And nothing says “I’m thinking of you” like flowers. Luckily I don’t have to go far to find some for this Mother’s Day — the backyard continues to bloom.

Like these lilacs. They’re my mom’s favourite. They wouldn’t grow on our rocky property along Georgian Bay when I was a kid. So on Sunday afternoons when the lilacs were in bloom, we would drive around town after church, pulling over whenever we saw lilacs so my mom could smell them. If we found wild ones next to the road somewhere, she was after them like a bumble bee. She’d snip a few twigs to bring home and stick them in a silver flower vase inherited from the doughty women of her clan.

Mind you, the first flowers I ever gave my mom were dandelions. She did what a great mom does: put them in a vase of water on the windowsill.

She knew that kids know the truth about dandelions: they’re pretty. Just because they have a mind of their own doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate their beauty. And the dandelions in this yard remind me that humble roots go deep, and are not easily discouraged. My dad’s mom once called this backyard garden her own, and her fiesty spirit lingers on this day.

Violets are another flower that always make me think of my mom, and her mom too. But when I think of my grandma, I also think of my daughter, who carries on her name. She’s not a mom yet, thank goodness, but one day maybe she will be. And in loving her I must always remember and respect and honour her mom. Here’s to her great spirit too.

I have fond memories of my mom trying to cajole more violets into growing in the shade beside our front porch. In my yard, which has many shady places perfect for violets, I’ve successfully encouraged them, digging them up and putting them where they’ll thrive.

Likewise, the forget-me-nots, which seem to like a little more sunshine.

I don’t remember knowing this flower up north as a child, but they’ve been a welcome guest in the garden here in Toronto, where I’ve helped them a long a little. Seems to me I didn’t even know their name when they first showed up, keen and bright. Perhaps just a single flower, exploring the possibilities. I liked the possibilities. I was happy to make them a home and to help them find comfort here. Like my beautiful wife, who’s growing into impending motherhood beautifully. These are for her.

There’s this mystery flower in my backyard, too. I don’t even know if it’s officially a flower or not, but what do I care?

Golden, beautiful, mysterious: reminds me of my birth-mother, and how she remained a mystery for so much of my life — a life that she first carried. It’s a miracle that we know one another now and I’m wishing her much love on this day too.

May all our mothers blossom and bloom in the warm sunshine of our appreciation, and the sustaining rain of our respect, and the deep rich soil of our love.

Happy Mother’s Day, with love, to moms everywhere.

It’s never been much to look at—an east-end Toronto row house much like any other—but as readers of this blog know, this house has been home to my family since 1888, when my grandfather’s grandfather, John Novell, built it, along with the adjoining houses on either side.

I’ve been coming here for my whole life: when I was a kid, growing up north of Parry Sound, my grandmother and uncle lived here, and it was a favourite place to come and visit. My dad lived here for a big part of his childhood. I’ve lived here myself for 12 years consecutively now (I previously stayed here for a year in 1997, too) and I’ve now owned the place for 10 years, since I bought it from my uncle.

That’s the longest I’ve lived anywhere, with the exception of my childhood home on Georgian Bay. I’ve lived here nearly as long as my dad did. It’s been a roof over my head, a dream come true, a labour of love, and a great story.

For years, I worked and schemed to get into a position to buy this house. When I finally managed to do that, I was so grateful it was hard to imagine I’d ever leave. It did wonders for me, and I like to think I did something for the old place too. We’ve certainly grown together, and a part of my daughter’s growing up has happened here too.

After sharing the place with a spouse for 8 years, my worst fear when we parted ways was that I’d go broke and lose the house. I went out on a limb financially to try to avoid that. It has not been easy.

Hanging on, in fact, has been a huge challenge—but for a long time, it seemed easier than letting go. Not anymore. Like my family before me, I’ve been nurtured by this old nest, but it’s time to fly.

