A Town Without Honor

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Love and Honor.

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I was alone in St. Johns, Newfoundland, trying to clear my head and wash the anger from my heart. The love of my life turned out to be a cheating slut, my family and friends had betrayed me, and I'd abandoned the business I'd spent years developing. If not for my two kids at home, I don't know if I'd ever go back.

I was lost, wandering, loathe to return and deal with the heartbreak.

Aunt Jean had located my 'cousins'. Second cousins to be more precise. Dad's cousins and all their kin. They were there in abundance. A quick meet-up downtown led to a George St. pub visit, where a few more of them found their way in. Before the end of the night, I had made commitments. And I was no longer quite alone.

I visited their homes and met the family. I talked about where we came from, and about Dad and his siblings. We had many a drink in his honor. Many.

I learned something. Newfies were a tight-knit bunch. Like Bedenton, but even more so. Family was everything. Everyone was related to everyone else. It typically only took them a few minutes to figure out how. Seemed like three degrees of separation among the entire island. Eat your heart out, Kevin Bacon.

They loved music and every get together seemed to have a musical element. Maybe it was just my family, but I doubt it. They'd sing popular songs, with a guitar or two in accompaniment. A couple of the 'uncles' played accordion or some weird push-button version of one; I'm not all that familiar with them. The 'ugly-stick' would make its appearance. Definitely a Newfie thing. Some kind of five foot long stick, with nails, bottle caps, and washers sticking out all over. It had a rubber boot on the bottom. They'd shake it up and down, hitting it with another stick. That was the percussion. Combination bass, tambourine, snare, heck, I don't know what. Strange to see the first time, but some of those old boys could sure keep time with it.

Every now and then, especially as it got later, they'd do some traditional songs. I'se the b'ye, The Old Polina, Kelligrew's Soiree, Squid Jigging Ground. My family had a special fondness for the Petty Harbour Bait Skiff, and The Ryans and the Pittmans (admittedly my favorite). At each meeting, everyone was encouraged to sing their 'signature' song. Uncle Bill would eventually be forced to recite 'Big John'. Cousin Danny would do his Elvis impression. Aunt Marie did a great job with Wagon Wheel. If you couldn't sing, you stood up and recited. Uncle Johnny recited the Face on the Bar Room Floor.

Of course, the inevitable "It's on ya!" turned to me. Like I mentioned, I can play a little guitar and didn't shy from the occasion with way too much beer and Screech in my system. I'd spent a fair time on the road listening to music, one theme recurring. I was almost embarrassed to start with a Taylor Swift song, but whatever else you think, that little girl has a better grasp of writing love lost and betrayal songs than almost anybody living. Go figure.

♫

It's strange to think the songs we used to sing

The smiles, the flowers, everything is gone

Yesterday I found out about you

Even now just looking at you, feels wrong

You say that you'd take it all back, given one chance

It was a moment of weakness and you said, "Yes"

You should've said, "No", you should've gone home ...

♫

I know I screwed up the chords, but I sang with feeling and got a nice round of applause. It wasn't long before my turn came up again, with the singing moving around the large room. I was passed one of the guitars. Cousin Ronnie never gave up his; it seemed he could follow along with anyone. This time I started with a popular 'oldie but goodie' by Alan Jackson. I was drunker by this time, but could still handle three chords.

♫

I thought I knew her well I really couldn't tell

That she had another lover on her mind.

You see it felt so right when she held me tight

How could I be so blind?

But still you wonder

Who's cheatin' who, who's being true

Who don't even care anymore ...

♫

I think there was little doubt where my mind was at when I didn't give up the guitar and started right in on a Tritt Travis classic.

♫

You say you were wrong to ever leave me alone

Now you're sorry, you're lonesome and scared

And you say you'd be happy if I would just come back home

Well, here's a quarter, call someone who cares.

Call someone who'll listen, or might give a damn

Maybe one of your sordid affairs

But don't you come 'round here handin' me none of your lies

Here's a quarter, call someone who cares ...

