Where I'm Bound to Land

When you enter into the Sydney region of Cape Breton, the sign welcoming you into the industrial heart of the island hints at the more than concrete and commerce: "Welcome to Cape Breton regional municipality, a tapestry of cultures." Really, this cultural richness is present all over the island, and I was able to taste a little of it myself last Friday at a dinner party in Goose Cove, a stone's throw down the road from the Gaelic college of St. Anne's.

Last Thursday at Rolly's Wharf, I had dinner with a retired construction worker and closet fiddler by the name of Jim Campbell. The session was in full swing. In between tunes we chatted about our families. Jim comes from a family of ten and most of his siblings are still living and working on the island. He believes Cape Breton changed dramatically during the two years he went away to work as a young man, but he can't say how. Three hours later, the session is still swinging, and I feel like I know Jim's family as well as my own.

Eventually, we were content and comfortable enough to settle in and listen quietly to the tunes. During one of the lulls I noticed a middle-aged man talking to the lighthouse keeper, Paul Cranford. I don't know what made the fellow particularly interesting to me. Maybe it was that I'd never seen him before. His hand-carved walking stick and kind, open face probably helped. He eventually came over and introduced himself. Paul MacDonald was his name, he taught at St. Xavier's University in Antigonish, had worked with another Fulbright scholar years ago, and invited me to sit in on his group's rehearsal for the Celtic Colours festival the following evening.

Dinner time the next day, I went to meet Paul at his house in Goose Cove. I lost cell phone service at the crest of a hill, but managed to find my way down the bumpy dirt road to his small cottage. We headed down the road to Paul Cranford's house, or what he calls home the months he's not out on the lighthouse.

Paul Cranford is not originally from Cape Breton, but his love for the music has shaped his life. When he's out at the lighthouse he practices fiddle constantly, he has put countless books together of Cape Breton tunes, and his website allows anyone accessibility to traditional sheet music. Paul's wife is from Western Canada, red-haired, fair, a musician and artist, Sarah is not originally of the island herself, but like Paul, came for the music and never quite got around to leaving. Their house is beautiful. Light plays softly on the hardwood floors and Sarah's pottery decorates the kitchen. An old parlor piano dominates the dining room, with a bell-shaped mandolin resting atop its cluttered top, tipped precipitously on its side amidst loose sheet music and handmade cards.

A bearded luthier by the name of Otis sat on the far side of the table, his wife directly to my right. When she spoke I thought of the Adirondacks of New York, something in her voice, the kindness of her eyes made me think of friends back home. She tells me later the comes from the countryside of New York, she went to Caffe Lena once and saw Mississippi John Hurt play. She was barefoot and young, and the blues-god was concerned she couldn't afford shoes. Later Paul would let me play the guitar Otis made for him, and I'd run my fingers longingly over the carved knot work on its head.

Eventually, the final band member, Paper arrives. Although his roots are Hungarian, Paper grew up near Montreal, where he was well known on the fiddle scene. Now he lives in Cape Breton and golfs avidly. Paper is slight and serious, he recycles the same few sweaters weekly, and smokes hand-rolled cigarettes. He's the last person I could picture on a golf course. These friends that come from all over, with their various passions and histories, share something priceless: their love for the music and their ability to make it...beautifully.

When the group starts rehearsing, I grab a knitted blanket, wrap myself up, and take a seat on the floor by the living room door. Once they started playing, the music becomes a living, organic thing. Otis has an ear for harmonies, Paul knows a million tunes, Paper plays concertina as beautifully as he fiddles. In between tunes the group squabbled and argued over the set list, but always, the creation is the same, a sharing and blending, that mixes in the pulsing of the walls, the reflections in the window panes, and the slight whistle at the door of the approaching rainstorm. By the end of the night I want to cry. Sarah seems embarrassed that I've witnessed some minor squabbles. I want to tell her that I could care less. That what she shares with her friends is beautiful, that it's something I've always searched for, and that I hope to God to find before I die. I want to ask Otis's wife how she found her way, barefoot from Caffe Lena, to the shores of Cape Breton and to a home amidst this particular grouping of soul mates.

At the end of the night I take the English town ferry home. During the two minute crossing the wind picks up, the deck see-saws and I think for a minute that we're going to be blown off course. I imagine where the ferry would end up if I was carried out to sea, whether or not this particular mixture of wind and rain and deep-running tide would deposit me on the shores of wherever it is I'm bound to land.