In my heart I think I always knew I would have to move on one day. I was never really city kid, and I was bound to hear the call of the small town life again one day. Now that day is coming quickly. A change of career, a new marriage, and above all, a new kid on the way… the writing has been on the wall for a while, really. It’s time to sell the old house and move on down the road.

That means this house, which has been my home, will be a house again, momentarily empty.

My heart may be empty for a moment too, when I see the place briefly barren, and think of all the sweat and love I’ve put in, and my family before me too. But this house and I will both breathe in and be filled with new life, and move on. Somewhere there’s another house for my family to make into a home. Somewhere there’s the son or the daughter of another family whose dreams will make this house a home again.

I’ve talked to my ancestors about this, if you know what I mean. I’m confident they understand. After all, for all these years, those who could, got out as soon as they were able, back when this neighbourhood was the wrong side of the river. None of them expected to be here long; certainly not for five generations of ownership. I feel they’re proud of me and what I’ve done, and of how I’m moving on, and why. As I am of them.

A journey is a wonderful thing, but not more wonderful than the story of the journey. After all, a journey ends, but the best parts of it live on in the story.

I’ll be taking the story with me, and living it as I go. It is the last of the tasks that falls to me, in this welcoming little house I’ve been proud to call ‘home.’

Here are a few I found in my backyard garden.

Forsythia blossoms

Purple trilliums

Day lily leaves

Silver maple foliage

Violets in bloom

Climbing roses

White spruce buds

Saskatoon berry flowers

It’s only March, but for folk singers, that means the summertime is starting to take shape.

My festival season officially kicked off with a mention in the Owen Sound Sun Times yesterday, and a post from Sumerfolk Artistic Director, James Keelaghan announcing an amazing lineup.

What a lucky guy I am to find myself among that stellar group.

Back in the early nineties, when I was attending folk festivals as a volunteer, a gate-crasher, a busker and a wannabe songwriter, Keelaghan was one of those musicianss I really looked up to. A guy who was actually DOING what I dreamed of: writing great songs, playing for audiences who appreciated his work, and working the ‘one warm line’ of this country’s vast, inspiring landscape.

It’s an incredible thing, two decades down the trail, to be invited by someone of James’ stature to join the lineup of one of my favourite events again this year.

Thanks, Summerfolk. Here’s to a great festival, and a great festival season!

Watch this space for more announcements soon.

The cry of the loon, the howl of the wolf, the hiss of the startled rattlesnake – I’ve heard all these calls of the wild, and others in their dozens.

But for me it’s the cry of the chickadee that speaks most eloquently of nature’s loving embrace.

Who comes first to the feeder in the fall? Who’s the friendly face of the woods on a sunny day in late wintertime? Who comes boldly to an outstretched human hand full of sunflower seed, when no other creature would dare approach?

None but the black-capped chap with the chipper chirp and the cheery disposition.

‘Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-dee’, comes the spritely salutation, followed by a flutter of little wings. Suddenly the bushes nearby are alive with spirit, and we’re no longer alone in the winter woods.

Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-dee! Chickadee-dee-dee-dee-dee!

It was the first bird song I ever learned, and the last I’ll ever forget.

It’s a song my mother loved, at the feeder, on the deck, at our home in the woods around Parry Sound.

It’s a song my grandmother cared for, with the sap pails and spiles, in a sugar bush along a dirt road north of Sault Ste. Marie.

It’s a song my daughter knows now too, from our excursions into the edge of the great frontier we can still reach in our time.

The call of the chickadee. It’s not the call of the wild.

It’s the call of the comfort of home.

I’m biased, of course: The McFlies were my idea, way back in 2004, when it occurred to me that what the world needs now is an acoustic 80s band. A wonderful whim that turned out to be bang-on.

But this band of brothers has grown to be so much more than a whim. Week in, week out, for years, we worked our material into shape, to the point where our repertoire of acoustic 80s material is up into the dozens of songs – all with our own unique stamp.

