Quotes

Gay Stuff, Pop Culture Stuff, Society Stuff

SISSY THAT WALK!

Quote | Posted on by Colin James Morrison

 

Sissy That Walk!


I love RuPaul.

I  love that I live in a world where a working class  6’5′ tall gay black man in a wig, makeup and a fancy dress can grow up to become a truly iconic pop legend who now arguably stands, at the age of fifty four, at the height of an already long, enduring and impressive career.   Currently storming the Billboard charts with a new album (Born Naked) and single (Sissy that Walk) and ruling the airwaves as creator of  a truly unique “what the hell were they thinking, and yet DAMN it works!” television show called RuPaul’s Drag Race, the original Supermodel of the World appears to be, as always, an unstoppable force of nature.

If you’ve ever watched RuPaul’s Drag Race, now in its sixth glorious season (well, seventh if you count All Stars!) then you’ll know it’s one of the most endearing, funny, smart, creative, and entertaining hours of reality television around.  What you probably don’t know is that RuPaul and his/her show (pick a pronoun….Ru don’t care!) has done much to give the art of drag a new and enduring visibility and open acceptance in our modern culture.   For the uninitiated, Drag Race is a competition show centred around the search for American’s next drag superstar, starring RuPaul as both mentor (as the suited, bespectacled, and very male RuPaul Andre Charles) and host (as the utterly fabulous, beautiful, and beguiling RuPaul).   Fourteen drag queens from across the US compete, using all the charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent they can muster (did you catch that?!) to bring their soccer mom, business executive, or party girl “realness to challenges that use their comedic skills, acting chops, designer sense, and runway fierceness.   As they “lip synch for their lives” to avoid extermination….I mean elimination (it’s as exciting as it sounds!), the one who outperforms gets to “shantay” (that means stay) while the other sashays away. (Side note- I swear RuPaul and these catch phrases has practically given me an entire new language!)  What’s striking about some of these colourful exits is that competitors leave, not with hard feelings and recrimination, but on an almost transformative high note, with our esteemed host singling out their strengths and unique talents before sending them off into the world where they might step into their own very special fabulousness.  In other words, no one’s flipping the bird and dropping the F bomb before they go back to being a poor loser in the real world.   (And maybe THAT little fact has something to do with why so many eliminated queens have gone on to foster some pretty fabulous careers of their own, like Willam Belli, Detox, and Shangela to name a few, while past winners like the almost otherworldly Sharon Needles, have carved out iconic careers themselves….while those seeking their fifteen minutes of fame on Survivor and Big Brother are usually both disposable and forgettable.  Like, pass the mind bleach so I CAN forget kind of forgettable!)

Sure, at times things get formulaic, with certain “characters” or archetypes showcased each season….someone inevitably “plays” the ingenue, the villain, the front-runner, or the dark horse.  But regardless, Drag Race pulls the curtain back on the great illusion by showing us the true lives of the real honest to goodness MEN that live behind the glittery makeup and the sequined gowns.  For some, it’s a passion and a calling, for others its a form of creative expression and for others still it’s  simply how they make their living, a job like any other, even if it’s unlike anything we’ll ever know.  What’s often remarkable about the show is that it finds the balance between showing the light and not taking any of this all too serious, and yet uncovering the dark corners and the earthy realness of it all.  While it pokes fun at its subjects, it never makes fun of them, and it always presents the queens in a very real, very human light.  These queens have experienced their fair share of trials and hardship, with many facing hatred, discrimination and non acceptance on an almost daily basis n their “real” lives.   Some are very forthcoming about their stories, while others more guarded….but eventually everyone tends to break down in what’s proven to be some pretty vulnerable and refreshingly unscripted moments.  Well, that and the vodka helps!

For all it’s participants, Drag Race is a study in fearlessness, strength, and resiliency .  It portrays a group of people who are true survivors –  battered but never broken – and we see an evolution for many as they discover things about themselves as yet unknown, and have the chance to form an even stronger and fiercer persona before unleashing it upon an often cruel, ignorant, and now unsuspecting world.

