Rolling Cameras, Rolling Wheels, Rolling Time

I spent an afternoon this week at St. James cemetery taking instructions from a film producer and following the orders of a cameraman. Months ago a documentary film company, Clerisy Entertainment, found my Boularderie Soldiers materials on the Internet. Intrigued that seven of my kinsmen were killed in the Great War, they invited me to take a turn in a project focused on Nova Scotia’s Fallen Soldiers. I leapt at the chance. The much anticipated event at last came to pass Thursday afternoon. Producer Dale and cameraman Bud wired me for sound, delivered my marching orders, then let me loose.

I spoke about all seven of the lost uncles and cousins including three Livingstone brothers killed at famous Canadian battlefields: Ypres and Courcelette in 1916, Cambrai in 1918. It was bad enough for the brothers’ father to have lost two sons, Hugh and Charles, in 1916, but when his favourite son, David, was killed just a month before the Armistice it was too much for the lads’ father. He died – of a broken heart the family had no doubt – within a few days of learning David’s fate. I’m told to expect a DVD of the finished product early in 2012. In the meantime I’ll keep fingers crossed, hoping not to wind up on the cutting room floor.

The week was not all work. Yesterday Cape Breton afforded a relative rarity in the summer of 2011, a brilliant sunny day. Rather than scrub floors or go to town to resupply the larder, we dusted off the bikes and enjoyed a good ride with Bob on a backroad route to Hank’s Farm via decommissioned Mill Pond Road. In his 82nd year Bob sets an intimidating standard: he rides as well as we do and provides a floor show while he’s at it, belting out show tunes all the while he’s turning the bicycle crank. It was mildly encouraging to discover that Bob may be mortal after all: the last couple of big hills took enough starch out of the old guy that he focused strictly on the pedaling and gave the show tunes a rest – but only for a while.

August is just around the corner but the swimless streak continues: I have yet to fall prey either to the freshwater charms of Dalem Lake or the saltwater allure of the swimming hole below the cabin. Ordinarily by this point of summer the thermometer on the sunny side of the cabin would have hit a hundred on several occasions, and dips would be a daily delight. This year even eighty is a rarity. Surely August will be better.

A Departure, An Arrival

The curtain fell this week on the life and times of my cousin Mike Livingston. Mike’s passage packed a bigger punch than many. Only a little older than myself, Mike played a key role in an important event: my first visit to Big Bras d’Or way back in the summer of 1958. We stayed in the old Livingstone homestead – now long gone – with his grandfather, my great-uncle Alex Livingstone. My memories are vivid. In my recollection the sun shone every day. Mike and I spent most of those days outdoors. Below the house, a field (now overwhelmed by fir and spruce) stretched all the way to the fish-house on the shore). One of the strongest memories is olfactory: my great-uncle’s peach-scented pipe tobacco. That week looks flawless in my rearview mirror – not a blemish – and it doubtless played a significant role in launching my lifelong attachment to Big Bras d’Or. I of course didn’t know it at the time but that summer week in ’58 would turn out to be the only time I would spend with Cousin Mike. He died in San Francisco, a great loss to those who loved him, particularly his siblings Bill, Terri, Alex and Sarah.

The week ended with an arrival. Benjamin Douglas Johnson, overdue a week, had to be given the boot from the comfortable station he’s enjoyed these past nine months or so. He belted out his first holler yesterday at 1230 hrs PDT. A new brother for Lexi, son for Doug and Allison, grandson for Jan. At the earliest opportunity I look forward to teaching the lad the rudiments of baseball.