musical equivalent to the play: ‘Waiting for Gadot’ and in all the time I have known him, he has owned over a hundred guitars, amps and pedals.
After some months of playing my new instrument I noticed that there was some
buzzing now appearing near the 12th fret and concluded that the guitar needed a fret dressing to smooth all the frets to the same height. I contacted a guitar technician highly recommended by another friend of mine and asked him if he could do the work. He suggested that I get a fret replacement as some of the frets had worn down quite low. It is a standard procedure where the old frets are carefully taken out and replaced, much like the replacement of the break shoes of a car. Even guitars can wear out and usually this would cost around $250 and take a couple of weeks to complete. I agreed to the quote and dropped off the guitar at his workshop, noting that I would be doing a tour of Sweden in a couple of months and would definitely need it before then. He said that would be no problem and would call me when it was ready.
Now I can't remember exactly how many phone calls transpired in the months that followed but I can tell you that there were many. The first call was to tell me that the technician had some good news and some bad news. The good news was that the fret job was completed and it turned out fine. “What's the bad news?” I asked.
“Well,” he said slowly, “I had a bit of an accident on my workbench.
I had a wrench lying there and it marked your guitar.”
There was a long silence and I then asked how bad it was. “Well, it's quite obvious but I think I can take some wood from under the bridge and, as it is the same wood grain, I should be able to patch it in a way that you won't see it,” he said.
I was worried. “I think I'll come over and have a look at it,” I said. I drove over to his shop and he showed me my guitar. The gouge in the top was not as bad as I had imagined it to be. It was a gouge, however, and it was his fault so I listened calmly to what he had in mind to rectify the situation. He suggested that I take the guitar and use it on the tour and bring it back when I returned home. I agreed to this and when I returned from Europe I went back to his workshop with the guitar. He told me again how bad he felt and how he would fix the mark and re-varnish the body for me. I was excited about getting the guitar re-finished so I said, “make it so” like John Luke Pickard and I left the guitar with him again.
Some months went by before my next inquiry and when I called I was told that
the guitar was coming along nicely but the spray booth he was going to use to spray the guitar was not set up yet and that he had to wait to set up the room for it.
“No problem,” I said in my most reassuring voice. I didn't want to seem at all
impatient. I wanted him to do a good job so I told him that whenever he could get around to it was fine with me.
In retrospect I may have been a tad relaxed in this attitude but I did hear from
him again in 2 months. He called to tell me that he had another problem with the top sheet. When he had tried to sand it down, the rosette design around the sound hole had rubbed off rendering the whole top sheet unusable. “I'll have to replace the top sheet. I hope you don't mind but it will take a little longer.”
“No problem,” I said again. “As long as it gets done right.”
The next call regarded the struts of my guitar and how many of them would have to be replaced, as the original maker of the guitar was, as he put it, “inexperienced.”
“Fine,” I said “Whatever it takes, you do it.”
By the next call, the guitar tech was excited as the guitar was nearing completion. This time he informed me that the body of the guitar was ready but now the neck finish was wearing out in many places and would not match the newly varnished body so it would have to be sanded and varnished as well.
The reader has probably guessed my answer but there was a new urgency now detectable in my voice as I was soon to be teaching at the Hornby Island Blues Festival and needed the guitar for the workshop.
At last the day arrived when, low and behold, almost one year after I had given him the guitar to do a 2-week fret job, my guitar was ready. When I arrived to pick it up my friend was lovingly putting on the new set of strings I left with him. He looked like a true craftsman as he explained all the things he did to my guitar. The new top sheet and binding he had used were perfect and completely flawless. He had filled the small cracks in the back and the finish was like glass. He played the guitar for a while and for the first time I detected a hint of melancholy. I suspect he felt much as one would after preparing a favorite puppy from a new litter to be picked up by new owners.
The guitar was gorgeous and sounded so bright and clear that it was like owning a brand new instrument. In a way I couldn't help but feel bad. I’d written him a cheque for the fret job and now I took out a 100 dollar bill and handed it to him. “For the top sheet wood,” I said. “It's the least I can do.”
When I put the guitar back in its case it smelled of my friend’s little workshop. “Are you going to make any more guitars soon?” I said.
“That was my last one for a while,” he answered. “I think I'm going to switch to violins.”
To this day that guitar smells of that workshop and remains my favorite one.
As an epilogue, one only has to imagine the look on Ed’s face when I opened up the case and showed him the completely refurbished guitar that he had pulled out of his car over a year before. He was flabbergasted to put it mildly, and no, I didn’t sell it back to him.
Stay out of Hospitals - a person could get sick there!
Stay out of Hospitals: A Person Could Get Sick There!
When the pain of an advanced herniated disk compounds with the pain of the constipation produced from shut down of normal bodily functions caused by the drugs given to fight the back problem leading to a shutdown of urinary function to the point where you don’t feel you have to urinate but contain 1.5 liters of urine in the bladder… start swearing as loud as you can and call an ambulance! It’s going to be a long night!
After the operation I woke up in a strange planet… I looked up and the ceiling of the recovery room—a vast landing area for alien space ships. I was the only person in this huge room that normally housed 20 ships. They were gone at the moment, probably off to some space war with the landing pads looking all the same. I wanted to leave and join them to do my duty but someone was holding me down with a huge arm on my throat so I couldn’t leave to fight with them. I twist and struggle to free myself and I… I… wake up! A sudden breath of air like a swimmer from being 60 seconds underwater.
I had sleep apnea and every time I woke up conscious again with a new breath of air to regain my bearings in the room, another completely different dream would begin to pull me down, down again into the depths of countless dream worlds and I was defenseless to resist. I remained in this bizarre state for many hours longer than normal. The attending nurse could do little to help me except augmenting my air supply with fresh oxygen piped in through my nostrils.
When I was delivered to my room after the post operation period, I discovered I was connected to three plastic pipes and was being asked every 15 minutes: “On a scale of 1 to 10 how is your pain level?” This one sentence would always bring me back from whatever dream planet I had drifted to, as I had to think for the answer. I started with an 8 out of 10 and thankfully over the next few days I was able to lower the number to around the 3-4 level where it remains as I write this. I didn’t notice for a day or two that I no view and could see nothing of the sunny days or mountains out the windows.
Privacy is very important in a hospital as the rooms now are filled on an as needed basis and there were two ladies and two men in my room when I got there. It is interesting to see the stress fractures in the system we have known and been used to for many years.
Beside me was the classic “grumpy old man” whom grumbling and complaining were second nature to. He found nothing he liked in food, service, doctors, specialists or anything else that went on day or night. He treated the nurses like servants that should come often and stay long and put up with whatever he dished out. I was amazed at how patient he was.
He did however suddenly turn into a totally articulate angel when family arrived. After a cordial visit he would revert to his old grumpy self, calling the nurse to continue to make a fuss. He had his radio turned on full blast through his earphones 24 hours a day and this irritated me to no end. It was rather like hearing a mosquito in the tent when you’re camping that you can’t see while trying to sleep. To save money our government decided to hire the lowest bidder for cleaners on contract with the hospital. I had heard about this but only after seeing feces on a wall above the toilet paper rack of our bathroom, did I understand. After seeing it there for three days I quietly mentioned it to a nurse and she ended up cleaning it herself quoting the old phrase as she left: “If you want something done….”
