The grand acts of moose and fine men
How far that little candle throws h is beams ! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. — William Shakespeare
Back home in Newfoundland the moose are now so numerous there’s some consideration of giving them the vote. Newfoundland politics being what they are, adding an entirely new block of feral vegetarians couldn’t hurt, and who knows, adding a couple of ¾ - ton hairy forest nomads to the electoral harvest might go a long way to livening up the proceedings in the Assembly. I can’t speak for where they stand on the important issues of the day, but my feeling is they tend towards the NDP on all matters except global warming. I believe they’re in favour of it. A reasonable deduction. If you spent most of your life wandering around the inland marshes in a perpetual cloud of brain- chilling fog and sleet, chewing uncooked bark and munching on cold water lilies, the prospect of a little extra heat, however induced, would probably win your favour.
There is, however, no latitude on the question of how numerous the moose are. Every quarter of a mile of any highway there are caution signs, but the moose themselves being deplorably illiterate treat them mainly as backscratchers or mute invitations to leap out with maximum stealth in front of oncoming traffic. Years ago one of the brutes wandering down Water Street in St. John’s, or interfering with the bed linen on some backyard clothesline, would make the news. Not anymore. They show up in bunches now, half a herd at a time, and hardly anyone — except excitable tourists — raises an eyebrow or bothers to text the latest apparition.
Hunting them (not that it does any good to trim their numbers; in fact, I think in some strange way chasing them over the marshes and bogs with the family rifle acts as a moose aphrodisiac) quite naturally has become a fall tradition, a recreational ritual. Heading in over the barrens, with beer, bologna and bullets during hunting season — dreams of moose meat in the larder for the winter, and a stock of moose sausages for the long months of sleet and snow powering the pilgrimage — is for most Newfoundland males, and not a few womenfolk too, the very definition of “a grand time.”
Actually, the grandest of grand times. And it has its anthem, a song that captures all the glory and folly of the fall moose hunt with melodious precision. It was written almost two decades ago by the finest, most talented comedy- songwriting trio on the island, Buddy Wasisname and the Other Fellers. Its title says it all: “Got to get me moose, b’ye!” It has to be heard. It is, like all else, on YouTube, but it would be unfair to a nation about to celebrate 150 years not to offer at least a sample lyric:
Well first to get a moose licence you apply for six whole years,
At thirty-five dollars a crack, old man, with a partner for half shares;
And when you get the licence, “cock” 'tis Area twentyeight,
Nowhere near civ-il-ization, three hundred miles away.
But I got to get me moose, b’ye!!
This trio has been doing cross-country tours for Newfoundlanders in exile for years now. They write their own songs, devise their own skits, work like dogs to have fresh material for each show, and are without question the most famous- unfamous Newfoundland entertainers ever. I know all three of them, Kevin Blackmore, Ray Johnson, and Wayne Chaulk. Take that as “full disclosure” or a boast. Set aside their wit, craft with dialect, and musicianship. They are three splendid human beings, and the most authentic — to use that captious term — retailers of genuine Newfoundland spirit on stage this generation.
As to how splendid they are, take this very recent story of just one of the trio, Wayne Chaulk, who heard of an 81-year-old woman, Eleanor Parrott, who was planning her own funeral. “She said she had everything done except one thing. She wanted the music that would be played when she was leaving the church. She just wanted to take care of things so there was no stress on her family.” The song she wanted, a lovely ballad called Carry Me, was by Chaulk but the tempo wasn’t quite fit for the ... ah ... particular occasion she intended it for. She wrote him, asking if somehow he could supply another version.
A month later, in an act of singular accommodation, and with no fanfare, Chaulk shows up at her door with a special re- recording of the song, tempo adjusted to something more Adagio, remixed and put on the CD, and personally delivered to the brave “event planner.” I won’t draw this out. But is it not a wonderful instance — in a world chock full of counter instances — of a lovely gesture from one human being to another.
The lady was thinking of her family, Chaulk admired that, and put himself quietly to the task of seeing what he could do for her. I’ ll add just one more thought: both his bandmates are precisely in the same mould.
He’s genuine, as we say back home, and they are too. Now back to the moose anthem. “Got to get me moose, b’ye” might be the perfect sendoff for a lot of lads I know. It would not have to be remixed.