CHARLEY

It rained again last night. That is to be expected though, being here as we are on the West Coast of British Columbia, just long enough to pay no attention to it. It did not bring any threat, just puddles. Since moving to this new part of town, some of the roads are finished, some are not. And this is where the puddles come into play. Our part of the development was where one phase ended; and the next phase was just ruffed in. The pavement ended in front of our house. The rest of the road, well, you could use it, but the construction traffic rendered it pretty rough, leaving behind ruts and potholes. Hence the puddles.

As we finished breakfast, I noticed that the rained had just about stopped. Still too wet, my wife and I took our coffees out to the enclosed porch and watched the sun push the clouds away. That’s when I noticed Charley. Charley is our neighbours boy from across the road. I think he found the biggest puddle, and he was having a great time running through and jumping into it. Good for him that he had his rubber boots on, the thing was, that was all he was wearing.

Charley was different, and special. But not without his problems and unique needs. My wife and I and a few of the neighbours, were familiar with these needs, having lived beside them for a while. Charley and his Mom and Dad moved into town about the same time we did. In fact, they were one of our first neighbours. We noticed right away that there was something different with Charley. It was not unusual for him to be found trying to hide in his front yard, generally the result of a confrontation that could be heard by all. After a period of raised voices, resistance to his mother’s pleas, tears, on both sides, usually followed by a hug, he would be persuaded to go back inside. We would give a sigh of relief and resume our usual activities. Support not required.

With his Dad being in the armed forces, and stationed in Esquimalt, he was not always around to help when this happened. But we were, and our presence seemed to be all that was needed to ensure that no harm came to anyone. Now, to put things into perspective, Charley is a full blown teenager, and if you did not know about him, you would think that he was not too different from any other 16 year old. We were all friends with Charley. Maybe better put, he was friends with all of us. It was common place for him to show up at your door, with all his clothes on, and sometimes at mealtime, sit down at the table just like an invited guest, and partake of what was being offered. He was like that. He was always welcome. I sometimes wandered what meant more to him, the meal or the company. Though he was not likely to say much. And when he was finished, he would leave as quietly and mysteriously as he arrived. After a while we started referring to him as the mayor of Beatty Street. I think he liked that.

Bill Bradley is the new neighbour down the street. Nice fellow, volunteer fireman, member of rotary, and plays the bagpipes. Seems he was hosting a BBQ for the band next weekend in his back yard, and he invited all his neighbours, including Charley and his family. I had to really wonder though if they would come. You see, they had this thing about music in their religion. It was not allowed. The same for dancing. But the invite was out there, we would just have to wait and see.

When we wandered into Bill’s back yard, the band was already there. Eight pipers, three drummers, and this guy with a long fancy spear. The way I have seen them toss that thing about, I know now why they put him at the front. I was informed later that it was referred to as a mace. A ceremonial thing and not meant to harm anyone. Several of the pipers were warming up when they realized it would be too loud for people in the rather smallish back yard. Luckily living on the outskirts of town, they had access to a field next to the back yard. Off they went, practised several pieces, and we could still talk and be heard, and enjoy the music.

Then Charley and his family arrived. His father was able to make it and an older sister that we don’t see too often as she was away at college. The guys in the field regrouped, commenced to play a real slow tune, almost a lament that none of us payed much attention to, except Charley. He was half way across the field before most of us new it. The guys were still playing not noticing that they had a singular audience. By this time the rest of the family had walked out to join him; we just watched not really knowing what was going to transpire.

We could tell that Charley was excited with his new found discovery. But what happened next was totally unexpected. Charley was beside himself with excitement. He could not stand still. It was all that mom and dad could do to keep him in check while he danced around one of the pipers and kept pointing at the bagpipe, uttering some sounds, and every now and then pushing on the bladder so that it made a rude honk. We could see that the piper was talking to Charley, but they were too far away to be heard. Whatever was going on got Charley excited as he grabbed his Mom and Dad and pulled them along behind the pipers as they struck up a familiar march tune, and then commenced to march around the field, into the back yard, headed for the street, picking up marchers as they went.

When we got home later that evening, I asked my wife, what exactly did we witness today? Something very special happened out there. I wanted to know more.

Music has been a part of my life since I can remember. As a young boy of 7 or 8, I would sit in front of our flour model radio, ear glued to the huge speaker and take in the Saturday afternoon opera on the CBC. I couldn’t handle the whole offering, probably much to the relief of the old folks, but that is where it all started. Later in life there would be piano lessens, choirs, school bands, and many records, tapes, and CD’s. With the exception of a few categories, all music was welcomed.

Music has that ability to run your emotions from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. It can instantly flood you with tears, send shivers up and down your spine or send you to la-la land. I know, I have been there.

That thought brings me back to Charley. As I noted earlier, music was not in his home. Music therapy has been employed for many years now, being especially effective in young children. Music therapy is effective for reducing stress, common negative side effects, such as emotional and behavioural problems. And for those involved, it has had very far reaching effects, on both sides of the music.

Charley’s parents did not pursue the option. Music was not allowed in the house. Music was not in the life.