When I was 15, I had a serious appendix operation and found myself on the same 7th floor where there was no one my age in the whole floor. After a week or so I started to find creative ways to occupy my time. I remember hating the food I was given with a passion. By this time I knew every inch of the east wing and decided to play a little trick on the kitchen staff in the basement. I made a make shift sign from surgical tape and on it I wrote: “PLEASE CANCEL ALL FOOD TO THE 7TH FLOOR—IT SUCKS” I placed the make-shift sign the inside of the dumb waiter that brings the trays to each floor and raced back to my room. That afternoon I sat in bed wondering if my prank had been discovered. The nurses didn’t say a thing so I knew I was in the clear.
At dinner time the cart with the trays came to my room and my tray plunked before me by someone in a kitchen outfit. Under the heating lid on the dinner plate, was my sign, complete with knife and fork, salt and pepper and a napkin.
I remembered this story when I looked at the dumb waiter on one of my walks and chuckled to myself as I walked by. All these years later it still hasn’t improved a bit. You can’t get comfortable and can’t move. The hours ahead become a time of contemplation. One of the nights after getting very sore from constant lying on my back, I was determined to roll over onto my left side un-assisted. I grabbed the rail on my left with my right arm and like a snail I proceeded to roll the to my left side in a smooth and not jerking way. It took over 15 minutes to finally get on my left side. With my arm stretched over the side of the rest to hold me in place I lay enjoying this new feeling and drifted off…
I woke up with a start—two hours later. It was 6:00 am and I was still holding on tight with my right arm to keep the position.
The Vancouver Canucks hadn’t made the playoffs in three years and it was the first game of the playoffs. At the end of the game the score was tied 4-4. The game went into overtime and I hung on like a loyal fan. The game went on to four periods of overtime with Vancouver winning 5-4 sometime the next morning.
A visit from friends and family was a special thing to look forward to. It was a link from this twilight zone of inactivity and little choices. It was such a relief to talk to someone you knew even for a short while. There was a limit though and after a while I would hit the wall so to speak and the conversation would start to get tiresome and the visitor always expertly perceived this and soon a polite exit would ensue. Having the back problem prevented me from doing a studio session that I was offered at studio downtown. The replacement I suggested was an old friend of mine and upon hearing of my situation took the time to stop by and announced himself by entering the room playing the harmonica! We caught up on each other’s lives and he thanked me for the studio session.
Lower the bed down at the legs up at the back arms together now… roll and sit up. Put feet into slippers and I’m up. I was walking again and it felt so strange! I had lain on my back for three weeks and I was weak and had lost the motor skills to navigate. Before the operation I looked like a pretzel. From that point on I walked and walked stopping to read the paperback in my pocket for a break.
When I finally could walk regularly and hobbled around with the allotted walker from physio, I would pass a room with one resident who played classical music constantly that put a smile on my face every time I walked by. I didn’t make a habit of making eye contact as I roamed the halls as I was concentrating on my lessons but it was nice to hear on each lap around the ward.
My opinion of doctors has swayed in the last years as I was reminded again of my previous incident in my youth when my doctor came into see me at the hospital after he had been paged from being on call. He had obviously been to a party of some kind because I could smell scotch on his breath and he slurred his vowels.
I later learned he had not done the operation so some great relief I can tell you. For this latest back problem, my doctor arrived at the hospital two days after the operation and asked when I was scheduled to go in. In all fairness, the specialist of whose care I was in at this point actually directly under did visit often, and was very good about all aspects of the post operation. He told me I could go home as soon as I could go up and down a flight of stairs and the next day after completing this task with the physiotherapist, I packed up my things and was immaturely asked if I would vacate my room for an incoming surgery patient. I was planning to get a ride home from Brenda who was at work until 4:00 pm and it was only 11:00 am. I said “no problem” and asked if I could take my plastic to the nurse’s station and ambled off slowly towards the day room where I rested in between laps of the ward in my stroller…
I’m back home now and I’m thinking of this experience and remembering those four days at the hospital that will someday soon allow me to walk again. I will remember the nurses who worked like a team and from my perspective did a great job of providing care and attention to everyone. I never saw one of them lose their cool. No matter what time of day or night they could be depended upon to help with even the simplest requests such as helping with rolling over in bed to get comfortable. In my opinion they are the angels of our time. They have chosen a life of helping to ease pain and suffering. In my opinion they should be honored and respected for their work and be told often that they change people’s lives on a daily basis in a positive way. The rest of us should strive to be so lucky.
I’m sitting on the couch reading a book on deep divers when there is a knock on the door and a large man walks in the kitchen with a huge bundle of helium balloons that float towards the ceiling. I am amazed and delighted as I laugh at the size of them and the funny captions on the sides. One of them even plays the song “Don’t Worry be Happy” when you tap it. Suddenly all the thoughts of the past slip away and I forget about the last few days. I now close the door to this ‘bump in the road’ I’ve encountered to face the future.
From this moment on I’m going to be optimistic in the surprises that the future will bring.
Walk on walk on…
About 10 days after the operation I started to feel pain in my leg again. My sciatic nerve was acting up again in much the same places that it did the first time. As the days went by, it worsened and it hurt to put weight on my leg. The limp returned. I couldn’t sleep and I guessed that I had been too active and had re-injured it.
I called the specialist to set up an appointment to see him and thankfully his receptionist heard the pain in my voice, and scheduled me in for that afternoon. In his office I couldn’t sit down for more than one minute before having to stand up and move from the intense pain. When I saw him, he did some tests on me and suggested that I check myself into Emergency, as I needed additional testing so he could see what was wrong with me.
The specialist ordered another CT scan and MRI so he could tell what was going on. Checking into emergency was not as easy as it sounded as I arrived to find 38 people in the ER and a long line waiting to see the Triage nurse. We stood silent, in pain, waiting for her to process one by one the sad lot that stood before her. The procedure to admit each person took 5 minutes just to key in the personal information into the computer before then proceeding to ask the problem. The problem would now be hand written on another form to be dropped off at the emergency door.
