All in a Day’s Work

Traffic Jam   

 So I’ve just returned the bulk of the Times Colonist to two women with whom it had lain unused and cluttering their table full of conversation. At first asking you would have thought that it was a national treasure entrusted to their safekeeping, but after a few seconds of deliberation they hand over the goods, although I notice that the younger one keeps the section with the horoscope. You know the horoscope with the picture of a lady whose hairstyle remains firmly rooted in the heady hippy days of the sixties.

 I walk across the road to my work truck, my trusty steed, noticing yet again that it’s badly in need of a wash. As I back out of my parking spot, I become aware that my exit to the highway is blocked by a white car in the middle of the road and a lady is rushing towards me waving her arms as if trying to alert me to the fact that I’ve just run over her bichon freize with both sets of wheels.

 “Oh!” she pants, “I was just about to phone you. Do you do electrical as well as yard work and painting? “Not if I can help it,” says I. “What do you need done?” “Well I need to replace two outside lights. The two I have work perfectly well but I can’t get replacement bulbs, so I decided to replace the fixtures instead.” “Well I’ll have a look, but you better check your home insurance just in case I actually attempt it.”

 It’s Friday, and I tell her that I won’t get to it till Tuesday as I’m heading to Vancouver for the wife’s office Christmas party, with dinner, a hotel room and a matinee performance of Cirque du Soleil’s “Kooza”. Somebody must have had a good year. She tells me that’s the 14th and, as she’s going up island to her granddaughter’s Christmas pageant she won’t be back till the 16th.”But I’ll leave everything outside the door for you. And my hydrangea has just deposited all it’s leaves on my lovely new stone work, so could you do a general tidy up as well?”

 “Will do,” says I, starting to put the truck in drive as I notice a slowly increasing line of traffic behind me.

 “Oh and I got the paint,” says she. “What paint?” says I. “For the hallway and living room,” says she. “Remember we discussed it last time you were there?”

“Yes. And do you remember I said that because you were so fussy, and I was so fussy, that I only painted my own indoors and that even then I was never satisfied, and that I didn’t want to do it?”

“Oh,” says she waving a hand dismissively, possibly at some imaginary fly but probably at my reluctance, “you can practice in the hallway where it won’t be seen much and take it from there.”

 “Well why don’t you give me a call when you get back and we’ll discuss it?”

“Why would I do that,” says she. “Haven’t we just discussed it?” And off she goes laughing to herself, satisfied that she has checked off the most important item of her day.

Meanwhile the car behind me and the one behind that are trying to outdo each other in encouraging us to move. My tormentor happily pulls a u-turn into a parking spot outside the coffee shop and I escape to the safety of the highway.

SHADOWS

It’s something you read about or hear about. It’s something that happens to someone else.

Friday, November 11, Remembrance Day in Canada. Everything feels normal. My wife and I attend the memorial service at the municipal hall and walk to our local coffee place afterwards to warm up. All is good. Later in the day I feel inspired to sing a few songs so I head up the peninsula for Deep Cove’s monthly coffee house for open stage. I’m also looking forward to hearing the Awakeneers some of whom I met on my last trip to Tatla Lake in the Chilcotin.

I’m next to last of the open stage performers and I really get into my two newest songs “Too Many People” and “Clint’s Song -Don’t let that Old man In”. After a wonderful positive reception and an immediate invite to return as feature performer, I take a seat at the back of the hall to hear the next singer. But something isn’t right.

I get this uncomfortable feeling in my chest that doesn’t want to leave me, even after a few good sips of water, which I use to get rid of an occasional esophagal spasm. The feeling becomes a tightness and I decide to pack up my guitar and hit the road. I say goodbye to no one as I don’t want to be delayed.

Now I’m on the highway, speeding. About twenty minutes down the road I phone my wife. “I need you to take me to the hospital. Can you meet me at the door?” Ten minutes later I’m at our door but the pain has gone. I’m tempted to just take a Tylenol and leave it at that but my cautious nature insists that I get it checked out.

Arriving at Royal Jubilee Hospital, I go through the check in process and wait at triage. Perhaps they don’t get it that I’m a potential heart attack as the sign says that there may be a two to four hour wait to see a doctor. But they’ve done the preliminary blood work and I’ve been told I’ll have to give more blood after an hour or two. Seemingly the heart gives off an enzyme if it has been damaged. Initial diagnosis is non stable angina. The second blood test confirms that my heart has been damaged and I’m admitted to emergency as I wait to be shifted upstairs to the cardiac ward. It’s puzzling for all concerned that apart from my initial chest pain, I’ve had no shortness of breath, no radiating pain in my arm, neck or jaw, no swelling at my ankles.

