GrataTuesday-Homeless old guys, stolen beer and a weekend with no lighter!

 

We're back again with another GrataTuesday, this one a tribute to Dear Ol Dad. 

As always, GrataTuesday is brought to you in part by the GrataToad and the letters I, O and U!

Lacey Bean, the alligator queen,

drivin' around in her Pontiac reptile machine. 

Loven' all the little critters green,

Ortis the tortoise and Stubsy mean.

Went to Truro with Corona and the Medicine Show seen. 

Then to Aylesford mountain where the fox is queen, 

Off to Merle with straw hat and jeans,

homeless man in the yard, 

Bean to the door in all her lard.

Lacey Bean

Love

Dear Ol Dad 

Feb. 2014

People are often shocked, some even appalled by the relationship I share with my family, but as today's mammal of honour always says, 

Fuck em' if they don't like it!

Growing up, my father was...difficult to live with, to say the least. That's not to say I didn't learn an unbelievable amount from him. He, like an ogre, smells like a swamp (at times) and has many layers. 

For a man who is as unrefined as my father is, you'd be surprised at what is kicking around in that ever so addled brain of his. 

Born July 20, 1957, to Peter John Victor Lescaudron and Violet Evangeline (Titus) Lescaudron, Donald William Lescaudron was just over two months premature, weighing in at two pounds two ounces. 

This is the point in the story where a lot of you will ask who the hell Donald William Lescaudron is. Donald William is my biological father, don't worry, you have all met him; there is no big family secret or scandal. This is just the first of those layers I was talking about. Some of those layers are fleshy, some fatty or furry, others are made of Dorbond 90, eggshell semi-gloss, grease, grime, marsh mud and general filth (both physical and proverbial).

From a very young age, my father has gone by Nick so much so that most people don't realize that it isn't part of his name at all. 

The name came from his father, who, after seeing a comic in the paper featuring a wee lil mouse named Mouse Nick, and due to his supper small size they started calling him Mouse Nick... Eventually, the mouse was dropped, and Nick stuck.  

As kids, dad took us camping, canoeing, hunting and fishing. At the time, I didn't realize how much he taught me. It was changeling to enjoy time spent with him due to the Nick fits*, which would result in my being in tears approximately 100% of the time. This probably explains why I feel that I am always going to get in trouble for something. My father was not always the easiest to get along with, and as a child/ young teen, it was hard for me to deal with... Now I tell him I'm not dealing with his shit, and he tends to settle down quickly. My parents officially split up when I was twelve or thirteen, and Dad moved to Clements Port. The real fun didn't start until I was about 20, though. 

My childhood wasn't all that bad. I was exposed to more than the average tiny human though. I wasn't coddled, and we were a very no BS household with few secrets, and that relationship holds true with both of my parents to this day.  Dad didn't drink much until I was older. I don't remember seeing him drunk until the summer I was 11. Mom and I joked about waxing his chest while he was passed out on the couch. 

Neither of my parents read to us much, Mom struggled to read aloud, and Dad would have rather tell us stories of his own than read someone else's to us. He told bear stories, stories about bears in the woods. Each one was different; it could have been about a cub finding a stray child in the woods and taking it back to its mother, asking to keep it as a pet, or the old farmer that needed help picking his blueberry crop or making friends with the friendly campers.  They were always off the top of his head, and he never remembered them after. 

One Victoria Day weekend when I was probably fourteen or fifteen, Dad, Steve (one of Dad's childhood best friends), and I went on a fishing trip. I can't exactly remember where, though I am pretty sure it was Digby County. I do remember there was a few bass but mostly Chain Pickerel. I actually enjoyed fishing for Pickerel, they are aggressive fish and easy catching, which made it more fun. We took the canoe and tent and stopped in Digby at the Super Store for grub before heading out. Now for those of you who have met my father, you can just imagine what kind of motley crew we looked like running around the bakery section.  Dad took a baguette from the shelf** and bonked me on the head with it. Well, that just wouldn't do, so of course, I picked one up and returned the favour. That started an all-out baguette sword fight in the middle of the store. The staff had to ask us to stop but didn't ask us to leave... which looking back, was probably because we looked pretty intimidating. 