She would then do blood pressure, temperature and respiration checks as well. The patient would then be sent to the in patient teller to make sure payment streams were in order and then sent back to the main waiting area to sit and wait to be called. It took me almost 2 hours standing in line, afraid to loose my place knowing I should have been sitting down from the pain. After an hour in line I had tears in my eyes and couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t have a take a number system similar to various offices where many people cue on a regular basis. What primitive minded organizer was put in charge of setting up this Triage check-in. The one nurse being on her own was totally stressed out having to try to decide who’s next while a line of disheveled upset people couldn’t take their eyes off of her in fear of being overlooked. In my opinion I think there should be a minimum of two nurses in reception: One for handling the groups, and one for the individual checking in. One to focus on the input of information needed and the other to be like a liaison and be highly trained in people skills. I kept my cool and instead downed a couple of the Tylenols I had in my pocket without water.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change
(you don’t want to lose your place in line to go to the machine and get water and if you do, you better have change. Don’t take more than $5, as theft in hospitals is rampant. On my first visit someone had a walkman stolen)
When I finally got to the front of the cue, the nurse said, “Oh, Mr. Bennett, we have your fax right here with directions from your specialist.” Now, if one had just been in hospital for 4 days the week before and received a major operation, you would think that the record of one’s stay would be on file. Especially in this day and age of mega storage capability. But no, I had to waste a lot of time giving all the information again from scratch, have my blood tested, and re-explain where my pain was coming from, as if it was the very first time I was in there. I gave all of my details and was then sent to the cashier’s check in and then sent to sit in the holding area with many of the others who were waiting to be called. At no time had I been offered any kind of painkiller for my pain so I had a couple more Tylonol and sat.
An orderly finally called out my name and I requested a wheelchair, as it was a long way to walk. We went to the doctor’s area and I was given a bed to sit on hoping to get a painkiller for the pain but was immediately taken to get the CT scan. I was wheeled down the corridors of the hospital into a large room and asked to hop onto on a movable padded plank that slowly inched me through what looked like a small “Star gate” threshold that had a spinning mechanism within like someone doing the hoola-hoop around me. After about 5 minutes back and forth, I was given an injection of die though an intravenous needle and filled with a chemical that made me feel like I was having a bath and going to the bathroom in it at the same time. Another pass in the scanner and I was finished asked to hop back to my gurney and left in the hallway against a wall to be picked up. After a time I was transported back to my original room on the 7th floor and placed in the bed of the “Grumpy Old Man”, who had since changed locations. I immediately asked for a private room as it was partially covered on my medical plan. I was told there was one available but it needed to be cleaned and I would be moved as soon as the room became available. I checked in and was finally given a painkiller and relaxed for the first time all day. I didn’t even notice the series of proddings that I received over the next few hours from the nurses and student nurses. I was just relieved the pain was finally gone. I settled into the room and waited to be scheduled for the MRI test. I dozed off and woke up in the middle of the night in a room with three storing people surrounding me so I got up to see if I could change to my private room.
I explained to the first nurse I found that I had booked a private room paid for it with credit card and even left written instructions for TV to be transferred to it when it became available. “Oh we don’t have any private rooms on this floor. I’m sorry.”
I tried to feebly to complain but was too tired and instead asked for earplugs, pain killers and took my walker back to my room. The next morning I was taken for the MRI test. This machine was much larger than the first. This time the movable plank had a headrest that secured the head from movement. I climbed on, put some earplugs in my ears had my head strapped in with velcro straps and prepared for the loudest most claustrophobic hour I have yet endured. Once on the movable platform, I entered a narrow humming tube the full length of my body with little room to spare. It was much easier with my eyes closed but when the test started, it sounded like an organ made of different pitched jackhammers. The machine pounded out its strange symphony as it scanned my body in various combinations: half the tests without the dye and half of them with. When it was over, I was exhausted and found myself again in the hallway to be picked up by another orderly and taken back to my new room. It wasn’t the one I was shown when I arrived but the “rubber room” that had hooks on the walls to hold up thick padding for clients that could endanger themselves. It had no air conditioning and the windows had been locked shut. For the $195 additional price that I was paying for the room I was not impressed but kept my opinion to myself happy for the quiet, its one benefit.
As the windows were locked, and there was no air I asked the maintenance department to open one of them for me when he was replacing a blood pressure tester in my room. He said he would return later and open it for me but he never did. I called my son and asked him to bring a set of screwdrivers to the hospital.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver
My specialist came in that night and told me that he had looked at the CT and MRI and a further operation would be needed. He said he could do it on Thursday and that that I didn’t have to make up mind right away, he would be back in the morning. It was interesting that he never once suggested that I go ahead with the operation but instead gave me the pros and cons with no opinion whatsoever. It was totally up to me. I thought about my alternatives and being in pain was not one of them. I could wait until the pain in my back might settle down on its own but then in 3 months from now I might end up at the same crossroads that I face now. I decided to go through with it and signed the papers the next morning. The second operation was set for Thursday at 7:30AM and the night before I lay in bed and the more I thought about it the more I became worried. Going under general anesthetic twice in two weeks can’t be good for you. When they came for me in the morning, I wasn’t the bubbly “give me your best shot” self but quite nervous and subdued. When `I got to the operating room I felt like someone who is about to parachute out of a plane for the second time. It’s a different mindset as you know what it’s going to feel like and you know the risks involved.
I had been experiencing a pain in my right ear and had been telling the nurses since I got there to no avail. Believe it or not it is actually not as easy to find a doctor in hospital as one might think. As I was given the general injection, I told the anesthetist that was having an ear problem and he said not to worry about it, as I wouldn’t feel a thing ‘til I woke up anyway…
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver, eardrops
When I awoke it was with one eye and I looked around the room and could see others recovering and knew I would be OK.
Back to my room, back to the narcotics for the pain back to the constipation that goes with it. I mentioned the fact that I needed some laxatives if I was taking Morphine and it was another request that never materialized.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver, eardrops, laxatives
Visitors were so nice to see in the days after the operation. They are the lifelines to reality and I appreciated every one that visited. It’s funny how everyone has a relative or a friend that has had a back problem. There are a lot of people that have had back operations walking around; they’re perfectly fine now and I feel a little closer to them all now. Like the first operation I was encouraged to walk as soon as I could and on one of my early walks I grabbed the mobile intravenous machine that was dripping saline into me and started to walk to the bathroom. As it was plugged into the wall I called for a nurse to unplug it so I cold walk with it. In slow motion I looked down to see a mouse crawl up my slipper and try to climb my leg before it hopped off and scurried away. I was then on my way down from having screamed, jumping a foot yanking the intravenous tube out of my arm. The nurse was horrified and helped me to get the tube back in my arm and settle me down. I had to get out of there and sit in the hallway as they tried to find the critter in the room. There was no sign of him and they offered me a room in a ward with 3 others if I wanted to move. I didn’t feel like changing rooms as I was getting used to being able to sleep at night. I went for a walk to the day room and sat and read a magazine to settle down. I went back to the room and went to sleep.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver, eardrops, laxatives, mousetraps
The next morning I was greeted by one of the nurses with a thick Belfast accent: “Mr. Bennett, I understand that you have been keeping a pet in your room. I needn’t remind you that this is against hospital policy.”
Humour can work wonders and with this comment we had a good laugh and I released a lot of the stress that had building like a dark cloud. I felt really refreshed and the mouse incident quickly lost its importance. Later the head of the house-cleaning department came to my room to apologize and tell me that the exterminators would be up to the 7th floor shortly. Later that day I was told stories of mice being in the hospital for years and getting worse. They had been known to fall from the air vents above and resided in the staffroom where the lunches brought from home were kept. One of the nurses informed me that she had spent a fortune eating at all the surrounding restaurants because of the presence of mice in the staff room.
