AN ISLAND CEILIDH PART 3: MAGIC MOMENTS

Six days previous, we wait backstage at the Stanley Bridge Hall. I look out the window. The line is growing outside. That gets my blood boiling; it’s going to be a good night. Even the weather is perfect: mild and overcast. I call that “ceilidh weather.” If it rains- nobody wants to go out. If it’s too hot- nobody wants to come in. This evening of August 16th 2018, the conditions are fertile.

At seven sharp the ladies of the Women’s Institute open the doors and the chaos begins. Families and old folks from all over flood the doors. I can always tell the Floridians- they usually come in couples, the men in colourful flat-brimmed ball caps, not to mention their tan skin and matching massive prescription sunglasses. When they step out of their RV’s, they are sure to be wearing khakis; Floridians never wear shorts in Canada.

Tom heads up on stage around 7:15. Our step-dancer Veronica is making tea while our fiddler Andy and I tune up.

7:20 and no sign of Dad. I’m antsy for his arrival. I share a few laughs with Andy, then pour myself a cup of tea. Sure enough- a Nissan Juke comes ripping into the crowded parking lot. He’s here. A few minutes later the door opens and Dad comes up the stairs. He’s fifty and tall and wears a dark blue dress-shirt, a smile, and his trademark tweed cap. In one hand he carries a clunky wooden accordion box, in the other he’s got a clear plastic box with a ham sandwich and a scoop of potato salad jostling around inside; a free lunch from the gig he just finished twenty minutes ago. I can hear Tom on stage by himself, already telling a joke involving false teeth and a steak dinner. Dad pops the sandwich in the fridge and pours himself a cup of tea. I pour a cup for Tom, and we clamber up on stage.

Tom is clearly enjoying the big turnout. “I like blonde jokes. Any blondes in the audience; or used to be blondes?” He tells a blonde joke, then rattles off about five jokes that target men. If you’re going to offend someone, you got to make up for it with your follow-up jokes. Dad pipes up:

“This is not the normal way we start our ceilidhs.”

“It’s a good way!” roars an old fella in the front row. I can tell he’s going to have a good night.

Dad continues: “Well, this is my uncle Tom. He missed two ceilidhs the past couple weeks; hes only missed four nights in 21 years.” The crowd oohs. “He had to fly up to Ottawa to get his aorta repaired. He was under the knife, lying flat out in some kind of johnny-shirt with his rear end poking out- look at him up here now.” Applause and laughter. “Here’s the funny thing- five years ago they couldn’t even do this surgery but thanks to nanotechnology they were able to find his heart.”

We are seven minutes into the show and there’s still no music. I can tell which crowd members are making their first ceilidh- they are visibly perplexed. Finally, Dad starts up a tune called “Come in, Come in.” Within seconds- POP! My guitar cuts out from the speakers. The fellas continue to play as I fumble around with my guitar, feigning that I know how to fix the issue.

“I think it’s your cord,” says Dad. I fumble some more.
Just as Tom goes to sing, the whole system cuts out.
“Come in, come in, oh this mic is just not on.” The music peters out. The crowd roars with laughter.
“Penalty for jokes!” yells the fella up front.
“I told a couple of jokes, got a couple laughs and you turned me right off,” says Tom.

Dad checks out the sound system.
“Oh look, that would explain it.” He holds up the cord to the system- it had become loose and fallen out of the socket from all our stomping. It’s a perfect example of what Dad calls “magic moments.” It’s his belief that every good ceilidh needs five of these unusual incidents that just happen spontaneously. Like when he and I used to set a bottle of moonshine and an old still on stage at one of our weekly shows in Western PEI. “People thought we were pretending,” laughs Dad. At the last show of the summer he passed the bottle all around and everybody had a swig. “Once the goodwill is flowing, and people are comfortable, the moments happen.”

Back on stage, the sound system is up and running. “Alright, let’s try this again,” says Dad. “1,2,3-”

“Hold it!” Tom is struggling to strap back into his red button-accordion. “I’m glad I don’t wear a bra. I would have hung myself years ago.”