After a sleepless night in Emerge, Saturday evening I’m transferred upstairs to the cardiac ward for an angiogram the following morning. I’m all hooked up to a mobile monitor, constantly being poked and prodded and ingesting lots of drugs. Sunday morning I’m wheeled into the theatre for the angiogram. It’s fascinating. There I am with a minor amount of sedation watching my living heart beating on a large TV screen as the wire is inserted through a tiny hole in my wrist, through an artery and up into my heart. As arteries don’t have nerves, I feel no discomfort. Then a warm gush flows through me as the trace dye is sent in so they can map out any blockage. Yup. There’s a blockage alright. I get a stent, a tiny piece of mesh that is inserted and expanded by a balloon which is then deflated and withdrawn leaving me with an alien piece of technology in my chest. The whole procedure takes 20-30 minutes and then I’m wheeled back to the recovery room where the nurse carefully and gradually releases air from the vacuum bandage on my wrist.

I’m given some meds and a prescription to have filled. I have heart disease. I’ll be on meds for the rest of my life. After four hours I’m up, dressed and on my way home. My new life as a survivor has begun. I’m lucky. Sometimes the first time is for keeps - no warnings.

Here are my reflections a few days on. It is a poem - perhaps a song eventually:

Shadows

Somewhere inside, there are shadows on my walls

That no one knows about - not even me

Somewhere inside there are shadows on my walls

That no one knows about - not even me.

My father had a house once that didn’t last too long

Too many shadows on the walls,

One moment here, the next one gone.

My mother had a house once filled with smoky rooms

Took eighty years and more, to bring it down in ruins

So where do I go from here- it’s clear

things can never be the same

The shadows will remain

And do I live in fear?

Is this my destiny - as one might suppose

A prisoner of my DNA, something I never chose.

Somewhere inside there are shadows on my walls

That no one knows about - not even me

Somewhere inside there are shadows on my walls

That no one knows about - not even me.

Led Zeppelin in Dublin

Imagine being paid to see Led Zeppelin, one of the biggest bands in the world at the time (1972). My job was to show people to their seats, kick people out of seats they hadn’t booked and generally act as usher until the show started. When the show began. Zep were cranked to the max, and everybody was on their feet from the first notes of “Whole Lotta Love”. My eighteen year old self was having a great time shoving the headbangers back from the stage and watching Jimmy Page on his twin necked Gibson while Robert Plant bare chested, blond locks flowing, strutted around the stage.

Coming to the scheduled end of the concert, my Dad, the head usher, was becoming increasingly concerned they would play too long which would mean unsanctioned overtime would have to be paid to us ushers. He wasn’t about to let that happen. After consulting with Led Zeppelin’s roadies and telling them the situation, he was told to “piss off”. Which he did. Mysteriously, the power to the stage went off and nobody knew why. My Dad suggested that power might be restored shortly but it would have to be their last number. Agreed. Power went back on, Zep did their last number and everybody was happy.

Reading a book about Led Zeppelin many years later I learned that their roadies had a reputation for fighting and being highly aggressive when displeased. Perhaps they might have heard that my Dad was a detective with the Garda (police) in Dublin and could be one phone call away from calling in a wagon load of hefty boys in plain clothes who would happily settle things mano a mano. They had no love for long hairs or rock music.

I got a set of drumsticks from John Bonham who kindly autographed them, and which I stupidly traded later for a double album “Fill Your Head With Rock”. Yeah. Really!

Interview with David Lennam - Brentwood Bay Village Empourium

Out of the corner of my eye I spot this camera, and then move on.

Unnatural Selection

Martin Nolan and I are doing a series of five concerts in ten days while he's over here from Dublin in March for a few weeks. We've just played to a nice audience at the Brentwood Bay Village Empourium - a full house, and are looking for some place to grab a bite to eat. I usually don't eat much before I sing and stay away from dairy products and cider as they tend to gum up the vocals. 

At 10:30pm or so on the Saanich Peninsula there isn't much of a choice, actually nothing is open, so we follow  the long and winding road back towards View Royal on the outskirts of Victoria. The only place open seems to be a Mac's so we pull in. I'm just about to grab a tuna sandwich when Martin spots a sign. "Hot Dogs 4 for $10". After about 15 minutes slathering various condiments on mostly ourselves, we depart and head for Chris and Betty's (in-laws) place where we have graciously been offered a bed, as we play a house concert in James Bay area the following night.

So there we are at 11:30pm chowing down on a pound each of rubbery who-knows-what washed down with red wine and already feeling the possible onset of the roaring farties. Surprisingly we don't die in our sleep and set out for a day of rambling and adventure in Victoria once Martin does a patch job on his uilleann pipes which seem to be losing air faster than he can pump it in.

Martin is happy with his emergency purchase of a shirt for tonight's concert. His own is sitting proudly on the back of a door in Nanaimo. Obviously the check list of essentials was not very thorough. So we're almost ready to set up for the concert but again have to attend to wants of nature and we are in search of grub. We drive around a bit and Martin has a yen for fish and chips. We're in James Bay area and I spot a place, a tiny little hole in the wall just up from the liquor store. I tell Martin that although I know the area, I've never heard anything about this place. So we take our halibut and chips to the Dallas Rd. waterfront and with a million dollar view in front of us we wade through possibly the worst bundle of grease and grunge we've ever experienced. "You can't eat scenery" is an expression from back home, but in this case we'd have been better off.