Later that day there was a code yellow in the hospital, which meant that there was a serious accident with incoming patients. I found out later that a speeding car leaving the road had hit three girls from New Zealand who had been waiting at a bus stop in Lynn Valley. They had been brought to the hospital and were in intensive care. It made me think how lucky I was to be getting out of hospital soon.
My specialist came in to check on me and gave me the final OK to go home and a prescription for painkillers when I got home and said he finally rounded up an ear examination tool, which he used. “I don’t really do ears,” he said. “You will have to go and see your doctor when you get home or go to a clinic if it gets too bad.”
A nurse soon approached me and explained that Vancouver General was having an outbreak of Norwalk virus, and that they would be shipping patients to other hospitals soon. She said if I would consider leaving early, they could sure use my bed. This was the day after my operation.
I got dressed, packed up my belongings and left the window open for the next poor soul. As I was wheeled passed the nurse’s station I waved goodbye to my nurse but she couldn’t see me. She was having a serious conversation on the phone with the police as it turned out. While escaping for lunch at the Bread Garden, she had had her wallet stolen and the perpetrators had already gone to London Drugs for a buying spree on her credit card.
Walk on walk on…
When the pain of an advanced herniated disk compounds with the pain of the constipation produced from shut down of normal bodily functions caused by the drugs given to fight the back problem leading to a shutdown of urinary function to the point where you don’t feel you have to urinate but contain 1.5 liters of urine in the bladder… start swearing as loud as you can and call an ambulance! It’s going to be a long night!
After the operation I woke up in a strange planet… I looked up and the ceiling of the recovery room—a vast landing area for alien space ships. I was the only person in this huge room that normally housed 20 ships. They were gone at the moment, probably off to some space war with the landing pads looking all the same. I wanted to leave and join them to do my duty but someone was holding me down with a huge arm on my throat so I couldn’t leave to fight with them. I twist and struggle to free myself and I… I… wake up! A sudden breath of air like a swimmer from being 60 seconds underwater.
I had sleep apnea and every time I woke up conscious again with a new breath of air to regain my bearings in the room, another completely different dream would begin to pull me down, down again into the depths of countless dream worlds and I was defenseless to resist. I remained in this bizarre state for many hours longer than normal. The attending nurse could do little to help me except augmenting my air supply with fresh oxygen piped in through my nostrils.
When I was delivered to my room after the post operation period, I discovered I was connected to three plastic pipes and was being asked every 15 minutes: “On a scale of 1 to 10 how is your pain level?” This one sentence would always bring me back from whatever dream planet I had drifted to, as I had to think for the answer. I started with an 8 out of 10 and thankfully over the next few days I was able to lower the number to around the 3-4 level where it remains as I write this. I didn’t notice for a day or two that I no view and could see nothing of the sunny days or mountains out the windows.
Privacy is very important in a hospital as the rooms now are filled on an as needed basis and there were two ladies and two men in my room when I got there. It is interesting to see the stress fractures in the system we have known and been used to for many years.
Beside me was the classic “grumpy old man” whom grumbling and complaining were second nature to. He found nothing he liked in food, service, doctors, specialists or anything else that went on day or night. He treated the nurses like servants that should come often and stay long and put up with whatever he dished out. I was amazed at how patient he was.
He did however suddenly turn into a totally articulate angel when family arrived. After a cordial visit he would revert to his old grumpy self, calling the nurse to continue to make a fuss. He had his radio turned on full blast through his earphones 24 hours a day and this irritated me to no end. It was rather like hearing a mosquito in the tent when you’re camping that you can’t see while trying to sleep. To save money our government decided to hire the lowest bidder for cleaners on contract with the hospital. I had heard about this but only after seeing feces on a wall above the toilet paper rack of our bathroom, did I understand. After seeing it there for three days I quietly mentioned it to a nurse and she ended up cleaning it herself quoting the old phrase as she left: “If you want something done….”
When I was 15, I had a serious appendix operation and found myself on the same 7th floor where there was no one my age in the whole floor. After a week or so I started to find creative ways to occupy my time. I remember hating the food I was given with a passion. By this time I knew every inch of the east wing and decided to play a little trick on the kitchen staff in the basement. I made a make shift sign from surgical tape and on it I wrote: “PLEASE CANCEL ALL FOOD TO THE 7TH FLOOR—IT SUCKS” I placed the make-shift sign the inside of the dumb waiter that brings the trays to each floor and raced back to my room. That afternoon I sat in bed wondering if my prank had been discovered. The nurses didn’t say a thing so I knew I was in the clear.
At dinner time the cart with the trays came to my room and my tray plunked before me by someone in a kitchen outfit. Under the heating lid on the dinner plate, was my sign, complete with knife and fork, salt and pepper and a napkin.
I remembered this story when I looked at the dumb waiter on one of my walks and chuckled to myself as I walked by. All these years later it still hasn’t improved a bit. You can’t get comfortable and can’t move. The hours ahead become a time of contemplation. One of the nights after getting very sore from constant lying on my back, I was determined to roll over onto my left side un-assisted. I grabbed the rail on my left with my right arm and like a snail I proceeded to roll the to my left side in a smooth and not jerking way. It took over 15 minutes to finally get on my left side. With my arm stretched over the side of the rest to hold me in place I lay enjoying this new feeling and drifted off…
I woke up with a start—two hours later. It was 6:00 am and I was still holding on tight with my right arm to keep the position.
The Vancouver Canucks hadn’t made the playoffs in three years and it was the first game of the playoffs. At the end of the game the score was tied 4-4. The game went into overtime and I hung on like a loyal fan. The game went on to four periods of overtime with Vancouver winning 5-4 sometime the next morning.
A visit from friends and family was a special thing to look forward to. It was a link from this twilight zone of inactivity and little choices. It was such a relief to talk to someone you knew even for a short while. There was a limit though and after a while I would hit the wall so to speak and the conversation would start to get tiresome and the visitor always expertly perceived this and soon a polite exit would ensue. Having the back problem prevented me from doing a studio session that I was offered at studio downtown. The replacement I suggested was an old friend of mine and upon hearing of my situation took the time to stop by and announced himself by entering the room playing the harmonica! We caught up on each other’s lives and he thanked me for the studio session.
Lower the bed down at the legs up at the back arms together now… roll and sit up. Put feet into slippers and I’m up. I was walking again and it felt so strange! I had lain on my back for three weeks and I was weak and had lost the motor skills to navigate. Before the operation I looked like a pretzel. From that point on I walked and walked stopping to read the paperback in my pocket for a break.
When I finally could walk regularly and hobbled around with the allotted walker from physio, I would pass a room with one resident who played classical music constantly that put a smile on my face every time I walked by. I didn’t make a habit of making eye contact as I roamed the halls as I was concentrating on my lessons but it was nice to hear on each lap around the ward.
My opinion of doctors has swayed in the last years as I was reminded again of my previous incident in my youth when my doctor came into see me at the hospital after he had been paged from being on call. He had obviously been to a party of some kind because I could smell scotch on his breath and he slurred his vowels.