♫

By 3:00 am we'd lost a good part of the crowd. I was still going strong. I loved the ambiance, the friendship, the family environment. I loved the story-telling and the drinking. Most of all I love the cathartic outpouring of my loss.

♫

Your cheatin' heart,

Will make you weep,

You'll cry and cry,

And try to sleep,

But sleep won't come,

The whole night through,

Your cheatin' heart, will tell on you ...

♫

I woke on the floor beside a strange bed, in a strange room, in a strange house. It took me a couple of minutes to find the bathroom, but I eventually made it, managed to clean up a bit and find my way into the kitchen where four of my distant relatives were gathered around a table.

A woman I didn't recognize got up out of her seat and had me sit down. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then got up and pulled some pancakes out of the oven for me. She laughed as she handed me the plate. "One time only, we saves it for you, since you're a guest. In the future, as family, you'll be fending for yourself." At least, I think that's what she said. Her accent was thick enough to cut with a knife.

I nodded appreciatively, my head still thumping, and gratefully accepted a mug of coffee and three aspirin. She also put a tall glass of water in front of me.

She sat on a stool at the kitchen island, overlooking the table, while I started in.

Surrounded by three women strangers and one man, who I barely knew, I was oddly comfortable. They were chatting about some local gossip when the woman on the stool got up and refilled my coffee. She ran her fingers through my hair, motherly like. "Ya wants to talk about it, honey?"

I looked up at her, and around the table. I had an embarrassed look. "Uh ... where am I, and who are y'all?"

They laughed heartily. "I'm Diane, and this is my home," the lady feeding me offered. "Your father and my mother were cousins. The party last night ended here. You were feeling little pain after we left Barbara's."

Of course, she was a Newf, and it sounded more like, "I's Diane, and dis 'ere's me home. Yer fadder and me mudder were cuzins." She spoke fast, the words blending together, with one of the strongest accents I'd heard. After four days on the island, I thought I was getting used to it. I was wrong.

I remembered going to three different homes, I guess this was the last on the tour. I looked around at the others and thought I recognized one of the women, an older one. "Lena?"

She giggled and patted my hand. "Right the first time."

I blushed. "I'd say I never forget a pretty woman's name, but I guess that would be a lie," I said with a glance at Diane, then another at the third woman at the table.

She laughed and held her cup up in a toast. "Peg, nice to meet you. I missed out on the festivities last night. Nobody told me there'd be entertainment."

I stood up to put my plate away, but Diane took it from me and pushed me back down. "You remember Ronnie?"

I grinned. "Our guitar hero. Sure, don't know how I forgot his name."

"Screech does dat to ya," he said with a laugh. "You was some shockin' good on the guitar, b'ye. A reglar Newf. Bout time ye come home."

I was wrong. Diane didn't have the strongest accent. I could barely understand what Ronnie said. I grinned. "Y'all related?" I nodded between Diane and Ronnie.

"Me brudder. You and he, two sides of a coin," Diane explained.

I looked confused, and Ronnie got up and returned with his guitar. He hit a couple of power chords and started singin'.

♫

I wrote her off for the tenth time today

And practiced all the things I would say.

But she came over, I lost my nerve

I took her back and made her dessert.

Now I know I'm being used.

That's okay man cause I like the abuse.

I know she's playing with me.

That's okay cause I got no self esteem ...

♫

I couldn't help myself and sang along to the Offspring song, and soon everyone was joining in.

When he finished, he looked at me and shrugged. "Yer runnin' and I'm waitin'."

"Why?" I asked, curious as to why he'd put up with that shit.

Diane laughed. "That's what we all ask."

He blushed. "Hell. I loves 'er."

It took a while, and a mug of the hair of the dog that bit you, but they heard my sad tale, of love lost and betrayal. They were good listeners, and better at asking pointed questions and pulling out any details I tried to gloss over. I even extracted a few tears on the way.

When I confessed to setting the cars on fire, they practically cheered. "Newf tru 'n tru," Diane laughed. "Give 'em a good punch-up after?"

I shook my head. "Not yet. I still reserve the right. I guess I got one good shot on Fred the next time I saw him. Not near enough."

