Happy Birthday to Me!

As my birthday looms like a North Atlantic iceberg in early spring, I am not in much of a celebratory mood. This is not a milestone year coming, nor am I suffering from a middle age crisis. I have aches and pains but nothing I can't work around.

I am coming to grips with mortality.

You see, twenty - odd years ago I was immortal.

We all were.

Worked all day, partied till dawn, slept for 10 minutes and did it all over again. And as if driving the ammo truck for an Artillery Regiment wasn't enough, I tried my hand at Stock Car racing for a little more rush.

I imagine that sixty - odd years ago my Father was immortal.

An accomplished musician at young age, he was a mentor to the great Johnny Mooring.

The War got him of out of the coal mines of Springhill, Nova Scotia, but only as far as Sussex, New Brunswick. After he served in the Army as a mechanic, he likes to tell the story of how he built an Indian Motorcycle with 'spare parts' and rode it to Ontario. Of course after six decades we can all admit they were stolen parts.

He quickly found work as a mechanic. Now lets remember that he was a mechanic when they were more than 'technicians'. He was a welder, hydraulic specialist, pipe fitter, electrician, painter and more. He even taught night school until they found out he dropped out in Grade Nine. His skills led him to many opportunities, including a chance to go to South America to help set up a factory and train the workers. This he turned down because it would take him away from his family for six months or more.

His love and talent for music also soon found him in a band. This led to a regular Saturday Evening Radio gig with his band, The Nova Scotia Ramblers. (a strange foretelling as he would later work for Rambler and A.M.C.) It was on the radio that he proposed to my mother by dedicating a song for her, a tune called "Flop Eared Mule". ( I would later steal his idea to propose to M.D.B., but that's another story.)

His musical talents were legend, and earned him a spot on The Ted Mack Amateur Hour in New York City in 1959, a pre-pre-precursor to American Idol. He won trophies at the Canadian Old Time Fiddle Championships for his novelty fiddling; playing behind his back, head, holding the bow with his knees and many other contorted, impossible positions. During a weekend trip to see the Grand Ole Opry, there are pictures of him sitting around the hotel pool, jamming with the stars of Hee Haw. Their offer of a spot in the show's band was turned down because music wasn't a stable income for a man with a family.

His accidental un-quest for immortality led him to one other thing, he gave me his name. This is not uncommon, you may say, except that it is an uncommon combination of names. Most of us have 'Googled' our own names to see if there are others out there. Lorraine Sommerfeld called it 'Googleganging.' Try it and see how many you can come up with.

A search for my first name comes back with over 124,000 hits. My surname, 179,000. Put the two together?

It comes back to two people. Just the two of us. In all of the internet.

A very exclusive club in which I have been Vice President for almost 44 years.

The other night I visited the old man, and it made me sad to think that the man he was lives in him still, and wonder what it must be like to live with his memories.

I'll be the President someday, but its not a job I necessarily want.

The President in his heyday

DJW

the music that played on the wind