In 1973 my mother, sister and I had made our annual summer pilgrimage to North Bay. It seemed like we were trekking across the country, packing food and luggage, when in fact it was just a 4.5 hour drive. We had to stay a week in order to make that odyssey of a drive worth while for what was probably $6 of gasoline. On this particular visit, there was the North Bay parade for Civic Day. My cousins Robert and Sammy were in a cover band and would be playing on the flat bed float truck that my Uncle Tony used to ferry his bulldozer to excavation sites. The night before the parade with folks decorating the truck, the teen boys were practising. Although they were probably 16-18 at the time, they were like grown men to me. I remember my uncle Tony who had been a stand up bass player in his time was giving them a pep talk about only playing the upbeat songs and to give the spectators a good show. There was something in his supportive nature that was resonating with me that I had never experienced that type of fatherly support in my own life and it was special to be watching. In those days you could take off after breakfast and you might not see your mother for the whole day while you were off with friends and cousins. On the day of the parade, I somehow managed to find myself sitting on the roof of the flatbed truck all on my own while the parade took place and my cousins played for the spectators. My eyes are watery remembering this instance in time I cherish so dearly. They played ‘You’re Sixteen’ many, many times. No one else other than they, my uncle and myself knew of the constant repeat performance. They may have in fact just played that one song over and over. My cousin Sammy had amazing vocals and then they threw in ‘Flip Flop Fly’ for my cousin Robert to sing. But what I was most enthralled with was the drummer, Stefan. I was perched up right behind him and I was mesmerized. At some point during the parade, some other cousins who were there along the route saw me on the roof of the truck and jumped up and joined the fun. I did like having the spot to myself, but having them there too, that was ok.
After the parade, I pestered another drummer, Steve Marleau, a friend of my cousins who was in a well known local rock band to teach me the drums. I assumed that I could learn in a few minutes. He took me to a local music store and bought me a pair of drum sticks and a rubber porto practice pad and he taught me a standard 1-1,2 drumming stick pattern. I practiced for about 20 mins until the desire passed. When I went back south to our farm, my neighbour friend Wilfred, without any practice was able to keep a better beat on the porto-practice pad, I was really deflated. Funny enough, I still have that porto-practice pad, and the same two drum sticks are still with me. It would be many, many years before I would finally get behind a drum kit and start practicing.