Down Home

-The piano begins a slow paced tempo similar to a waltz. A tune to warm up footsteps that make their way to the floor partner in hand. Soon the fiddle joins in, and matches tempo. A sure sign that things are to heat up. It's at this time I glance over and take the initiative and insist we try our whits among the locals and experts that carve this dance hall floor. A bit embarrassed and nervous, we slide into the final set.-

It's morning in West Mabou, on Cape Breton Island. Not only my favorite place to get away to, but home to my grandparents and their surrounding family. As the sun peaks up in late July I am awakened by the sounds of crows muddling about in an adjacent hillside hay field. Most days on the island this time of year are spent doing what the weather gives you. If the sun is hot and the wind is right you head for West Mabou beach, a place so hauntingly beautiful that when there time seems to stand still. Only to be measured by the shifting tides. If the sun doesn't shine and family knows you're around you prepare for a drive around the island to visit. Depending on the household you can expect hot King Cole or Red Rose tea, to be served with cookies and perhaps some homemade cheese. Other visits might include a cold beer while waiting for a cousin to finish boiling pounds of crab that were pulled that morning a few hours off the coast.

Regardless of who you are visiting, you can expect to be treated like royalty. Not because of your travels, or differences, but because the people there are beyond the salt of the earth. Always willing to take time out of their day to discuss time passed, and agree upon the weather. Yes when there I feel as if the interactions I have with my family members are perhaps the most genuine and honest I have come by.

-The music is now shifting from a slow waltz to an up tempo quarreling of noises that when played at the same time couldn't be closer to perfection. Another fiddler joins along with a guitarist. Forcing my partner and I into our attempt at a square set. It's the last set of the night and I am up here out of curiosity, a few whiskies, and my desire to be part of what's around me. Her on the other hand, perhaps she thinks I know what I'm doing, along for the ride and thrill of something new. The dance hall is now shoulder to shoulder, groups of four couples all attempting to stay on pace with each other and the music. You can only hope at least two of the four couples in your group are locals. Otherwise you quickly fall out of tune, and the entire hall can notice.-

 I quickly get my things in order trying not to wake anyone else. With only a week on the island I have to squeak in my own adventures outside the normal visits and beach days. This time I was luckily enough to sneak my waders and a few fly rods. A two hander suiting for throwing a long cast on the world famous Margaree river. In search of Atlantic Salmon. Another geared up for Striped Bass in the tidal waters of Mabou Harbor.

A few days prior when in the area my father and I stopped off at a little shed in front of a few houses, located in the heart of the Margaree river valley. The Tying Scotsman. A fifteen by fifteen foot fly shop with one wall having all the materials needed to assemble classic Atlantic salmon flies. The other fancy rods and gear. The back wall sat a table with a computer, phone, and a short silver haired man focused on his vise as he tied the days flies. He gave advice as needed to get out and fish the river, only looking up from his vise when my questions warranted an answer he wouldn't give any old tourist. To this day that's my favorite fly shop.

I was unable to connect with any salmon that morning. But my jaunts about the valley were indescribable. From the lower pools in a vast meadow, to some of the middle pools that were rocky, fast, and gin clear. Having the opportunity to fish there has me longing to return, with no expectations of catching fish. I hurry back to our place in West Mabou, it's just before noon and a mix of fried eggs and bologna are being prepared. (Far from the bologna that is sold in slices) Along with some fresh cinnamon rolls from the bakery in town, we meet at the table on the porch to gather our thoughts for the day. Gazing out at the foothills of the Cape Breton Highlands, we are all in agreement it doesn't matter what we do. 