As it happened, Charley’s Father was transferred to Edmonton later that same year. We never saw the family again.

Several years later news filtered back that Charley, sadly, was into drugs, no longer living at home. That was the last bit that we heard about Charley, until one day I ran into a retired army buddy of his Dad’s. I asked him about the family, especially Charley. Charley had committed suicide.

 

 

 

Glow, “glimmer, glimmer.”


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Still one of my favourite night shots. Taken on a quite street in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.

When I first saw this word prompt for the photo challenge, I was transported back about 60 years to when my mother would play the tune, Glow-worm. First written for a German operetta in the early 20th century, translated to English by Lilla Cayley Robinson, and finally made popular by the Mills Brothers on an arrangement by Johnny Mercer in 1952.

Unable to find any glow worms, not even a fire fly, the best I could come up with follows.

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Moon glow in Tofino, British Columbia. Cheers.
Glow

People and Faces of Puerto Vallarta. No. 13.


Sad to say, our stay in Puerto Vallarta will come to an end in another week. But before we leave for our next adventure, I want to leave you with a few words and pictures. We found that being  here nearly 4 months has had a very enlightening  affect on both of us. The people of Mexico are not rich by our standards, but they are rich in so many other ways, and are anxious to share this wealth. It never is forced upon you, it just grows, until you come to the realization that something is different in how you feel and view your world around you.

They have so much they want to share; their wares, their stories, their culture, their way of life. But it doesn’t end there, they are also interested in you as a visitor to their country, where you are from, how long staying, what part of town, are you enjoying your stay. They go out of there way to make you welcome and comfortable. You become their friend, their amigo, you find yourself interacting with them. The following pics are just a small example of the opportunities we had to try an capture this.

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This gentleman with a great face was selling hammocks.

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More street music.

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This lady was selling hats, fans, and tiny hand made dolls.

There is a texture here that just has to be experienced, to be absorbed. But that takes time. A couple of weeks here just wets your appetite. Hospitality is spoken here. It is a universal language, one that we all could experience and learn from. I am looking forward to home and our new adventure, and plan on bringing a bit of Mexico with us. We will be back next year. Until then, adios.

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A dancer who will be participating in the 11th Puerto Vallarta Folkloric Dance Festival.

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When You Come to the End………


This blog is about a musical instrument – not just any huff and puff wind thing, but the king of instruments, the pipe organ. Now before you think this is about a lot of boring facts and info, bear with me.

I fell in love with this beast back in the 70’s, when most others of my age were a gaga with heavy metal, I was smitten with the majesty, the sonics and shear size of this musical wonder. It was alive, it breathed! Not all have the where with all to master the pipe organ, it not only requires both hands but also both feet. Two prominent artists names that come to mind are Virgil Fox, and E. Power Biggs. But the one that afffected me the most was a showman by the name of Carlo Curley.

Carlo Curley was born in 1952 in the U.S.A., and died prematurely in 2012 in England. He was not your usual keyboard artist. He was indeed an organ master; he added humour and a level of flamboyancy that was not usually associated with the pipe organ. Along with a rather dry wit. In my mind he was the Victor Borge of the pipes. He was the consummate entertainer.

He was the first classical organist to perform at the White House for President Carter. He also played for several European heads of state and toured extensively, always in demand. Because of his unique style, he was nicknamed “The Pavarotti of the Organ”. He was the consummate performer. Always entertaining and having fun with his audience.

My personal experience with this gentleman was at a Toronto concert in 1982 at Roy Thomson Hall where he performed on the newly built Gabriel Kney organ. I was not disappointed.

For over two hours we were wowed by his playing and showmanship as he waded through such classic composers as Saint-Saen, Bach, Handel, Widor, Frank and Messiaen, at times becoming quite vocal and crying out to the audience, “yes” and “yea” after a rather laboured piece. But…. the best part of the evening was yet to happen..

During the concert the organ console and sometimes the pipes were illuminated, but for his encore the stage was darkened and only a soft spot fell across Carlo and the console. His choice of music, When you Come To the End of a perfect Day. And what a perfect selection to close the concert. After thundering his way up to this point, he chose to present this piece as light and airy, the notes just seemed to float out over the audience only to burst in a moment of emotion. All the while he was playing, the spot was slowly dimming and shrinking around him, until all that was left were his hands. As the last notes faded into the night,  so did the spot. For a few seconds there was not a sound to be heard from the audience, as if each one was scared to be the first to applaud and destroy the feeling of the moment. And then it came, and it thundered out in response. There was much dabbing of the eyes, not in sadness, but in a personal experience of joy and contentment and peace. The perfect end to a memorable moment; and that moment got me to thinking about when my final moment is near….

I came into this world with only a few lines of announcement in the newspaper, not on the front page, no trumpets sounding. And as the light fades around me, I think it is only fitting that I depart in the same manner, due to symmetry and other considerations. I will do my kicking and screaming now, not when my stay is nearly over and it is too late. I will pass on the spotlight, hoping only that those closest to me will be able to share in my being part of their lives. Some may applaud,  maybe some will dab an eye. Knowing this gives me a sense of security. I have a plan. The rest is out of my hands.
Security

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