8 March 2013
It was a sad sort of day. Canada is not the same now Stompin' Tom Connors is dead.
Put a couple of his cds into my car after kissing Sonja and the dog good-bye on my way to the sawmill. Couple of his newer ones. They are my favourites of his. Not every artist does his best work when they have gotten old enough to no longer see the romantic appeal of graveyards.
I slapped my thigh and sang along as I made way along first the nearly deserted rain slick streets of Steepleton, then speeding in demented commuter unison along the highway, before making it the last few miles to Ma Kelly's Greasy Spoon for breakfast.
There was a story about Stompin' Tom in the paper and a song of his playing on the cafe radio.
"You like that Ma?" I asked as I tapped my steel toe boot on the dirty carpet floor.
She stopped her morning preparations for a minute and listened. I could tell her answer before she told me. She was not stamping her toe.
"You no cowboy," she said to me. "Why you listen that?"
"Don't need no reason Ma," I told her. "Except maybe I'm a fucking Canadian."