As impressive as it is for a fifty something gay black man to create such an iconic character as RuPaul- an achievement so staggering to me it bears repeating – it’s equally impressive that a show in theory by a man in a wig in a dress ABOUT a bunch of men in wigs and dresses can even find a place on network TV let alone carve out such a large and faithful following.   Someone took a pretty spectacular risk to make this happen, and we can all be thankful they did.   Such role models as these queens – and yes, they’re role models – could not be found when I was younger.  I grew up surrounded by Rocky and Rambo and the A Team, where men were men and guns and fists stood in for mid-life crises, receding hairlines, and erectile dysfunction.   As nostalgic as one might get for Three’s Company and Chrissy, Janet and the gang, the closest touchstone I had to “queer” personalities on television were the comedic stylings and yet so homophobic antics that went on between Jack Tripper and Mr. Roper on Three’s Company.   With that as my mirror on life, I shudder to think how unfabulous I would’ve turned out minus my sister’s Donna Summer and ABBA records!)

I didn’t always understand drag queens, or the desire to dress up (I haven’t always been this enlightened creäture before you, you know).  For one thing, these shoulders would not look pretty in anything spaghetti strapped, I can barely walk a straight line in sneakers let alone heels, and don’t think for a second you can ever tame these eyebrows.  But in all seriousness, I suppose my not understanding came from a place of fear, or perhaps some feelings centred around some  internalized homophobia once upon a time.  But not anymore.  RuPaul and Drag Race helped change that….helped change both my understanding, my perception, and my world view on what drag really means. On what being gay really means.  On what being YOURSELF really means.

In our world today, there are literally millions of school age LGBTQ children.  And among that staggering statistic live an inordinately large number of scared, helpless, hopeless children who spend their day planning – not what they’re going to wear or what team they might try out for or what movie they might like to see – but instead how to survive from being bullied, harassed and shamed for being who they are, or how to hide and suppress what they really feel inside just so they might find some peace on the outside.  They have to plan for their safety each and every day, how to look, how to talk, even how to move…and those that love them need to equally fear for the harm that might come.   How awesome is it that some weird gay kid who’s struggling to find their place in the world – that are being bullied for being too femme or too butch, that are being tortured because they were born a boy when inside they feel like a girl, or vice versa – can now turn on the TV today and see this colourful cast of admirable characters living their lives out loud, leading the charge for the rest of us as they do what we all want to do…be their own true masters of  their own true destinies.  And if you disagree with that, then I guess you’ve never felt that pain or been that scared kid…or had to worry about one.

I hope RuPaul’s new single Sissy That Walk, in all it’s success with its huge dance beats and simple yet catchy lyrics, becomes an anthem for those leading the way, for those that have walked the road already, and for those about to head down the path.   Not “just” a gay anthem, but an anthem for us all.

 

“And if I fly, or if I fall
Least I can say I gave it all
And if I fly, or if I fall
I’m on my way, I’m on my way…

Now SISSY THAT WALK”

 

Sissy that walk, butch that stroll, glam that runway.   However you do it, just be that beautiful, unique creature, unlike ANY other,  you were born to be.

THANKS for that message Mama Ru.

 

 

Sissy That Walk

 

 

Go to YouTube to watch the official Sissy That Walk video starring RuPaul and legends in the making Bianca Del Rio, Adore Delano, Courtney Act, and Darienne Lake.

 

Me Stuff, Pop Culture Stuff, Society Stuff

Bollard House (The Great House Adventure)

Quote | Posted on by Colin James Morrison

 

Bollard House

Bollard House- Birthday Cake Style

 

I really need to start paying closer attention.