"He's yer cousin, business partner, and best friend? He's got it coming. You best not only kick his ass, but you should make a reg'lar thing of it," Peg said. "That girl of yours, one right sleeveen."

Whatever that meant. From the distasteful way she said it, she was probably right. Hell, even the word sounded nasty.

During the telling, I did take a break to call the kids. I was heart-broken when Marie wouldn't get on the line. Beth was yelling at her in the background while my daughter screamed she hated me for leaving. It wasn't a good time for me. I thanked Carol and said I'd try again the next day.

We moved out to the porch and picked up a few more guests as they trickled in. There was plenty of storytelling going on and I was encouraged to tell some of my own, although talk of my marriage issues was prohibited for the moment. Diane had kind of adopted me, sitting nearby and giving me a poke anytime I ventured into painful territory. "None of that, b'ye. Happy times."

Truth was, I had enough of those and besides, I wasn't doing much of the talking. The beer was flowing, but I noticed my cup didn't get refilled if I drank too fast. I kept it slow and steady and maintained a nice buzz. Someone showed up with four of the worst pizzas I ever tasted. I tried to pay and was reminded I was a guest.

"The hell with that," I laughed pulling away from Diane's hands and getting out my wallet. "Someone told me I was family, and I sure as shit will pay my own way. I didn't pay for the beer, and no friggin' way I'd pay for that Screech poison, so I'm going to pay for the pizza, or find someone else to drink with." I pulled out the weird feeling brown bill with the big 100 across it.

Diane said it was too much, and I told her I guess I was paying for the beer after all. They didn't fight it too much after that.

We talked and chattered, gossiped and laughed. Eventually, Ronnie pulled out the guitars and we had a bit of a learning session where I was taught the 'proper' way to play the Newfie songs.

That's when I fell in love with their music. The Ryans and The Pittmans, aka We'll Rant and We'll Roar was the initial cause. I loved the song. The story, the melody, the heavy beat on the chorus. A fisherman's song, and a story of growing up, loving girls, and settling down. A powerful easy tune, which a drunk with a strong voice can give real feeling to.

♫

We'll rant and we'll roar like true Newfoundlanders.

We'll rant and we'll roar on deck and below.

Until we see bottom inside of two sunkers.

Then straight through the channel to Toslow we'll go.

I'm the son of a seacook and a cook in a trader,

I can dance, I can sing, I can reef the main boom.

I can handle a jigger and I cuts a fine figure,

Whenever I gets in a boat's standing room..

. ♫

Relatives came and went, and I had to wonder if these people partied all the time. Of course, I later learned that I was the catalyst, not that they didn't like to have the odd kitchen party or two, but the visiting Yank cousin was the draw for this one.

I was perched on the couch, with Cousin Ronnie facing me across the way. My fingers were aching since I hadn't been allowed to put my little guitar down since we'd changed location. It got me plenty of laughs, that only a Yank would think that what I had was an improvement on the design.

I can fake a song with the best of them, I guess. With a capo and a few dozen chords repertoire, I have enough of an ear to play something like a tune for most anything. A basic knowledge of music theory helps a lot. There's a few songs I can play middling well, but faking it works well enough in our type of setting.

When I heard "It's on ya" directed at me, I started in with one of my cheating songs. The next time around, I was feeling the beer and the loss, and played the greatest drinking song of all time, and perhaps the most heart wrenching. Johnny Cash. It suited my voice. I wasn't an Irish tenor, more of a baritone naturally, and could handle the low notes pretty well.

♫

Well, I woke up Sunday morning

With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad,

So I had one more for dessert ...

♫

By the beginning of the second verse, I noticed the crowd had grown quiet; the ugly stick had stopped banging and was jingling softly in the background. I was playing a simple strum with the alternating bass strings thumb picked. Ronnie picked up a simple bass line while I let the pain flow.

♫

In the park I saw a daddy

With a laughing little girl that he was swinging.

And I stopped beside a Sunday school

And listened to the songs they were singing.

Then I headed down the street,

And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing,

And it echoed through the canyon

Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday ...

