THE 2020 METAPHOR - PART II

II.

As the 1980 Rose Valley New Years’ baby, the somber milestone of Melanie’s birthday shares a date with the passing of her mother thirty one years later. Early in our relationship we celebrated in August to reclaim the joy. The weekend of Regina Folk Festival, she would be surrounded by community and music, gifts and cake, however leading into this, her 40th, the hint was dropped that something special was to be appreciated on her actual day of birth. I rented out Regina’s Floral Conservatory and copy and pasted our wedding invites requesting attendance in surprise fashion. Guests were greeted by an impromptu Christmas tree decorated in bags of Hawkins Cheezies with a golden blow-up “40” at its crown - a humorous cover for my forgetting of a birthday cake.

We were exhausted from the previous year and with Clyde’s third and final treatment the following day, we anticipated the year to come. 2020 looked to be the reward as we felt we were coming to the other side of difficult emotional work and a burn-out from remaining on the road through it all. I had a handful of album concepts I was beginning to develop as the follow-up to Realms, which required a newfound focus - one only achieved with some rest. I was also enjoying my responsibilities within Melanie’s Belle Plaine project as she executed a whopper of a campaign for her Malice, Mercy, Grief and Wrath album. Its closure coming in February as she was scheduled to play its entirety with The Regina Symphony Orchestra at The Centre of the Arts - another landmark achievement. Still a ton of work to come before we would join Melanie’s grandmother, a 90 year old Laila Sady Johnson, at her favourite Mexican all-inclusive, a pseudo-honeymoon/life-reward, a period at the end of a long hard run-on sentence. And the year continued to pay-off, as Clyde finished treatment, Malice, Mercy, Grief and Wrath was nominated for a Juno Award - the esteemed Canadian industry recognition. We were re-invigorated and now, with three months off the road, a mighty summer and fall was in the works. Melanie had accepted dates in Germany and Sweden, we were given a Winnabego awaiting my return to Texas, and each of us were creating new material.

The prolonged battle with insurance agencies was also coming to a close and we were given the go ahead to move forward on house repairs. We moved into a friend’s condo as she arranged her own month-long Mexican get-away and lined us up with her general contractor to get the job finished promptly.

With our house completely gutted and the Junos a week away, world events began to shift. I had been paying attention to the drama around Dr. Li Wenliang and his warnings from inside the Wuhan Central Hospital. We had been exposed to stories as such before but as cases of a virus began to rapidly appear worldwide, I suggested Melanie speak with her grandmother and relatives about postponing the Mexican vacation. She did as much as it fell on deaf ears and understandably so. The family departed, we prepared our Juno week in Saskatoon and I kept close watch on world affairs. As we packed the van a week later, I crushed morale as I was adamant that not only should we cancel our tickets to Mexico but by the time we were halfway to Saskatoon, we strongly considered not attending our Juno performances. The NBA had cancelled their season before we arrived and the Junos, the next morning.

We had a 90 year old grandmother in Mexico and with flights suspended we were relieved of making any travel decisions for ourselves. Our friend had returned to her condo days prior with us sharing the space for an evening but with authorities pushing isolation and our home unlivable we were left to adjust. We moved in to Melanie’s aunt and uncle’s while they remained on a beach, frantically assuming their worries as we began working with agencies to get them and Grandma back in the country. Not to mention, begging my parents to return home from their Arizona RV lot. The unknown was escorting in the anxieties we became all too familiar with throughout 2019. Our COVID initiation was filled with consternation. Finally, with trust, all relatives returned. We made emergency plumbing decisions to have a toilet and bathtub hastily installed and went on lockdown.

I had somehow had the foresight while preparing Melanie’s January party to leave my spot in a lengthy Costco line-up and return to the back of the warehouse for toilet paper. A mega double-ply thirty pack that I saw more as an attempt to make my wife laugh, than anything. Watching society unravel over such a thing gave us the smallest sense of satisfaction. We shared the collective attempts to make something of ourselves but refused to feel obligated to remain visible. We fed our masochism, Melanie binging the series adaptation of Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and I read Naomi Klien’s The Shock Doctrine, each coming to bed with Orwellian predispositions. Daily twitter scrolling enforced the narrative, especially as real-time events fell into sync with Klien’s 2007 warning of such.

Still with the lingering hope of what fall would bring, April came with a blow. European dates cancelled, Texas performances relieved, the passing of songwriting hero John Prine, and our little Clyde needing radiation treatments. It was time to pivot with a purpose.

As COVID cases in Saskatchewan dissipated as did the snow. I suspended my emergency financial assistance and created work. The immediate help at the time it was offered was crucial but to reclaim my autonomy was vital. Before the dismantled walls of our house were to figuratively close in any more, I pitched myself as a landscaper and got myself a chainsaw. I began clearing shelterbelts, whipping treelines, weeding gardens and creating rockscapes. I paid bills and channeled remaining income into studio time.

Twitter usage became masterbatory. Quick releases of anger directed at individuals’ inabilities to hold understanding and compassion. Fast aggressive lashings were robbing me of sitting with complex emotions. As I resisted my social media presence, I found my days filled with hard manual labour and writing. Long form prose, essay-style insight, podcast-esque scripting and most importantly - songs.

An artist that doesn’t ruminate on the current social landscape is ignorant and while doing so, the influence is dangerous. I began to see lyrical shortcomings in my catalogue, many of them innocent at the time of writing, some of them aging poorly yet worthy of reflection, and one cringeworthy due to the unforeseen - the playful namedrop of Jian Ghomeshi to live forever in my recording of 2012’s “Where Have All My Horses Gone?” - the influential CBC broadcaster to later be charged with four counts of sexual assault. Otherwise, the song carried a gentle political commentary taking spirited jabs at the FACTOR funding organization, drinking and driving to renew our vehicle insurance while living in Alberta and a direct introduction to our then premier, Brad Wall. The latter proved his sense of humour as the recording initiated the friendship through its satire.

Then grief of having not been onstage for almost six months was finally interrupted with an offer and even though one pre-pandemic booking was yet to be cancelled, a spontaneous festival made for two anticipated shows. A tone of resilience accompanied the Krugofest marketing and Belle Plaine was to share a rooftop performance with our wedding singer, Jess Moskaluke.