You see, I’ve slowly come to learn that when my partner Shawn has just the slightest idea in mind, when he gets some tiny notion in his head, that stray thought that swirls around and around and  just won’t quit….then it’s time for me to brace myself, take a deep breath, and change into some clean underwear as we prepare  for whatever fantastical journey is just up ahead.   If I was only slightly more self-aware, I’d see the signs more clearly.  When Shawn is interested or focused on something, it starts to…invade his life, and, in by a process sort of like osmosis, mine.  Take for instance when he really wanted to buy this antique Sheraton sofa he’d discovered recently online.  Suddenly, the words “Sheraton sofa” start to pop up in many of his conversations.  Then he starts to relay warm childhood stories about his memories of Sheraton sofas (because everyone has those, right?) and then he’s pointing them out in books, in movies, and in magazines.   Soon he’s googling them wildly at night and moaning about them in his sleep.   And the next thing you know, you find yourself barely awake at some god awful hour on a Sunday morning, driving down some dirt back road of some rural township you’ve never heard of, so you can precariously strap to the back of your trusty station wagon your very own Sheraton sofa (albeit one in serious need of some TLC, but never fear, because Shawn has an amazing friend named Aimee who’s a designer and upholsterer extraordinaire on call for just such an emergency.  And these emergencies can happen often!)

So with experiences like that under my belt, you’d think I’d be more prepared when he stopped talking about silver trays and pottery mushrooms and folk art and jumped right to a mysterious place called Bollard House.  I mean, a house is a lot bigger than a sofa, so that alone should’ve stopped me in my tracks.  I’m a bit embarrassed to say I didn’t know much about the history of Bollard House a few short months ago until Shawn casually mentioned it one night, but quickly he brought me up to speed.  Turns out Bollard House was built in the 1830s in the township of Halifax, so before our great city was even a city.  It was built in a Georgian style, with detailing around its doors and ceilings hearkening back to ancient greek civilization, and in 1863 a triangular addition was created, making the house six-sided in appearance.   The house is one long room deep throughout with seven flights of stairs connecting its four floors.  It is truly unique in our fair city in that it remains, after all these years, virtually unchanged and unaltered today.   It has withstood the ravages of time and stands proudly today to tell the tale.  It has had a very colourful history during its long life, including a period during the 1970s when it served as a spa for poodles (yes, you read that correctly!)   Bollard House became a registered historic property in 1985, which is approximately when Shawn actually first visited it and fell in love (because as you know, some boys fall in love with historic houses and some fall in love with Batman).  And why do I know all of this?  Because Shawn knows all of it, and life with him is kind of like having your own personal commentator from PBS and the History Channel, only one that’s much better looking, smells good, and is a great dancer.

 

Bollard House

Bollard House

 

 

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Shawn is a member (and former board member) of the Heritage Trust of Nova Scotia, an organization that fights to preserve some of the most architecturally and historically significant structures in the province, as well as promote and advocate for protective legislation with business interests and at various levels of government.  Through the Trust, he came to know this lovely lady named Janet, a champion in her own right who works hard to preserve the built heritage of our fine city.  The two hit it off well with their shared passion for preservation (as the Batman lover in the relationship, I suspect these Heritage types all have capes and spandex in their laundry that they wear to strike fear in the hearts of those evil modern developers/destroyers.  But alas, I’ve yet to find any costumes in the laundry).  Anyway, Janet had recently acquired Bollard House after it’s previous owner had passed away,  but was uncertain of her plans for the property, other than her goal of keeping its rich heritage intact.   Conversations began with Shawn, he who is ever so opinionated about just these sorts of things,  on hypothetically just what one might do with a property like Bollard House.  And rather than it involve any knocking things out or tearing things down, any demolition, deconstructing or defacing of any kind, his ideas centred around a whole lot of paint and the occasional swing of a hammer.  And before you know it, somehow THAT evolved into the idea of  our moving into the house, living their and caring for it, and bringing it back to life, so to speak, while respecting where it’s been.  When I first had a chance to tour the house, even I  could see her “good bone structure” and recognize the charm and character of the house  (it truly felt in a way you were stepping back in time when you walked through her doors), but it was clear the house was going to need a lot of time and love and careful attention.  As it were,  we were also both pretty attached to our old apartment, a heritage property itself and quite full of charm and character, but it had been obvious for a while we’d outgrow that space.  And so, with practically four floors at our disposal at Bollard House, an impressive showcase for all of Shawn’s unique and wonderful STUFF, and the challenge of breathing new life into an old property, how could we refuse such an opportunity?