I later learned he had not done the operation so some great relief I can tell you. For this latest back problem, my doctor arrived at the hospital two days after the operation and asked when I was scheduled to go in. In all fairness, the specialist of whose care I was in at this point actually directly under did visit often, and was very good about all aspects of the post operation. He told me I could go home as soon as I could go up and down a flight of stairs and the next day after completing this task with the physiotherapist, I packed up my things and was immaturely asked if I would vacate my room for an incoming surgery patient. I was planning to get a ride home from Brenda who was at work until 4:00 pm and it was only 11:00 am. I said “no problem” and asked if I could take my plastic to the nurse’s station and ambled off slowly towards the day room where I rested in between laps of the ward in my stroller…
I’m back home now and I’m thinking of this experience and remembering those four days at the hospital that will someday soon allow me to walk again. I will remember the nurses who worked like a team and from my perspective did a great job of providing care and attention to everyone. I never saw one of them lose their cool. No matter what time of day or night they could be depended upon to help with even the simplest requests such as helping with rolling over in bed to get comfortable. In my opinion they are the angels of our time. They have chosen a life of helping to ease pain and suffering. In my opinion they should be honored and respected for their work and be told often that they change people’s lives on a daily basis in a positive way. The rest of us should strive to be so lucky.
I’m sitting on the couch reading a book on deep divers when there is a knock on the door and a large man walks in the kitchen with a huge bundle of helium balloons that float towards the ceiling. I am amazed and delighted as I laugh at the size of them and the funny captions on the sides. One of them even plays the song “Don’t Worry be Happy” when you tap it. Suddenly all the thoughts of the past slip away and I forget about the last few days. I now close the door to this ‘bump in the road’ I’ve encountered to face the future.
From this moment on I’m going to be optimistic in the surprises that the future will bring.
Walk on walk on…
About 10 days after the operation I started to feel pain in my leg again. My sciatic nerve was acting up again in much the same places that it did the first time. As the days went by, it worsened and it hurt to put weight on my leg. The limp returned. I couldn’t sleep and I guessed that I had been too active and had re-injured it.
I called the specialist to set up an appointment to see him and thankfully his receptionist heard the pain in my voice, and scheduled me in for that afternoon. In his office I couldn’t sit down for more than one minute before having to stand up and move from the intense pain. When I saw him, he did some tests on me and suggested that I check myself into Emergency, as I needed additional testing so he could see what was wrong with me.
The specialist ordered another CT scan and MRI so he could tell what was going on. Checking into emergency was not as easy as it sounded as I arrived to find 38 people in the ER and a long line waiting to see the Triage nurse. We stood silent, in pain, waiting for her to process one by one the sad lot that stood before her. The procedure to admit each person took 5 minutes just to key in the personal information into the computer before then proceeding to ask the problem. The problem would now be hand written on another form to be dropped off at the emergency door.
She would then do blood pressure, temperature and respiration checks as well. The patient would then be sent to the in patient teller to make sure payment streams were in order and then sent back to the main waiting area to sit and wait to be called. It took me almost 2 hours standing in line, afraid to loose my place knowing I should have been sitting down from the pain. After an hour in line I had tears in my eyes and couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t have a take a number system similar to various offices where many people cue on a regular basis. What primitive minded organizer was put in charge of setting up this Triage check-in. The one nurse being on her own was totally stressed out having to try to decide who’s next while a line of disheveled upset people couldn’t take their eyes off of her in fear of being overlooked. In my opinion I think there should be a minimum of two nurses in reception: One for handling the groups, and one for the individual checking in. One to focus on the input of information needed and the other to be like a liaison and be highly trained in people skills. I kept my cool and instead downed a couple of the Tylenols I had in my pocket without water.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change
(you don’t want to lose your place in line to go to the machine and get water and if you do, you better have change. Don’t take more than $5, as theft in hospitals is rampant. On my first visit someone had a walkman stolen)
When I finally got to the front of the cue, the nurse said, “Oh, Mr. Bennett, we have your fax right here with directions from your specialist.” Now, if one had just been in hospital for 4 days the week before and received a major operation, you would think that the record of one’s stay would be on file. Especially in this day and age of mega storage capability. But no, I had to waste a lot of time giving all the information again from scratch, have my blood tested, and re-explain where my pain was coming from, as if it was the very first time I was in there. I gave all of my details and was then sent to the cashier’s check in and then sent to sit in the holding area with many of the others who were waiting to be called. At no time had I been offered any kind of painkiller for my pain so I had a couple more Tylonol and sat.
An orderly finally called out my name and I requested a wheelchair, as it was a long way to walk. We went to the doctor’s area and I was given a bed to sit on hoping to get a painkiller for the pain but was immediately taken to get the CT scan. I was wheeled down the corridors of the hospital into a large room and asked to hop onto on a movable padded plank that slowly inched me through what looked like a small “Star gate” threshold that had a spinning mechanism within like someone doing the hoola-hoop around me. After about 5 minutes back and forth, I was given an injection of die though an intravenous needle and filled with a chemical that made me feel like I was having a bath and going to the bathroom in it at the same time. Another pass in the scanner and I was finished asked to hop back to my gurney and left in the hallway against a wall to be picked up. After a time I was transported back to my original room on the 7th floor and placed in the bed of the “Grumpy Old Man”, who had since changed locations. I immediately asked for a private room as it was partially covered on my medical plan. I was told there was one available but it needed to be cleaned and I would be moved as soon as the room became available. I checked in and was finally given a painkiller and relaxed for the first time all day. I didn’t even notice the series of proddings that I received over the next few hours from the nurses and student nurses. I was just relieved the pain was finally gone. I settled into the room and waited to be scheduled for the MRI test. I dozed off and woke up in the middle of the night in a room with three storing people surrounding me so I got up to see if I could change to my private room.
I explained to the first nurse I found that I had booked a private room paid for it with credit card and even left written instructions for TV to be transferred to it when it became available. “Oh we don’t have any private rooms on this floor. I’m sorry.”
I tried to feebly to complain but was too tired and instead asked for earplugs, pain killers and took my walker back to my room. The next morning I was taken for the MRI test. This machine was much larger than the first. This time the movable plank had a headrest that secured the head from movement. I climbed on, put some earplugs in my ears had my head strapped in with velcro straps and prepared for the loudest most claustrophobic hour I have yet endured. Once on the movable platform, I entered a narrow humming tube the full length of my body with little room to spare. It was much easier with my eyes closed but when the test started, it sounded like an organ made of different pitched jackhammers. The machine pounded out its strange symphony as it scanned my body in various combinations: half the tests without the dye and half of them with. When it was over, I was exhausted and found myself again in the hallway to be picked up by another orderly and taken back to my new room. It wasn’t the one I was shown when I arrived but the “rubber room” that had hooks on the walls to hold up thick padding for clients that could endanger themselves. It had no air conditioning and the windows had been locked shut. For the $195 additional price that I was paying for the room I was not impressed but kept my opinion to myself happy for the quiet, its one benefit.
