Wether you're a music nerd, just a casual listener, or somebody who doesn't really do music, it still has an effect on your life. Wether it's something small like a passage of a song reminding you of your 8th grade class trip, or something big like seeing your boyfriends band play and deciding that he's a keeper, there's an effect. I'm a music nut. Things people say to me will remind me of a song, which will trigger a memory, which will remind me to pick up something at the grocery store. A tiny sliver of a song will bring back something I did that I'd completely forgotten about. A smell will bring back a song. That song will bring back a memory. It's a trigger. Cause and effect. "This" meets "That" and causes "The Other Thing".
But sometimes there's no memory attached to a song. Sometimes there's just emotion. And circumstance. When I hear "The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice, I usually cry. I sang it to my wife at our wedding, I sang it to both kids when they were born, and it was the first song my wife and I both actually liked. That song has strong memories for me and it's emotional.
But if I listen to "Cold Water" by Damien Rice, I still cry. Not because of any memory, but because it's just a sad song. But here's the thing. Sometimes, any song given the right circumstances will cause a reaction. "Cold Water" makes me cry because it's a sad song. But I've been in situations where I'm in my car listening to Clutch and the rantings of Neil Fallon will make me cry. Most recently it was "10,000 Witnesses" from their album "Robot Hive/Exodus". It's not a sad record. It's a bit weird, but nothing to cry over. But the combination of Fallon's vocals, the bands music, and the loudness of it all causes a reaction. And it makes me wonder, "Is this an emotional reaction, or a physical reaction?". Am I crying because of the song, or am I crying because my body is overwhelmed by the stimuli?
Sheryl Crow put out a few decent records that appeal to soccer moms and AM radio, but the follow up to Tuesday Night Music Club, the self titled album, obviously called "Sheryl Crow" was absolutely fantastic. It's an album I come back to every two to three months. She's got a song on that album called "Redemption Day". It's a good tune. Probably about the middle of the pack on that album as far as the quality of the song. But one day I found myself listening to a Johnny Cash version of that song. I was at the grocery store in the middle of an aisle choking back tears listening to Johnny's voice work it's way through those words. Sheryl's version is obviously good. She wrote it. But when Johnny took it, it became something more. This songs still makes me beg the question "is it the song, or the circumstance?". Is this emotional or physical? I haven't listened to the Sheryl Crow version at the grocery store yet, so I'm still not sure.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
forest
I heard few stories about it. The history of our community and it's river are not very well documented. A few of the older folks can give you some stories, but they're few and far between, old and senile, or dead and gone.
My uncles used to tell me that my Grandfather did it. The whole house would get quiet when the heritage commercial with the log rollers would come on. Walking across the logs with the hook in their hands, pushing the wood down the water. Even at my young age, Grampy was old. To imagine him running like those guys on TV seemed so foreign. All he did was sit in his chair and smoke his pipe.
The piles of wood stuck out of the mouth of the river like moles in the whack-em game. I asked my folks what they were for. How did that wood get there? In it's heyday, this river was important. It was deeper and wider. If you walk with your back towards the water, you'll walk through forest and you won't stop til you reach the Bay of Fundy. They used to walk in, and cut down the trees. Once they fell, they'd roll them, hundreds at a time into the river. From there, they'd push them down with the current. Walking across the once mighty trees, now laying, stretched and reclined on the waves and water of the Benjamin River. They'd go passed where the hydro runs. Under the Trans-Canada. Around the bend through the Dark Hold, and on over the Shiny Rock. The river widened and where Timmy & Jason LaPointe, Derek Bernard, Ryan Duivenvoorden and I would walk and talk and they'd make fun of me, the river was covered in bark and branches. Some say they can't see forest for the trees. In those days, you couldn't see the water for the logs.
Nowadays, there's not much of a forestry business up there. There's not much of anything. Last time I was home, I forgot to check if the portage road that ran alongside the river is still there, or if it's been grown over. You can walk most of the river now. From where they dropped the logs, all the way long to the Baie des Chaleur, save for where she hit 20 feet deep at the Dark Hole. Life runs in cycles. You feel bad, and you long for the way things used to be. But long as you might, it won't change. Things happen, and they happen for a reason, and no matter how hard you try, it's not going to stop changing. Your best bet is to strap in, shut up and hold on. And then maybe, just maybe you'll reach that stage where you can see the forest for the trees.
My uncles used to tell me that my Grandfather did it. The whole house would get quiet when the heritage commercial with the log rollers would come on. Walking across the logs with the hook in their hands, pushing the wood down the water. Even at my young age, Grampy was old. To imagine him running like those guys on TV seemed so foreign. All he did was sit in his chair and smoke his pipe.
The piles of wood stuck out of the mouth of the river like moles in the whack-em game. I asked my folks what they were for. How did that wood get there? In it's heyday, this river was important. It was deeper and wider. If you walk with your back towards the water, you'll walk through forest and you won't stop til you reach the Bay of Fundy. They used to walk in, and cut down the trees. Once they fell, they'd roll them, hundreds at a time into the river. From there, they'd push them down with the current. Walking across the once mighty trees, now laying, stretched and reclined on the waves and water of the Benjamin River. They'd go passed where the hydro runs. Under the Trans-Canada. Around the bend through the Dark Hold, and on over the Shiny Rock. The river widened and where Timmy & Jason LaPointe, Derek Bernard, Ryan Duivenvoorden and I would walk and talk and they'd make fun of me, the river was covered in bark and branches. Some say they can't see forest for the trees. In those days, you couldn't see the water for the logs.
Nowadays, there's not much of a forestry business up there. There's not much of anything. Last time I was home, I forgot to check if the portage road that ran alongside the river is still there, or if it's been grown over. You can walk most of the river now. From where they dropped the logs, all the way long to the Baie des Chaleur, save for where she hit 20 feet deep at the Dark Hole. Life runs in cycles. You feel bad, and you long for the way things used to be. But long as you might, it won't change. Things happen, and they happen for a reason, and no matter how hard you try, it's not going to stop changing. Your best bet is to strap in, shut up and hold on. And then maybe, just maybe you'll reach that stage where you can see the forest for the trees.
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