Life on the road can be a great experience but I'm reminded again that to do it well there's a certain amount of thought and planning involved to avoid the heebee-jeebees and to stay healthy. 

Onwards and upwards.

Runny Noses and Other Occupational Hazards

Somewhere in my head a faucet gets turned on. Both hands are occupied so the luxury of a quick blow, wipe and chuck away of a kleenex is not on the cards. This is definitely an oh-oh moment. I can feel the slow trickle starting inside the bridge of my nose, the left nostril beginning to itch as a tiny trickle follows its gravitational pull and loiters momentarily beyond view. Then, even as I try to be inconspicuous about about snorffling it back home to safety, it makes its descent to the tip of my lip before dripping onto the stage. Oh my God, I can't stop now! I'm in the instrumental part of "The Streets of Derry". I can see Kelly, the organizer looking anxiously in my direction as I begin the next verse with sounds of burbling suffocation between the words. "I thought you were  done in at that stage", he says to me afterwards, "and I was wondering what the hell I was going to do."

So, gratefully for all concerned, I get to the end of the song wondering how many in the audience noticed. How could they not notice? So I turn my back to them, give the schnoz the old finger and thumb squeeze, a discreet wipe on the jeans... what the hell else do you do when the nearest paper towel is somewhere at the far end of a corridor... turn back into the lights and say "My nose is the only part of me that's got any exercise lately. It's been running for the last two weeks."

Next song. The voice somehow manages to behave itself , not having to compete for air with a litre of whatever. And so on to the end of the gig. I perform "Trucker" live for the first time and it goes down well. I do "Cuckoo" to show off and "Could it be Love?" so folks can join in. As an encore I do "Look at Yourself" another quite new song and follow up with the sing along "Wild Mountain Thyme" which seems to be the song in which even non singers, young and old,  babies and battle-hardened, boozers and banana juice drinkers can join.

I'm happy to have survived, Kelly is relieved that I survived, and the good folk of the Cowichan Folk Guild are probably somewhat unaware of being this close to entertaining themselves for the last hour of the night. Onwards and upwards.  

CHLY 101.7 interview with Pam Edgar

A bright, chilly, sunny Sunday morning, when most active musicians are probably still blissfully unconscious from Saturday night's exertions, and I'm stepping out of my car parked in front of the Queen's in downtown Nanaimo. Sad to see a form huddled asleep under blankets beneath the building overhang and an old guy with his trolley scavenging butts along the sidewalk. But that's the area - a lot of homeless and hopeless people in this gritty area. 

With my two guitars, I hustle around the corner, down the China Steps at Lois Lane to the gated doors of the studio where I can see Pam, at the controls since 9:00, and wait to catch her eye. She's already played a couple of songs from my 1997 CD inspirationally titled "Terry Boyle" as part of her "Songwriters' Circle" gig. She's a great promoter of local music.

A wave, and a hug once she unlocks the door and I'm dragging my guitars out to acclimatize them, wondering what format the interview will take. She asks what song I'd like her to play as an intro and I suggest "Rider to the Sea" - not the usual ones from the CD like "Cuckoo" or "Could it be Love". We chat about the song which describes a fishing tragedy and i add a few details to flesh out the story.

Live off the floor I sing "Loop" a new song for the first time. It's about the people who are left behind when a loved one is finally overcome by their demons. "Not every soul has a wish to be saved".

We chat away as "To the Beat of a Drum" plays in the background and i mention a couple of other songs I've written. Pam takes a particular interest in "Young" dedicated to a couple of teens who took their own lives after enduring prolonged bullying on social media. I hadn't intended to sing it but that's where the ball bounced. 

To change the dynamic which is becoming a bit too "down" I then do "Life's Too Short", a song about the mad times playing sessions in the pubs of County Clare. I'm also plugging my upcoming gigs with Martin Nolan in March. I've put up posters about our concerts in St. Andrew's Church, Nanaimo and also in Ladysmith's First United Church. She plays a track from Martin's CD of uilleann pipes music. 

I can't believe I'm so chatty, almost hyper during the interview. For someone who prefers to play and listen rather than talk, I've more than used up my daily quota of words, as I'm told when i get home. But Pam makes it easy with her relaxed, philosophical style of presentation and interview. She opens the door and provides a mood which invites conversation.

Has it been an hour already? She'd asked for thirty minutes and I feel like I could go on for another hour. She's already invited me back to showcase the new CD or EP which I've said is at the preliminary stages, meaning I still have to record and choose the best of the bunch on my extravagant budget.

We hug, say goodbye and Pam is off into hour three of her Sunday morning. A lady who has just arrived to volunteer asks me where she can get a listen to "Young" again and I direct her to my website, where you are now. Slan go Foill.