And so the journey to Bollard House again (well, technically, it wasn’t much of a journey, as we’d only lived four blocks away).   From the start, the whole never enough hours in a day and the time needed to do everything that needed to be done was a bit worrisome.  I’d recently returned to school, and had made a bit of an insane decision to work full-time and take a full course load.  Since “phoning it in” isn’t in my vocabulary, and I tend to be a bit of a a high achiever,  I figured it’s all straight A’s or bust.  (And, by bust, I mean bust your face if I don’t get that A!)  Shawn has a pretty demanding job, one that’s anything but 9-5, plus he likes to dabble in….well, just about everything.  Our cat Mungo, a feisty little guy with a pretty demanding sleep schedule, was initially rather unimpressed with this decision to move.  I mean, no one bothered to consult with him that his nightly (potential) mouse patrol would now involve four floors instead of four rooms.  That’s a lot of work!

But in the end, the chance to do this was simply too good to be true, and the challenge ahead seemed fun.  We started cleaning, painting and stripping (not the Magic Mike kind) for weeks on end, often late into the night.  I already knew Shawn was as handy as he was handsome, but truth be told, I worried at first about his focus, as he tends to get a bit easily distracted  – oh look, squirrel! – and that could  potentially slow things down.  But never fear…it was clear from the start he was throwing himself  wholeheartedly into a mission to restore life to this beautiful home.  That’s not to say we didn’t face a few obstacles along the way.  The staircases are small and narrow and difficult to move furniture around.  Hence, when an old sofa refused to climb the stairs before becoming jammed, it was attacked by a very creative friend with an exacto knife and brought out in small pieces (you don’t want to get on her bad side!).  And although we were able to squeeze a small sofa and even an oversized antique linen chest upstairs, the laws of physics said that queen size box spring just wasnt going to make it, and so we spent a few weeks sleeping on the floor until we could get a replacement  And finally there was the late afternoon I took my niece Nicole on a tour, proudly showing off all the space we’d now have. When we’d reached the end and I’d shown her small dark room with the slanted roof and skylight that would be my office and writing space, she declared “um, doesn’t this room kind of remind you of the Amityville Horror?”

WELL IT DOES NOW!!

Red rum, Red rum...

Red rum, Red rum…

Alas, any reservations I had about the work we were doing was put to rest early on.  Shawn had let me in on a little secret, one I didn’t realize or know.    He said old houses aren’t like more modern, almost disposal ones.  Houses like this one just need a little paint and a little sprucing up, a little love, hard work, and attention, and before long they start to respond to what you’re doing, and slowly start to warm and come to life on their own.   And sure enough, before my very eyes, it did!  We built a man cave in the basement that’s the envy of all football loving fiends across the land (too bad it’s mainly used for Madonna and Gaga blu-rays!)  Shawn chose a colour scheme and design layout for our bedroom that makes it look like some high-end magazine photo shoot – remember that saying that your  bedroom should feel like an oasis?  Our bedroom IS an oasis, and as big as some small apartments.

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See, I can help too!

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Man CAVE

 

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And that Sheraton sofa?  IT is now totally rocking the living room.

I do have one minor complaint about our grand new residence.  For one, where’s the ghosts??! (True, I’m opposed to the Amityville Horror of my new office, but come on…ghosts are cool!)  I’d convinced myself when moving into an historical home that has experienced as much as this house has over the centuries, that it only made sense we’d be left with a few former inhabitants, or at least an occasional visitor or two.   I waited up most of the night Halloween, saying this would be the night.   But nope….nothing.  I even watched The Conjuring recently (mostly behind a blanket, with one eye open), figuring some ghostly apparition would say “oh yeah, so that’s how you want to play it huh?” and start slamming doors or levitating tea cups around me.  Still nothing.  (I’d say BOOOOOO but I was  hoping the damn ghost would do that!)  Regardless, I still talk to the house all the time, like it’s a person.  Just check in, see if it likes the new paint colour or the smells of supper and such.   Someday it’ll answer back, I know it, and for that reason, I want to stay on its good side!