As the windows were locked, and there was no air I asked the maintenance department to open one of them for me when he was replacing a blood pressure tester in my room. He said he would return later and open it for me but he never did. I called my son and asked him to bring a set of screwdrivers to the hospital.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver
My specialist came in that night and told me that he had looked at the CT and MRI and a further operation would be needed. He said he could do it on Thursday and that that I didn’t have to make up mind right away, he would be back in the morning. It was interesting that he never once suggested that I go ahead with the operation but instead gave me the pros and cons with no opinion whatsoever. It was totally up to me. I thought about my alternatives and being in pain was not one of them. I could wait until the pain in my back might settle down on its own but then in 3 months from now I might end up at the same crossroads that I face now. I decided to go through with it and signed the papers the next morning. The second operation was set for Thursday at 7:30AM and the night before I lay in bed and the more I thought about it the more I became worried. Going under general anesthetic twice in two weeks can’t be good for you. When they came for me in the morning, I wasn’t the bubbly “give me your best shot” self but quite nervous and subdued. When `I got to the operating room I felt like someone who is about to parachute out of a plane for the second time. It’s a different mindset as you know what it’s going to feel like and you know the risks involved.
I had been experiencing a pain in my right ear and had been telling the nurses since I got there to no avail. Believe it or not it is actually not as easy to find a doctor in hospital as one might think. As I was given the general injection, I told the anesthetist that was having an ear problem and he said not to worry about it, as I wouldn’t feel a thing ‘til I woke up anyway…
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver, eardrops
When I awoke it was with one eye and I looked around the room and could see others recovering and knew I would be OK.
Back to my room, back to the narcotics for the pain back to the constipation that goes with it. I mentioned the fact that I needed some laxatives if I was taking Morphine and it was another request that never materialized.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver, eardrops, laxatives
Visitors were so nice to see in the days after the operation. They are the lifelines to reality and I appreciated every one that visited. It’s funny how everyone has a relative or a friend that has had a back problem. There are a lot of people that have had back operations walking around; they’re perfectly fine now and I feel a little closer to them all now. Like the first operation I was encouraged to walk as soon as I could and on one of my early walks I grabbed the mobile intravenous machine that was dripping saline into me and started to walk to the bathroom. As it was plugged into the wall I called for a nurse to unplug it so I cold walk with it. In slow motion I looked down to see a mouse crawl up my slipper and try to climb my leg before it hopped off and scurried away. I was then on my way down from having screamed, jumping a foot yanking the intravenous tube out of my arm. The nurse was horrified and helped me to get the tube back in my arm and settle me down. I had to get out of there and sit in the hallway as they tried to find the critter in the room. There was no sign of him and they offered me a room in a ward with 3 others if I wanted to move. I didn’t feel like changing rooms as I was getting used to being able to sleep at night. I went for a walk to the day room and sat and read a magazine to settle down. I went back to the room and went to sleep.
Hospital Kit: painkillers, water, change, earplugs, multidriver, eardrops, laxatives, mousetraps
The next morning I was greeted by one of the nurses with a thick Belfast accent: “Mr. Bennett, I understand that you have been keeping a pet in your room. I needn’t remind you that this is against hospital policy.”
Humour can work wonders and with this comment we had a good laugh and I released a lot of the stress that had building like a dark cloud. I felt really refreshed and the mouse incident quickly lost its importance. Later the head of the house-cleaning department came to my room to apologize and tell me that the exterminators would be up to the 7th floor shortly. Later that day I was told stories of mice being in the hospital for years and getting worse. They had been known to fall from the air vents above and resided in the staffroom where the lunches brought from home were kept. One of the nurses informed me that she had spent a fortune eating at all the surrounding restaurants because of the presence of mice in the staff room.
Later that day there was a code yellow in the hospital, which meant that there was a serious accident with incoming patients. I found out later that a speeding car leaving the road had hit three girls from New Zealand who had been waiting at a bus stop in Lynn Valley. They had been brought to the hospital and were in intensive care. It made me think how lucky I was to be getting out of hospital soon.
My specialist came in to check on me and gave me the final OK to go home and a prescription for painkillers when I got home and said he finally rounded up an ear examination tool, which he used. “I don’t really do ears,” he said. “You will have to go and see your doctor when you get home or go to a clinic if it gets too bad.”
A nurse soon approached me and explained that Vancouver General was having an outbreak of Norwalk virus, and that they would be shipping patients to other hospitals soon. She said if I would consider leaving early, they could sure use my bed. This was the day after my operation.
I got dressed, packed up my belongings and left the window open for the next poor soul. As I was wheeled passed the nurse’s station I waved goodbye to my nurse but she couldn’t see me. She was having a serious conversation on the phone with the police as it turned out. While escaping for lunch at the Bread Garden, she had had her wallet stolen and the perpetrators had already gone to London Drugs for a buying spree on her credit card.
Walk on walk on…
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Queen Charlotte Islands Tour
Performers: Keith Bennett & Ed Mohoric
Day One
The flight from the Vancouver airport was fantastic as we followed the Sunshine Coast past Desolation Sound and beyond. We were on a small Dash 8 carrying around forty people and the trip took 90 minutes. We landed in Sandspit, were met by Pat from the arts council and were ushered to a waiting school bus for a 23km ride to the ferry that would take us to Charlotte City.
The coastline here is etched from stone and seems to have a weathered pine or two on every rock. There are so many shallow islands that navigating here without good charts would be the peril of any boater. The last time I was in the Charlottes it rained the whole time and to now see this coast in the afternoon sun was breathtaking.
On the 20-minute ferry to Charlotte City we saw a fishing barge being towed by a tugboat. It is a complete floating hotel for fisherman with rooms and a huge dining room, kitchen and bar. They were probably towing it towards quieter waters in Prince Rupert for the winter. The bus dropped us off at the post office where our contact for the tour works.
Day Two
Using a car that was loaned to us for the day, I picked up Ed from where he was staying. We headed off towards the town of Tlell. The first stop on our National Geographic adventure was Ernie Burnett’s woodworking shop where we were given a tour of his studio. He did fine freehand carving on boxes and fine furniture. In the Charlottes the quality of wood available to wood carvers and builders is amazing. As I do a little wood turning myself as a hobby, I am aware of the fine-grained wood preferred by woodworkers. I asked Ernie if he might have a scrap of this excellent yellow cedar that I could buy off of him to try on my little lathe at home. He walked me to a shed stacked to the roof with it and handed me a gorgeous clear plank, 3" thick by 14" wide by 12" long and said, “Will this do?” My mouth dropped and I said "Wow! This is beautiful. How much do you want for it?” He said “Oh, you can just have it. This is my fire wood pile.”
We then stopped at the shore and took a walk on an amazing beach that drew your eyes beyond the waves to the horizon. It is one of the vastest beaches I can remember seeing and the warm October sun brightened the already colorful rocks. There is a major problem with erosion here, with the winter storms eating away at the sandy coastline. Many stretches of road have had to be diverted and re-paved farther inland as the sea eats into the shores. In the winter there are many power shortages from the sea-loosened trees being blown back into the land by the powerful storm winds, and then falling onto the power lines.
