see it BIGGER
(Peter MacLean, right foreground, at the Johnstown Milling Frolic 2007)

While living on Cape Breton Island I would visit Peter, a Gaelic singer, a couple of times per week. He is a font of information on songs and stories, language and local history, but mainly he’s a wonderful person and great company. Outwardly the community is quite conservative, but in private Peter is opinionated and outspoken. You know something good is coming when he leans in, fixes an intense glare on you, and says, “Between you and me, dear…” Peter is 90 years old, strong and striking, impeccably dressed for every visit in a crisp white dress shirt. He lives in a tall white house at the end of a long driveway, the house where he was born. A collection of faded red sheds is scattered around the yard, like a motionless herd of cattle. He still maintains the land with a little help from neighbours — and the moral support of his two dogs. Now and then he complains of a stiff knee, but dismisses it lightly as strain from driving the tractor.

It is my last visit before moving back to Toronto. By now I have not only learned quite a bit more about the place of songs within this community, but also honed my skills at nursing a few stiff drinks over day-long conversations. When I arrive, Peter throws more wood into the stove, even though the house is already stifling hot. “There’s plenty of wood, dear. I just split up an old barn door yesterday.” Today, Peter wants to play his violin for me. He hauls out the case from under his chesterfield. “Real lizard-skin leather,” he says, stroking the case. “A man gave it to me in Boston in 1951. But I haven’t played it in a long time…”

He takes out the fiddle, puts it to his chest and starts to play. Despite the shaking of his hands and the scratchy sound of the bow, his fingers are true on the fingerboard, and there is a swing in his strokes, making it easy to imagine him, playing for a party 70 years ago. I compliment his style. “Thank you, dear,” he says quietly. “I could play all right, in my day.” Next, Peter plays a Gaelic song. I recognize the air and begin to sing along: “Och mar a tha mi, ‘s mi nam aonar…” To my dismay, this prompts him to hand me the fiddle. “Here, you know the air. You play it.” I protest that I cannot, I have never played the violin, but he is insistent. “You’ll pick it up soon enough.” Somehow, willed by this forceful 90-year-old, I manage to scratch out some semblance of the melody. It is hideous, but Peter nods silently, approvingly. “You’ll pick it up soon enough. You should keep at it. You might be having a down day, maybe you’re a little bit depressed, maybe things aren’t going your way. So you go to the violin, or the piano or a songbook. Go through it – just for yourself, doesn’t matter how it sounds. And you’ll find your whole attitude is changed. Music can have a powerful effect.”We sit and contemplate this truth for a moment, but then Peter stands up abruptly to put away the fiddle. He makes tea as usual – tarry Cape Breton tea that stews for fifteen minutes or more. For the first time he pours mine into the china cup and saucer that belonged to his late wife, “since it’s your last visit for a while.”

Hours later when it is time to leave, he hugs me with a force that nearly knocks me off-balance. In the doorway, over the din of barking dogs, we talk about our plans to meet again in the summer. As I make my way down the long drive I fumble for a notepad and recorder, having been hesitant to break the mood of our visit to act as a scholar. But then I stop the car short and wave to him as he stands in the doorway. I’ll remember the facts somehow, or I’ll call him for a reminder. I drive out through the woods, singing a Gaelic song.

reproduced from the Newsletter of the Society for Ethnomusicology Fall 2008