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Um, what was THAT?!?!

And so you know, since no one bothered to run this rather significant life change by Mungo the Cat, he’s still decided to begrudgingly patrol the house.  However, he will NOT do so quietly.  So instead, with all the grace, dignity, and poise of a baby elephant, you can hear him slowly wander about with LOUD, sharp banging motions, climbing stairs and opening doors (because, yes, he can hook his paws underneath doors and make them move!) as he seeks out and finds new and exciting places to nap.  Also, despite the change from four rooms to four floors, and the increased exercise he’s um…gained a bit of poundage somehow (he calls it muscle)…although I suspect this could be part of is revenge plot.  In other words,  baby elephant ain’t so baby anymore, and you better believe the kitty grocery bills going to feel it!

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Oh, and it seems Mungo also likes to um…weigh in on decisions about the house, like paint colours.  So much so that he’s now investigated three freshly painted rooms, just so he can give it one meow or two.  You’d think with all the paw scrubbing afterwards he might be a bit deterred from being so opinionated, but nope…but then again, maybe he’s just looking for a day at the spa!

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It wasn’t me!

And so the cat and I are having a lot of fun living here….but nowhere near as much fun as Shawn.   Shawn loves the house, and takes great joy and pride in living here.  He’s very respectful to its history, and he takes great loving care of it everyday.  And I  think for those reasons that the House has been just as lucky to have him as he’s been to have it.

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So here’s to the first of many more great adventures at Bollard House.   And stay tuned for many more updates, as they’ll be sure to come….I promise, I really am paying attention now!

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For Shawn, Christmas 2013

Cape Breton Stuff, Me Stuff, Music Stuff, Pop Culture Stuff, Society Stuff

Music Notes

Quote | Posted on by Colin James Morrison

Music Notes

In random conversations lately, just twice this past week, that age old question was raised:

“So…what insturment did YOU play when you were a kid?”

Now, when you stop and think about it, that’s one of those questions that can truly define a person…if not who they are, at least who they were. If you played guitar, you thought you were emulating some rock god you’d recently discovered on this strange channel known as Much Music (even if you were really just using it as an excuse to dance around in your underwear. Well, let’s hope it was YOUR underwear). If you played drums, perhaps your only passion was to make some really loud noise and look cool doing it (and maybe impress a girl or boy in the process.) If you played piano, you were perhaps driven (by your mother, sitting primly in the driver seat) to be a serious musician of sorts, and to be taken very serious like. If you held a fiddle and bow, then perhaps you felt some mysterious pull….a connection to your traditional Celtic roots, passed down from generations and generations (or maybe you just liked the idea of the breezy comfort a kilt might provide). And if you chose the French Horn, then maybe you mistakenly saw it as an easy way to get some good passing grade in music class (because, let’s be honest, a D- is still better than the torturous sound THAT instrument can bring!)