♫

I managed to sing steadily, with a few tears rolling down my face, my dreams of yesterday now nightmares.

I got no applause for that song, just a few teary eyes. Ronnie picked up the mood with a popular funny ditty while I wiped my eyes. There was a cute young girl parked next to me. She clung to my arm, weepy eyed. "Let it go, Honor," she whispered. "There's more to life. Not everyone will hurt you."

I realized I was sitting between two college-aged girls. Don't even know how that had happened. The girl on the other side had her hand on my shoulder, leaning against me. "Sing us a pretty song, Honor. I don't wants to cry no more."

It must have been the beer. "I don't know any songs as pretty as you," I told her.

She gave me the biggest grin. "G'on. I'm not all that pretty."

"Sure, and the sun isn't all that hot, water's not all that wet, and Newfie girl's ain't the prettiest in the world."

She laughed. "I sees you got a fair bit of Newf in you. Sing me a song, Honor."

When the music came back around to our side of the room, little Jane asked me to do her song. There was one that came to mind. It was Beth's song, which I'd started playing for her when I was only 13. I'd played it hundreds of times, if not once in the last 10 years or so. Still, the finger-picking was automatic, a sort of Travis picking, and I knew it was one of the few songs I played well.

♫

It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside

I'm not one of those who can easily hide

I don't have much money, but boy if I did

I'd buy a big house where we both could live ...

♫

It was a popular song, and everyone was singing along loudly in the chorus. I looked over at young Jane, strawberry blonde hair, little turned up nose and big green eyes that gazed into mine.

I sang the chorus to her. The first time I'd ever sung it to anyone but my Beth.

♫

And you can tell everybody this is your song

It may be quite simple, but now that it's done

I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind that I put down in words

How wonderful life is while you're in the world.

♫

Her head was resting on my shoulder when I was begged for an encore. It was the first true acoustic picking song I'd done, showing a bit more than the typical rhythm guitar I'd played. I broke into another one of my favorites. A song I could play note-for-note like the original, a fun song. One I had told myself I'd play for my kids one day. It was sad that I had never gotten around to it.

♫

Christopher Robin and I walked along

under branches lit up by the moon...

♫

Kenny Loggin's House at Pooh Corner had the house rockin', and I realized we had a good bit more than the eight or so people we'd started with. Must have been better than twenty folk in the room. Even some rug rats on the floor in the middle.

The sad part was that every song tore at my heart. Even that popular kid's classic. The chorus line:

♫

Help me if you can I've got to get

back to the house at Pooh corner by one,

you'd be surprised there's so much to be done ...

♫

almost had me weepy, thinking of my kids.

At the end, Diane leaned over my shoulder and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "That's better. No more cryin' tonight, b'ye. Gives us sometin' else fer the lasses."

By the opening intro, Ronnie was grinning, and we played an almost perfect duet, with ugly sticks kicking in around the second verse. I sang the Oasis chorus to my couchmates.

♫

And all the roads we have to walk are winding

And all the lights that lead us there are blinding

There are many things that I would like to say to you

But I don't know how ...

♫

Jane had a sweet little soprano voice, and I was surprised at how well she could extemporaneously sing harmony.

♫

Because maybe

You're gonna be the one that saves me

And after all

You're my wonderwall.

♫

For a couple of hours, I almost managed to forget. I was enjoying the attention, the joyous family atmosphere, the attention of pretty young girls. I answered requests for songs when I could. I teased my girls why they didn't ask Ronnie to play more. After all, he played better than me.

"We've heard all he has plenty of times," Jane laughed. "And he don't play no better'n you. He sure can't sing better."

It was nice to hear, even if it was stretching the truth. He was way better. I did have a few songs I played well, even if I was still woefully out of practice. As for singing, I could hold a tune, but my voice was nothing special. I guess the one thing I had going for me was I wasn't afraid to belt it out.

I wondered for a moment why I'd spent so many years of my life workin' my ass off, day and night, just to be betrayed by everyone I did it for. Fuck them. I deserved more. I should be able to have fun. Adventure. Love.

I caught Ronnie's eye, and he raised an eye brow in question. "The Cars."