The McFlies sound is simple: we keep the groove, drop the synth, and add the folk. But it’s far from easy. Everybody in this band is a multi-instrumentalist (even Alex, our all-star fiddler, sings and plays rhythm as well). We’re all involved in multiple musical projects. And we all make sacrifices to keep the band together and rolling. Mainly, because we love it.

The results speak for themselves: huge shows at Summerfolk and the Peterborough Folk Festival. Five years of our superb Summer Slam shows at Lula Lounge, where this video was filmed.  A Breakfast Television appearance.

And on Friday, a return visit (our fourth) to one of our favourite venues: Hugh’s Room, the anchor of the folk scene in the city. We love the way they let us bring the folk – in the form of 80s hits, suitable for dancing. Hard to imagine anyone else getting away with that.

What I love is the way this band bonds. Getting together with the guys is like hanging around in a hockey locker room. It’s all jokes and mutual loving abuse, and we laugh until the tears stream down our faces.

But when we get into the songs, we’re just a hard-working a group of musicians. And when we get on stage… we rock out!

Which is what it’s all about, eh?

Hope you can join The McFlies at Hugh’s Room Friday night – a benefit, by the way, in aid of the Alliance for Equality of Blind Canadians.

the sign says,

a lucky man got born here again

born again here, eh?

and here again here

now again now here now

here and now, here and now

hear, and then…

soon after hearing comes sight

it says

all thanks

to the source of the name

it says

all praise

to the source of the light

I admit it: I’m a little high on the smell of my new CD, Give It A Whirl. You know that fresh-minted smell you get when you crack open the shiny cardboard cover for the first time? I’m inhaling it and more than that, I’m reveling in it.

These past few weeks have seen me tooting my own horn a lot, and it’s not comfortable for me. I’m a lot more at ease introducing other people, or letting people know about their great work through Roots Music Canada. I believe in this album, though, and a lot of people believed in this album, so I’ve doggedly done what I can to make sure it gets the kind of reception I feel it deserves.

Still, it’s been such a hard climb and such a long time coming, that as of yesterday I felt as if my first studio record had simply worn me out.

That was until I rehearsed with producer Gregg Lawless and a knockout band this afternoon. I felt as musically grounded as I’ve ever felt, with their incredible experience and talent to back me up.

Shortly thereafter, I visited my friends at MMS to pick up boxes of the new beauties. They are works of art. Thank you, Janine Stoll, for the hard work and sensitivity that went into this lovely design. It’s made the project shine.

The package makes a difference in listening to the record, too. As many times as I’ve heard the rough mix, and then the master, it was nothing to finally popping the album into a stereo to listen to every track in its completed form.

It’s been a long road. It was a hard grind. But as of today, I can tell you it was truly worth it.

Tomorrow, I’ll share that feeling with the audience, in a live setting at my CD release at Hugh’s Room. Today I share it with anyone who’s sweated for a long time to bring a project to completion. It’s good to feel the satisfaction, eh? May every musician be as satisfied as I am today with this work. I know I’ve done my best, and damn, I’m happy with Give It A Whirl.

So much so, it feels like I kind of want to keep those babies close, hug them to my chest, sleep curled up among them in a real pile, and hang onto that feeling.

But no. We didn’t come all this way just to revel in having them around. I’ll be  hearing the new CD whisper to me all night long, the night before the big gig: ‘Please release me, let me go…”

And tomorrow night, I will. With pride!

When I was a teenager in Parry Sound, recreation was a pretty simple affair: on Friday and Saturday nights, we paid somebody to go to the beer store for us, and then we went out and drank to get drunk. Since it wasn’t legal for us to be drinking in the first place, we drank in hideaways, out of sight of the OPP, who cruised the streets of town on weekend nights just to catch kids like us.

One of those hideaways was an old Second World War-era concrete bunker of some kind, alongside the railway tracks, down a muddy road off Tower Hill, high above our little town. From there we could see most of the harbour and yet stay hidden from potentially prying eyes. There we would play drinking games, smoke cigarettes or Colt cigars, tell dirty jokes, and generally revel in the desperation of being bored teenaged boys in a northern town.