But I didn’t play any of these things. Instead, I was a singer. Of sorts. And my instrument was my voice, and one that I took pretty seriously. And practiced often, driving along in the back of the family car on those long drives to Baddeck to visit my great aunt, and singing along at the top of my lungs, knowing Every Single Word that was played on the radio. And never fear….when we’d inevitably lose reception over Kelly’s Mountain, I’d just keep the tunes coming, uninterrupted, a capella. Now, I won’t pretend I had the raw talent to ever be a “professional” singer (trust me, not even close!), but, truth be told, during those early years, I was good enough and, gosh darn it, cute enough, to get featured in those painful school concert pageant fiascos that only the unconditional love of a mother could stand behind. And a father if he’s forced to go. One year, our choir from Jamieson Elementary was featured on the local “Christmas Daddies” telethon, and being small for my age and wearing glasses much bigger then my incredibly round head (they didn’t call me Charlie Brown for nothing!), with a stubborn cow lick that simply couldn’t be licked no matter how hard I tried, I spent three eternally long minutes in a continuous close up, with a large camera looming in my face and the cameramen barely stifling their laughter in the background as I sang, at the top of my lungs, in my most earnest and over the top way, my very own interpretation of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” (And let’s not even talk about my acting skills. I mean, who would’ve guessed the third wise men – not the first, not the second, but the third mind you – would ever take such a lead, starring, show-stopping role in the Christmas play that year? Yeah, I wouldn’t have guessed that either).

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In The News Stuff, Nova Scotia, Political Stuff

PreOCCUPIED

Quote | Posted on by Colin James Morrison

PreOCCUPIED


Grand Parade Square

I’ve had a couple of encounters with Halifax’s Mayor Peter Kelly over the years.  The first was at a local elementary school, during its annual Health & Wellness fair.  I was there in part to provide information to parents, teachers, and community members about resources and mental health services offered here in our fair city.  You know, that pesky day job that takes me away from all the writing I should be doing.   A colleague and I were told by the organizers that Mr. Kelly planned to attend (and who, coincidentally it seemed, was running for re-election at the time), and was interested in chatting with us, hearing a bit more about the type of work we do and the families we work with.  The press was there as well, most notably a camera crew from Global.   My co-worker was excited about all the fuss, and laughed about the possibility of meeting Mayor Kelly and perhaps getting our picture taken for the newspaper.  As the mayor made his way into the gymnasium, he walked a short distance before stopping to chat with a pretty blonde nutritionist, a number of smiling youngsters in tow.  The cameras rolled, the lightbulbs flashed, and the moment was caught for prosperity.  Then, as the cameras were packing up to leave, the very MINUTE the press in attendance waked out the door, I overheard him say to an organizer “well, look at the time.  Seems I must go!”  And with that he made a quick dash through the gym, slapping at hands as he went past (mine included), kind of like a rock star leaving a stage after a concert except – well, Mister Kelly’s no rock star.

Concerts for Cash Scandal

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Books and Literature Stuff, Cape Breton Stuff, NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, Nova Scotia, Society Stuff

Storytellers

Quote | Posted on by Colin James Morrison

S T O R Y T E L L E R S

Storytelling is defined by Wikipedia (that oft-times questionable but yet still vastly knowledgeable source of all things definitive like) as the conveying of events in words, images and sounds, often by improvisation or embellishment….Stories or narratives have been shared in every culture as a means of entertainment, education, cultural preservation and…to instill moral values.”

I like to think of myself as a storyteller, back from the very moment I could grasp a pencil in hand, and perhaps even before then. ( I mean….I can’t really say where an idea for a story comes from, but it has to come from somewhere, before it’s pulled, all raw material just waiting to be molded, sometimes kicking and screaming, into the “real world”). And in this act of storytelling, like all good storytellers I suppose, I hope to entertain, engage, perhaps titillate, and, in this case, through this medium, provide what I’d like to think is an informed opinion or two on those matters, things and events important and of interest to me, and I hope, in return, to you.