Our next stop was to take a hike along Anvil trail. This is by far the most magical moss-covered trail I have ever seen. It is so infrequently used that you are indeed walking in the moss. It was a soft, meandering thread through many different and changing forest environments, from dense underbrush that you couldn’t see through to Robin Hood-like wide-open moss and fern-filled meadows. It is well marked and leads to a walk along the Tlell river with salmon jumping and splashing every 10 seconds.
Back on the highway we stop at the famous Funk It! Shop for a quick look. I found a great little book entitled “How to Mow a Lawn” which I thought I would give to my son as a mild hint. Ed and I began talking to Dawn, the owner, and told her why we were in the islands and that we were performing on the weekend. “Can you teach me to play the stand up bass?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. “No problem. I’ll trade you a lesson for that little “How to Mow the Lawn” book. Five minutes later Ed and I were doing a tandem lesson on the 12 bar blues for stand up bass. Her instrument was upstairs above the shop in their living room, which had, in my mind, one of the finest million-dollar views I had ever seen. We gave her some ideas on what to do to play the notes for the blues and then wrote them out for her to practice along with later. She was delighted to practice what she’d learned. We said our goodbyes and headed off again.
The next stop was Spirit Lake Walk, which looked innocent enough and was touted to be wheelchair accessible. It took us about 1 km on this trail to begin wondering what kind of all-terrain wheelchairs they must make here. It went straight up a mountain for about 25 minutes!
Just before we got to the top, the only people we were to see on either of the trails were two women jogging, and they ran past us like we were standing still. We asked them about which way we should go when we reached the top and they told us that the trail went around the lake and either direction would work. The last thing they said, with a grin, was “watch out for the bears.”
It was another nice walk around a lake that was snarled with mossy snags and had many islands of rotting trees and sun bleached wood. Around the back of the lake there were some long boardwalks that had been built above the marshes.
Our next stop along the highway was the famous balancing rock, untouched by the winter storms. We took some photos and headed back as the afternoon sun lowered in the sky, making the rolling surf look like cotton candy as waves broke far out to sea and rolled slowly into the shore.
We got back to the house and were treated to a fantastic meal of smoked salmon, baked salmon, halibut and rockfish. After dinner I drove Ed to his billet’s home and was asked to record two songs for a cd by Wendy Watts, a very talented local singer and songwriter.
The first concert was in Masset, and driving there I stopped counting grazing deer when I reached 50. We performed two sets; the first was original pieces from our Tin Sandwich cd, and the second half was a mixture of classic blues songs that I played guitar and sang to as well. We had a great reception there and were told that the turnout was good.
The next night we performed in Skedegate and received an equally good reception. There were close to 60 people there and compared to the population, that was a great turnout. There is a special energy in the Charlottes and the audience, and I think the performance itself reflected that.
The next day we finished packing and said our goodbyes to all the great people that had helped with our stay. We were truly blessed to have been able to visit such a spectacular place and meet such wonderful people. When we left we thought only one thing: When is next time…?
Day One
The flight from the Vancouver airport was fantastic as we followed the Sunshine Coast past Desolation Sound and beyond. We were on a small Dash 8 carrying around forty people and the trip took 90 minutes. We landed in Sandspit, were met by Pat from the arts council and were ushered to a waiting school bus for a 23km ride to the ferry that would take us to Charlotte City.
The coastline here is etched from stone and seems to have a weathered pine or two on every rock. There are so many shallow islands that navigating here without good charts would be the peril of any boater. The last time I was in the Charlottes it rained the whole time and to now see this coast in the afternoon sun was breathtaking.
On the 20-minute ferry to Charlotte City we saw a fishing barge being towed by a tugboat. It is a complete floating hotel for fisherman with rooms and a huge dining room, kitchen and bar. They were probably towing it towards quieter waters in Prince Rupert for the winter. The bus dropped us off at the post office where our contact for the tour works.
Day Two
Using a car that was loaned to us for the day, I picked up Ed from where he was staying. We headed off towards the town of Tlell. The first stop on our National Geographic adventure was Ernie Burnett’s woodworking shop where we were given a tour of his studio. He did fine freehand carving on boxes and fine furniture. In the Charlottes the quality of wood available to wood carvers and builders is amazing. As I do a little wood turning myself as a hobby, I am aware of the fine-grained wood preferred by woodworkers. I asked Ernie if he might have a scrap of this excellent yellow cedar that I could buy off of him to try on my little lathe at home. He walked me to a shed stacked to the roof with it and handed me a gorgeous clear plank, 3" thick by 14" wide by 12" long and said, “Will this do?” My mouth dropped and I said "Wow! This is beautiful. How much do you want for it?” He said “Oh, you can just have it. This is my fire wood pile.”
We then stopped at the shore and took a walk on an amazing beach that drew your eyes beyond the waves to the horizon. It is one of the vastest beaches I can remember seeing and the warm October sun brightened the already colorful rocks. There is a major problem with erosion here, with the winter storms eating away at the sandy coastline. Many stretches of road have had to be diverted and re-paved farther inland as the sea eats into the shores. In the winter there are many power shortages from the sea-loosened trees being blown back into the land by the powerful storm winds, and then falling onto the power lines.
Our next stop was to take a hike along Anvil trail. This is by far the most magical moss-covered trail I have ever seen. It is so infrequently used that you are indeed walking in the moss. It was a soft, meandering thread through many different and changing forest environments, from dense underbrush that you couldn’t see through to Robin Hood-like wide-open moss and fern-filled meadows. It is well marked and leads to a walk along the Tlell river with salmon jumping and splashing every 10 seconds.
Back on the highway we stop at the famous Funk It! Shop for a quick look. I found a great little book entitled “How to Mow a Lawn” which I thought I would give to my son as a mild hint. Ed and I began talking to Dawn, the owner, and told her why we were in the islands and that we were performing on the weekend. “Can you teach me to play the stand up bass?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. “No problem. I’ll trade you a lesson for that little “How to Mow the Lawn” book. Five minutes later Ed and I were doing a tandem lesson on the 12 bar blues for stand up bass. Her instrument was upstairs above the shop in their living room, which had, in my mind, one of the finest million-dollar views I had ever seen. We gave her some ideas on what to do to play the notes for the blues and then wrote them out for her to practice along with later. She was delighted to practice what she’d learned. We said our goodbyes and headed off again.
The next stop was Spirit Lake Walk, which looked innocent enough and was touted to be wheelchair accessible. It took us about 1 km on this trail to begin wondering what kind of all-terrain wheelchairs they must make here. It went straight up a mountain for about 25 minutes!
Just before we got to the top, the only people we were to see on either of the trails were two women jogging, and they ran past us like we were standing still. We asked them about which way we should go when we reached the top and they told us that the trail went around the lake and either direction would work. The last thing they said, with a grin, was “watch out for the bears.”
