MIDLAND TO SARNIA
THE SHRINE
Prior to last week’s show, I’d only been to Midland twice. Once in 1965 and again in 1966. Both times it was because of a school field trip. The Church of Saint Joseph, Martyr’s Shrine, is located in Midland. This is a Catholic church dedicated to the memory of eight French missionaries who were tortured and killed in the 17th century. Along with six Jesuit priests, there were also two lay persons murdered by the Iroquois at Saint Marie Among The Hurons, a French-built, fort-like structure near the shrine. This mission has been authentically reconstructed and is open to the public.
The church itself was completed in 1926 and has since attracted many people as a pilgrimage site. Hanging along the inside walls are crutches, canes, and braces left by pilgrims who were apparently faith-healed.
As we drove into town, I was thinking that the chamber of commerce here was missing the boat. They could really develop the theme and bring in a lot more tourist dollars. Here’s some ideas:
The signs on any cul de sacs could be changed from ‘No Exit’ to ‘Dead End’.
Have the CBC produce a televangelist sitcom taking place in the shrine starring Bruno Gerussi as Reverend Gene Scott.
There could be an annual faith-healing weekend including an Oral Roberts look-a-like contest hosted by Benny Hinn.
They could change the name of the department store at the edge of town to Wal-Martyr.
THE SHOW
The concert was great. No one was injured.
SARNIA
The second show we did last weekend was a Sunday matinee in Sarnia.
I’ve never spent much time in Sarnia, Ontario. It wasn’t part of the bar circuit I was on, and I have no relatives there. I played a few shows here with Gord, and now two with the new band.
We drove down from Midland the day before. What should have been a four-hour trip turned into six and a half hours. It rained most of the way, and we got caught in traffic in Toronto.
But there was no rush. Load-in wasn’t until 10 am Sunday.
It wasn’t until after 9 pm that we got checked in and settled into our hotel room. Jeanette was ready to just crawl into bed, but I talked her into checking out the restaurant/bar.
Sitting at a table right near the front was Rick’s son, Jeremiah, with Andy and Warren.
They were well into their “good buddy” level of intoxication.
“Hey! Sit over here.” One of them yelled.
“The sign says wait to be seated,” I yelled back.
“It’s just a formality”……….
“No, it’s not,” came a voice that was definitely not yelling as a young lady escorted us to their table. It was like a Three Stooges episode as the guys tried about five different seating configurations before arriving at one where Jeanette and I could sit together.
On my right was Jeremiah. He does a lot for the band. He takes all our photographs, helps with load-in and stage set-up, and assists his father, Rick, our band leader, who is temporarily under the weather. The cheese definitely fell off Jeremiah’s cracker long ago. He has an off-the-wall quip for everything.
Across from me was Andy. What can I say about him? I’ve known him for forty-five years, and for forty-two of them I had no idea he could pick the guitar and sing (and sing and sing). He’s a man of few words, preferring to observe rather than debate……Who am I kidding? This guy has more stories than the Empire State Building.
On the other side of Jeanette from me was Warren. His nickname is Wiggy. He was our tour manager with Gord since 2009 and now with TLB. He’s extremely good at his job and has amazing references. He is, however, a certifiable lunatic with a bizarre sense of humour.
Arrange for these three guys to be seated at the same table, add alcohol, and run for your life.
Jeanette amazingly lasted an hour (is that my phone ringing?) before abandoning me.
THE SHOW
Matinees are strange. To begin with, I’m not fully conscious until 3 or 4 pm on any given day, and these afternoon shows start at 2 pm!
I’m like a cat. I’m nocturnal by nature. This was both confirmed and strengthened by working the midnight shift for a year at Inland Publishing.
During my teenage years, my old friend Marty and I would slip out of our houses during the summer holidays and hang out together until four or five am.
My addled old brain just seems wired to work better at night.
If I have to perform, my subconscious tricks me into thinking it’s nighttime when it’s not.
The show was just as good as the one in Midland, proving that it doesn’t matter what time of day it is; we’re consistently in top form, although I wouldn’t want to push my luck with anything before noon.