During the recent Word On The Street festival in Halifax, a national book and magazine festival celebrating reading and advocating literacy, my partner Shawn and I had the absolute pleasure of meeting Alexander MacLeod, Giller Prize Winning Author of “Light Lifting”. Now truth be told I’d only come across MacLeod fairly recently, when the Giller Prize nominees were first announced…and “Light Lifting” seemed only the latest rave amongst ever-expanding East Coast book offerings that continue to gain a wide audience and a well deserved national spotlight. And if MacLeod’s leading a charge, he has an entire army behind him…a new generation of writers who are paving the way through this Atlantic Canadian Literary landscape, with stories filled with humor and drama and emotion and pathos and beauty that could only come from our rugged country and coastline. This impressive list of new literary heroes (and heroines) includes great new talent like Chad Pelley (Away From Everywhere), Michael Winter (The Death of Donna Whalen), Kathleen Winter (Anabel), Christy Lee Conlin (Heave), Ami MacKay (The Birth House), Sheree Fitch (Kiss The Joy As It Flies), Lisa Moore (Alligator), Jessica Grant (O Come Thou Tortoise) and Chris Benjamin (Drive By Saviours – and I mean, seriously,aren’t those last two just totally awesome titles or what? ). And happily, that list could go on and on. All unique new voices, all exciting and masterful in their command of time and place, mood and language, atmosphere and tone…and, in my own writing, I can only someday hope to equal their talent, enthusiasm, and expertise.

But Alexander, a distinctly talented author in his own right, comes by an auspicious pedigree of his very own, one not shared by the others….He is the son of the legendary Alistair MacLeod, THE literary giant from the hills of Cape Breton, who’s short story collections “The Lost Salt Gift of Blood” and “As Birds Bring Forth The Sun and Other Stories” I – along with thousands and thousands of other students – had dissected in loving detail throughout junior high and high school english classes, and then later went on to study in more detail in Contemporary Twentieth Century fiction during my English majoring days at Dalhousie University. So meeting the son of this literary idol of mine was a bit of a surreal moment, and one I was more than a bit star struck by. (But then again, it’s not everyday you get to hang out in front of a wooden boat by the Maritime Museum chatting to one Alexander MacLeod of THE MacLeods, now is it?) But before that moment when I struggled to put two words together (and can we just say THAT never happens?), I had the opportunity to listen to Alexander talk about growing up in this famous family. And as I listened to this bright, funny, insightful, and handsome man tell a tale or two of his upbringing, I was struck by how much this life he described sounded so typical of any Cape Breton family. (I actually told him I thought meeting him would be like talking to royalty, but hey, what do you know? It seems he’s like everybody else.) And when later I was….you know…hanging by a wooden boat, talking to the son of Alistair MacLeod… Shawn asked if he knew who his father was growing up, if he lived some sort of life one might expect of a son of a writer type. And to this he replied….no, not at all. That, in fact, no one who entered his family home would ever have guessed his dad was a writer. That there were rarely books about, that his parents rarely even read to their children, and that he and his siblings shared a love of sports, food , music, laughter and good times with both friends and family, all those good things that most good families share, Cape Breton or otherwise. But how could this be? His dad’s a world renowned master of his craft, who wrote stories that shaped and defined in many ways the hearts and minds of students in classrooms all across our country. But then again, what did I expect? A reading jacket and smoking pipe in some old world library,with rows upon rows of shiny books, all with that new book smell, and perhaps a sign saying “Shhhhh! Genius at work!”… You can see how my imagination might run wild with it.

However, just because it wasn’t a houseful of academics and scribes didn’t mean the ancient traditions of storytelling weren’t alive and well within his family. In fact, Alexander went on to describe how everyone back in his childhood community was a true storyteller within his or her right. You see, growing up in rural Cape Breton, the act of visiting your neighbors was an active and expected and oft encouraged past time. But if you went all the way to visit someone, often miles and miles of road in not so pleasant weather, and they went all the way to prepare a huge meal and pour a drink to welcome you, well, as a trade-off, you had better have a story. And that story had better be a good story, told with punctuations of wild laughter and broad humour or high drama and dark intrigue. And so these tales were woven, tales from the past of fishermen and hunters and farmers, or of things just glimpsed and imagined, of what wonders might lay just around the corner. Gossips of budding romances or dying love affairs. Of children born out-of-wedlock or loved ones taken too soon. Of far exotic places, the bustle of some big city life, or the quiet solitude of small town living. Regardless, these stories were told, and passed on, around campfires and kitchen tables, backyards to playing fields, entire generations of storytellers, weaving all the magic and wonders of everyday life that they so artfully described.

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