- It is Sunday evening and the kids have just eaten supper.
Carl Barr, the patriarch of Bedford township, will be arriving shortly
to join me for dinner. I remember that he will be eighty-one this year.
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- I hear the screen door creek. Pat, his daughter, enters
first saying Carl is right behind her. A large silhouette appears behind
her supported by a cane. The shadow moves into the light -- it's Carl.
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- "How are you, old-sock?" I ask with playful
respect. "What do you know?" Comes the hearty answer. Carl's
smile brightens the room. I take their coats inviting them to the table.
-
- It is not long before the gentle giant starts to share
stories of yesteryear -- the conversation meandering from the war to, square-dance-calling
and eventually, music. I don't recall how we started talking about war
songs. The conversation settled on a favorite singer of mine, John McDermott.
I had listened to his CD earlier today, and perhaps I unconsciously moved
the conversation in the singer's direction.
-
- "He has a wonderful Scottish voice," I say
in an effort to spark Carl's interest in listing to him. "I have heard
him and you are right, he sings very well." Comes Pat's recommendation.
"I have the CD here, Carl, perhaps you'd like to listen to it?"
"Well, okay. What songs does he sing?" I retrieve the McDermott
CD and read aloud: "The Green Fields Of France, By Yon Bonnie Banks,
Danny Boy, The Last Rose Of Summer, And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda,
The Old House, The Faded Coat Of Blue, The Rose Of Tralee, The Sun Is Burning,
Christmas In The Trenches, The Minstrel Boy and Auld Lang Syne."
-
- A gentle smile moves across Carl's face, his eyes sparkle
softly under bushy grey eyebrows. "I know them, son. Every one of
them," he says in a nostalgically distant voice. "I'd like to
hear them again."
-
- I place the CD in the machine it starts to play. Carl
looks familiar, sitting in that chair with his hands cupped comfortably
over his cane. The song, The Green Fields Of France, starts playing. The
song was written in 1975 by Eric Bogle after he visited a Battalion cemetery
in France by the Belgian border. He had paused by the grave of a soldier
named Willy McBride who had died in 1916 at the age of nineteen. In his
song he asks the young McBride about his life and how he died.
-
- Carl listens intently to the first few lines. Then, like
an old memory calling out over time, his trembling voice wells up to sing
the chorus: "Did they beat the drum slowly? Did they play the fife
lowly? Did they sound the Death March as they lowered you down? Did the
band play The Last Post and chorus? Did the pipes play The Flowers of The
Forest?"
-
- Tyler, my eight-year-old son, looks to me. He knows something
is happening but is not sure what it is. He moves across the room to me
I place my arm around him. Watching Carl, I see his eyes welling with
tears I move to turn the CD off. "It's okay, Lea. I have a cold,"
says Carl rasing his hand. "I might catch your cold if we listen longer,
Carl." The patriarch smiles gently saying, "Let's listen."
-
- I sit beside Tyler again placing my arm around him. We
listen to several more songs as the kids drift off to bed. Pat stands up
saying she will go start the car. I retire to the washroom Carl stays
in the chair listening to the songs.
-
- I exit the washroom to see Carl sitting alone, singing
with asthma filled lungs, songs that return the memories of friends and
sacrifices, of battles and heartbreak. McDermott is singing Auld Lang Syne
Carl is singing with him, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. I walk
to his side placing my hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay old-sock?"
-
- "We lost a lot of good men, son. Fine young men.
A lot of them, farm kids," he replies in a soft trembling voice. "I
remember every one of them. Every-one. I was remembering Father Brown.
I guess it was D-2 or perhaps, D-3. He was shot dead where he stood."
I pat his shoulder. "He was doing the Lord's work giving the last
rights to a soldier. He died holding his bible he never let go of it.
I needed to remember. If it was me that fell, I'd want someone to remember."
-
- I help Carl to his feet he is stiff from sitting. I
help him on with his coat and hand him his cane. He moves slowly toward
the door. He pauses, speaking over his shoulder, "Thank you for having
us over. It was a fine meal and the entertainment, first class. Drop by
tomorrow if you can, I could use a hand getting a load of hay. Rest well,
son. Good night!" "I'll be by Carl." His large silhouette
enters his daughter's car disappearing into the snowy night.
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