It was another nice walk around a lake that was snarled with mossy snags and had many islands of rotting trees and sun bleached wood. Around the back of the lake there were some long boardwalks that had been built above the marshes.
Our next stop along the highway was the famous balancing rock, untouched by the winter storms. We took some photos and headed back as the afternoon sun lowered in the sky, making the rolling surf look like cotton candy as waves broke far out to sea and rolled slowly into the shore.
We got back to the house and were treated to a fantastic meal of smoked salmon, baked salmon, halibut and rockfish. After dinner I drove Ed to his billet’s home and was asked to record two songs for a cd by Wendy Watts, a very talented local singer and songwriter.
The first concert was in Masset, and driving there I stopped counting grazing deer when I reached 50. We performed two sets; the first was original pieces from our Tin Sandwich cd, and the second half was a mixture of classic blues songs that I played guitar and sang to as well. We had a great reception there and were told that the turnout was good.
The next night we performed in Skedegate and received an equally good reception. There were close to 60 people there and compared to the population, that was a great turnout. There is a special energy in the Charlottes and the audience, and I think the performance itself reflected that.
The next day we finished packing and said our goodbyes to all the great people that had helped with our stay. We were truly blessed to have been able to visit such a spectacular place and meet such wonderful people. When we left we thought only one thing: When is next time…?
The Streaking Gorilla
George Harrison and Ravi Shankar were booked to perform in Vancouver. The crowd had arrived and sat quietly in the seats of the Pacific Coliseum, a room famous for hockey and bad-sounding concerts. I’m sure the organizers had hoped this one would be different.
Half an hour after the advertised start time, after relentless clapping and chants of “why are we waiting” from the restless crowd, it was announced that the concert had been cancelled. This must be the most dreaded announcement by every promoter. Frustrated people were milling around on the concrete floor of the Coliseum. Everyone was disappointed and most filed out in silence after the announcement.
For many years, on many different stages and on many different occasions, I have played harmonica on the breaks for bands. I would typically ask the band beforehand if I could ‘sit in’ with them and occasionally they would let me. Most often, though, they would decline the offer. Harmonica players have a reputation for being ‘song wreckers’ because so many of them do not bother to learn even the bare essentials of the instrument they play. They do, however, have the craving to perform with a band and many are not shy to try.
On many occasions a frustrated band member, after hearing the harmonica player floundering in the wrong key, will lean over and yell the correct key that should be used. This doesn’t always work either and I have witnessed many who are told to get off the stage in mid-song. In order to avoid such prejudice by a band, I perfected my own ‘gorilla’ tactic. When the band left the stage on a break, I would jump up on the stage without permission, test the microphone to see if it was still on and ‘rip’ into a harmonica solo hoping that everyone liked my playing before I was thrown off the stage. Often the crowd reaction saved me from being unplugged by the outraged soundman. I used this gorilla tactic many times when I was growing up and eventually, when I was spotted at a function, I would be asked if I was going to get up there with the band. I suppose one could say that jumping up on the stage like this was the musical equivalent of ‘streaking’, and I loved the adrenalin rush it gave me. I studied and practiced the harmonica constantly and was rarely thrown off the stage. On a few occasions the band would even join in and play along with me in the background to start their next set.
On this night of the cancelled performance I decided to employ my gorilla streaking tactic again. With my heart pounding, I jumped up and rushed to the microphone at front center of the huge Coliseum stage and started playing wildly into the microphone. I played a train rhythm that I hoped would get everyone going and clapping along. When the crowd heard the sound of harmonica they turned on mass and started making their way back towards the stage. Before long there were hundreds of dancers doing a creative 70s ‘rampant abandon’ dance in front of me. The disappointment from the cancelled concert was dissipated for the 10 minutes or so that I played. I closed my eyes and felt as if I was flying out across the crowd. Few experiences have compared to this short performance on that night.
When I felt the time was right I ended the solo, took a little bow and hopped off the stage. Within seconds I was integrated back into the crowd, threading my way unnoticed out through the turnstiles at the gate. I was again just one of the many disappointed fans that never got to see the concert and I quickly forgot the whole episode. Little did I know that a friend from my high school was in the audience that night and over 25 years later I bumped into her at a party and listened as she recounted the whole incident in great detail to the people gathered around us. I was overwhelmed that she had remembered that performance so well after all these years.
One never knows the impact of one’s actions on other’s lives.
Half an hour after the advertised start time, after relentless clapping and chants of “why are we waiting” from the restless crowd, it was announced that the concert had been cancelled. This must be the most dreaded announcement by every promoter. Frustrated people were milling around on the concrete floor of the Coliseum. Everyone was disappointed and most filed out in silence after the announcement.
For many years, on many different stages and on many different occasions, I have played harmonica on the breaks for bands. I would typically ask the band beforehand if I could ‘sit in’ with them and occasionally they would let me. Most often, though, they would decline the offer. Harmonica players have a reputation for being ‘song wreckers’ because so many of them do not bother to learn even the bare essentials of the instrument they play. They do, however, have the craving to perform with a band and many are not shy to try.
On many occasions a frustrated band member, after hearing the harmonica player floundering in the wrong key, will lean over and yell the correct key that should be used. This doesn’t always work either and I have witnessed many who are told to get off the stage in mid-song. In order to avoid such prejudice by a band, I perfected my own ‘gorilla’ tactic. When the band left the stage on a break, I would jump up on the stage without permission, test the microphone to see if it was still on and ‘rip’ into a harmonica solo hoping that everyone liked my playing before I was thrown off the stage. Often the crowd reaction saved me from being unplugged by the outraged soundman. I used this gorilla tactic many times when I was growing up and eventually, when I was spotted at a function, I would be asked if I was going to get up there with the band. I suppose one could say that jumping up on the stage like this was the musical equivalent of ‘streaking’, and I loved the adrenalin rush it gave me. I studied and practiced the harmonica constantly and was rarely thrown off the stage. On a few occasions the band would even join in and play along with me in the background to start their next set.
On this night of the cancelled performance I decided to employ my gorilla streaking tactic again. With my heart pounding, I jumped up and rushed to the microphone at front center of the huge Coliseum stage and started playing wildly into the microphone. I played a train rhythm that I hoped would get everyone going and clapping along. When the crowd heard the sound of harmonica they turned on mass and started making their way back towards the stage. Before long there were hundreds of dancers doing a creative 70s ‘rampant abandon’ dance in front of me. The disappointment from the cancelled concert was dissipated for the 10 minutes or so that I played. I closed my eyes and felt as if I was flying out across the crowd. Few experiences have compared to this short performance on that night.
When I felt the time was right I ended the solo, took a little bow and hopped off the stage. Within seconds I was integrated back into the crowd, threading my way unnoticed out through the turnstiles at the gate. I was again just one of the many disappointed fans that never got to see the concert and I quickly forgot the whole episode. Little did I know that a friend from my high school was in the audience that night and over 25 years later I bumped into her at a party and listened as she recounted the whole incident in great detail to the people gathered around us. I was overwhelmed that she had remembered that performance so well after all these years.
One never knows the impact of one’s actions on other’s lives.
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