It was after a Friday night session like that once when my buddy Jim and I decided we should walk across the trestle. If you know Parry Sound, you know that’s not a good idea. Stretching from Tower Hill on the south side of town to Belvedere Heights across the harbour, the Parry Sound CPR trestle is one of the longest, highest train bridges in the country.

The idea of crossing it was preposterous. Even two drunk guys knew it was an incredibly dangerous thing to do. Trains holler through Parry Sound all day and all night. And there was no safe place to be on that bridge if a train came along. Nor was there a safe place to get OFF the bridge, except at both ends. Hundreds of feet across and over a hundred feet high, the trestle had claimed lives of others in similarly stupid situations before.

So, for all our bravado, we were reasonably cautious, in a drunken way. We decided to walk to the edge of the trestle, and if a train hadn’t come along by that point, we’d go for it. How that should have been the deciding factor I’m not sure, but that’s what we decided.

Somehow, on the way from our drinking spot to the edge of the trestle, walking along the ties two at a time, hopping onto and wobbling off the rails, the subject of Whitney Houston came up. She was at the top of the charts at that time, with “The Greatest Love of All” and as a teenage heavy metal fan I didn’t think much of her, or that song. I expected Jim felt the same. “Cool” was everything to us guys back then, as if you didn’t know that already from the nihilistic way we spent our time. Cool, I have since learned, kills. But I didn’t know it yet, and if I had, I would still have wanted to be cool.

So it was a surprise to me when Jim looked at me and said quite soberly, “Dave, have you ever listened to the words?” And he proceeded to recite these lines as we stood, momentarily paused along the railway tracks over Parry Sound, the sun just making its way slowly down toward the surface of Georgian Bay:

I decided long ago never to walk in anyone’s shadow…
No matter what they take from me, they can’t take away my dignity

No, I hadn’t listened to the words. But Jim had, and seriously. Those words meant a lot to Jim.

Just then we heard the train. It scared us. Even if you’re used to hearing 35 trains a day, you still get startled when a freight train rounds a rock cut and is suddenly bearing down with its whistle blaring.

We scrambled down off the tracks in time to avoid the train, but it was close and loud and heavy enough to shake us up. We watched it cross the bridge, westbound through Parry Sound and off into the hinterland.

Had we not stopped, we could easily have been edging out onto the trestle when the train came along. It was an unsettling feeling. We didn’t much feel like crossing the bridge after that, and we turned away and headed off down into town.

A few days later, another buddy showed up at my work with grim news. Jim had been rushed off to hospital, airlifted to Sudbury, then Toronto. He underwent major surgery to remove a brain tumour. It was one of those freak, surprise things, and it was very touch and go for a while. I thought a lot about those Whitney Houston lyrics when I was literally praying for Jim’s recovery.

Jim recovered and did fine. He got great care. He was in great shape. He had an excellent attitude. Both our lives went on, mine following the direction of the train, to the west coast and then on to a wild strange path around the world before settling back in Toronto. Jim lives in Barrie now, where he runs a shop and has a family. We hang around when we get a chance. He helped me out a lot when I moved back to Ontario.

This past fall, Jim showed up for my stag party, in spades. He was practically the spirit of the evening personified, harkening back to the way we used to drink and carry on.

This is one of those little anecdotes that doesn’t really have a beginning or an end. Just memories of a small town and our small town ways. But for the last couple of years, I’ve been meditating on the idea of ‘dignity.’ And when I heard last night that Whitney Houston had died, this story was what I thought of.

Everyone else has their memories of her brilliant career, her tragic decline. But that’s mine: Two guys walking drunk along the railway tracks, in Parry Sound, Ontario. My buddy Jim and the way he took cancer in stride. The bridges we cross, and the bridges we don’t cross. How small all our lives are.

That night up along the railway tracks may have been the first time I ever bothered to think about dignity, and what it might mean if I considered it.