-The music has shifted once again, a rhythm that forces you to follow the others in your circle. A brief look at each other we laugh as if how the hell haven't we gotten kicked to the wall yet? As the tones shift so does your partner, circling in a fashion, stepping and shaking with the others in your group. Sharing a brief dance with the female adjacent to you and your partner and the circling starts again. Once completed I locked arms at the elbow with her, and began to spin along with the fiddle. Even I am taken by my ability to fit in, her smile and laughter assure me I'm doing fine.-

It being noon, we’re tossed between going to the beach or hiking the old Mabou Coal Mine trails along the rocky coast. I chose to take on the trails as I recall from my previous visit, the last quarter of the trail you can slip out of the timber on a bluff overlooking the coast. An image that is burned into my memory, one of raw beauty and perspective. Arriving back at our cottage we decided we should probably go visit with my great aunt Christy down in Mabou Harbor. Her little home sits at the base of a mountain, overlooking the harbor straits and West Mabou beach. Inside she sits eager to have company with her little white dog on her lap. Over my few visits to the island I loved our seeing Christy. To me she defined the harbor, wife and mother of fisherman, she was an amalgam of grace and wisdom. I can still hear her voice describing her life on the island, through family, friends, culture, and season. If I stumble upon some King Cole back here in Michigan all I have to do is close my eyes and I'm in the harbor listening to my grandmother and her sisters laugh.

It's time to head back to get dinner plans in order, which are usually pretty loose as there is a few hours of sunlight left. And the beach is only a few kilometers away. Which means a few of us want to get down there to jump in and watch the sunset. On this particular trip we were lucky to have lots of sun, so I did my best to spend every sunset on the beach. I'd bring with me my fly rod and a beer to walk down toward the harbor straights. A large break wall of rock separated the beach from the harbor. At this particular time, about an hour before dark the tide begins to retreat back to the ocean. Taking with it schools of striped bass that flock to the shallows of the harbor to feast of bait fish. Carefully I traverse the rock wall to a knee deep pool that is formed by the break wall amidst the current and changing tides. It is here one can safely cast out fifty plus feet in search of whatever the tide may hold. I keep it simple and bring along a few different sizes and colors of Clouser minnows, a simple combination of flash and bucktail that entices just about any fish with an appetite. The takes are evident, violent at first, and leave you wondering what the hell could be on the end of your line as you stand knee deep in ocean waters. The fight can be long and these fish like to test your drag and make long runs towards the flowing tide. Once close enough, they take to the hand like a smallmouth, usually hooked perfectly in the jaw to make for an easy release to try for another.

It isn't long before my sister comes calling for me as we need to rush home and get ready. I relish my time in the tides, and I believe it shatters all other intentions I have in fly fishing. A few flies, a beer, and willing fish. Being in an unrealistic location, I somehow relate it to my first experiences fishing in my grandparents pond for bass and bluegill. An act so simple that it pulls you from reality and instills a love and curiosity of the places around you.

-All four instruments are now joined in a melody so jovial, the entire crowd of 200 plus jammed in this tiny dance hall all join with the beat.. As the entire place harmonizes the groups of four begin to head towards the stage partner in hand.  Forming a line of shouldered partners who skip their way down the center of the dance floor towards more on coming partners. Just before colliding you split off and circle around into two large lines standing across from your partner. As the lines step off to the music the wooden floor beneath begins to question is integrity, as it buckles and sways along. The music calls for a few approaches of these lines. The first two remain locked as both lines meet in in the middle of floor and belt out a "yeeeeeeee ahhhhh!"  As the music picks up it's tempo the lines separate and you join hands with your partner. I greet her with a few spins and some foot movements that can only be contributed to my relatives of the island. By now I'm sweating pretty good, but so is everyone else in the hall so I don't give any worry.-

Back at the cottage, my mom and grandma are frantically getting ready as a decision is made by rumor of a dance up the road in Brook Village. A dance hall known to draw large crowds, from old time locals who value these summer night dances as much as Sunday morning mass. This hall has a cash bar, which tends to draw more of a crowd. A place like this is a full on experience of what Cape Breton is about. And if of age, most of the locals suggest dances like these compared to the ones without alcohol, as they are more conducive to families with young children. I do enjoy the slower paced dances because it gives you  more of an opportunity to understand the different sets and how the dances are to be done properly. But much to the locals' advice it is in no comparison to being thrown into the fire on the right night at Brook Village. Little to my knowledge it was going to be one of those nights.

We met up in town, my mother, grandmother, sister, brother and sister in-law. We arrive at a ladies house by the name of Theresa-Glencoe's. Not to be confused with another Theresa, my great aunt that would be joining us as well. Theresa-Glencoe was a childhood friend of my grandma and her sisters, close enough to be another sister. Her name Glencoe refers to the town she is from, up the road from Mabou. Thus differentiating her from my aunt. Although in their 80s both of these ladies defined fun on the island. And when together their laughter could be heard from over the mountain. My aunt Theresa is known for her great storytelling and ability to make anyone laugh, and if spotted at a dance hall often locals will try and get her on the floor as she is a bit of legend when it comes to step dancing. 

On our way to the dance, we are in no rush listening to the laughter between my grandma and aunt's. It's not a big deal to get there super early because the sets usually build in intensity from start to finish. Finding a place to sit is of importance however. They get as much satisfaction watching the dance unfold as they do participating. Upon arrival the hall is somewhat sparse, with only a few dancing along to the musicians. Until more arrive us younger folk camp out in the shadows of the parking lot to the likes of a flask and a few beers brought from home in hopes to muster up enough courage to get out for a set or two.

The hall is now filling, and it's hard moving around unless you are part of the dance floor. It's in between sets and I take my grandmother to the floor for a slowing waltz with a few faster steps sprinkled in. On my way to the floor I glance at the entrance to see a glowing young woman entering with a group of middle age to elderly women. I was confused as to what such a beautiful girl was doing at this dance. Up until this point I always associated these dances as tradition and something to enjoy with my family. Never a place to stumble upon someone of her stature.

For five or so minutes grandma and I danced, but my mind raced back to my brief glance with this young lady. With only the slightest hopes we would cross paths during this dance. On our way back to our seats I slipped out the doors to locate my brother who is out in the parking lot half drunk with locals, and not aware of his cheesy adoption of a Cape Breton accent. I smirk at their convo, just enough to warrant a pull from his flask. I go back into the hall and fight off the now shoulder to shoulder crowd. I make my way to the back corner where my mom and grandma and aunt are sitting. And who's right next to my mom. The girl who I saw in the entrance. I instantly felt a lump of nervousness in my throat. As I lean into my mom's wave, she shouts over the crowd and music. "This is my son I have been telling you about." She is far more gorgeous up close, I smile at her, with redness in my cheeks brought on by far more than whiskey.

Sitting down next to her we talk. Turns out her grandmother is from Jedique. A few towns over, and is good friends with my Aunt Theresa. In fact the previous night Theresa was over visiting with them and left quite the impression, so much so that she referred to her as the life of the party. As we found our middle ground in conversation, I kept noticing her group giving her looks and hand gestures that she took initiative in getting us on the dance floor.

I could tell that she was hesitant and perhaps outside of her comfort zone, but as the piano began it's prelude I stood up, held out my hand and insisted she join me for the final set.

-Joining hands and circling back to our original group of four couples. We are both overwhelmed with laughter as we try to keep up. Which is made easy once captured by the sound of the fiddles. The final reels of the set. The piano is repeating a few chords in a rhythm that seems tribal. Giving partners no choice but to assimilate with the beat. Now the guitar joins along, strumming at the same pace and you feel as if you are in for a wild finish. "Hold on tight" I joke with her, as the fiddles burst into the melody with the sharpness of thunder heard directly outside of your window, it fuels the floor into a craze of steps and hollers! "Yeeeeeeee ahhhhh!" it's now deafening as we glide along. Spinning and stepping I catch a glimpse of my brother and sister in the crowd giggling as I try to impress this beauty.

The music continues to sway up and down as the floor follows suit. I have kept pace adding some steps I've seen renowned dancers do. Perhaps at this point she mistook or at least my feet for a local. Swinging around forming lines, and circles, the set winds down... with one final build of tempo. Like watching the grand finale of a firework show the music builds. Hand in hand I spin her around with the intent to leave a memory of this dance. Suddenly the music comes to a sharp halt, only to be met in a blink of an eye by the two fiddlers rising to their feet playing sounds so intense the entire hall is in sequence, while the melody proceeds to rip your heart out. For the next 30 seconds we lock hands and elbows side by side and swing along at a dangerous pace. And as fast as it began it was over. We ran outside to catch some fresh air and cool down. While laughing at our attempt to keep up with the rest we exchanged a hug and said our goodbyes.-

-For Aunt Theresa. September 10th, 1933 - February 6th, 2021. May your stories live in infamy, as the cool winds approach a summer evening on West Mabou Beach.