That weekend I caught the smallest little Pickerel and named him Perry. I don't know if I had intended on keeping him or not, but I put him in a pot on the beach, sadly he got too warm while we were gone and ended up becoming a snack for a larger pickerel. Unlike the "pet" bass I insisted Dad bring home after I caught it as a very young child. His name was fish, and I would dig worms in the basement and feed him moths I found. Apparently, we tried to feed him newts too, but he would always spit them out...probably because they are poisonous and didn't taste very good. 

The summer I was twenty-one, a favourite band of mine was playing at the Dutchy Maison Blues Fest in Truro. I knew none of my friends would want to go, so I asked Dad if he wanted to go with me. That started a pretty amazing tradition, and even though we have changed festivals and locations over the years, we hadn't missed one until this summer, and that was only because the entire country was pretty much shut down. That year things were pretty slow. We didn't know too many people up there and pretty much drank our beer and kept to ourselves. The following year, however, that's when the real fun began. You see, for these little adventures, we had a pretty good deal going on, Dad would buy the tickets, beer and pot, and I would be the responsible one and take care of all the gear, food and transportation. This was before I had a car, so I relied on my awesome friends to deliver us our gear, booze and food to the festival grounds on Friday and fetch us on Sunday. Colleen was the fabulous mammal of choice that year, and thank the gods for that. Dad referred to her as our angel for years after that. It all started when we were waiting in line to get on to the ground, and a GMC motorhome a few vehicles ahead of us had broken down holding up the line. Dad hopped out and saved the day. The motorhome was a late 70s model, and he had much experience with them. It was a quick fix, and we were once again one step closer to our weekend of debauchery. Then came the tickets, now Dad doesn't do computers or TV the most he does is radio. So he had no real way of know what the cost was. He just based it off what it had been the year before. 

Ticket costs we MUCH more than they had been the year prior, and we didn't have enough. ** INSERT GIANT NICK FIT** that almost had him removed from the grounds. Que Colleen, her chill demeanour and magical credit card. Colleen sprang for the tickets, knowing how much we were both looking forward to the weekend. She then delivered us to our campsite and went on her mary way. 

Dad and I set up the tent, got everything situated and tapped into our beer.  That summer, he had bought an entire case of courts of Corona among other beer and cider, and I had a bottle of homemade meed a friend had given me. Shortly after our arrival, we noticed that we had no lighter and very few papers, novice mtake...no lies we were a little ashamed of ourselves. We toddled over to meet the neighbours. Whom looked like reputable young men, with motorcycles and a fancy sunshade. This is where we first met part of our "Festival Family" and Glenn with two NNs! We managed to find fire and the evening was very enjoyable. The next morning we awoke, around eight am and went to start back in on the beer, as one does at this sort of party. Come to find our Corona and meed were gone, along with our scissors and what few papers we had left along with a flashlight and a few other bits. We followed the trail of flotsam into a field, and came to the conclusion that someone had made off with our beer. We cursed them and wished them hungover and were given beers to mourn our loss by our friendly neighbours. That's when the two spritely young ladies that owned the motorhome from the day before came prancing along in the early morning sunshine. Long blond hair and boho skirts blowing in the wind, they carried a basket full of the largest muffins I have ever seen. They approached me, offered me a muffin and asked me where my boyfriend was. I very VERY quickly corrected them, informing them Nick was my father... not my partner!*** We all started into our beautiful apple cinnamon breakfast muffins when halfway through, I discovered that there was a very chewy and undisclosed ingredient. They were apple, cinnamon and fungus muffins...it made for quite the adventure. 

There are many blues fest stories, most featuring our festival family that we have formed over the years. Many of which will have their own GrataTuesday entry. I have yet to decide which of the stories should be shared and which would be better left verbally documented, for incrimination sake. 

One of our many concert adventures in the spring of 2013 had us at the Halifax Forum to see the Mighty Merle. Dad chose to spend a few days with me at my apartment in Dartmouth. This was a very small basement apartment, only two rooms. I rented from a young couple who were odd, stand-offish and really...normal, rather lame.

They decided that they wanted me out of the apartment. It turns out the wife's niece wanted to move to Halifax for school that fall, and they wanted her to have the space. They used my housing a homeless man and grounds for my eviction...Dear Ol Dad was the "homeless man" in question. Now in their defense, there are days where he appears homeless to the untrained eye. But they didn't exactly go about informing me of my impending eviction the proper way. A few days after Dad headed home, I had gotten home quite late on a Sunday evening. It was almost midnight, Alex had dropped me off after Sunday supper, and the husband had the dogs out in the front yard for what I assumed was their pre-bed pee. Seeing as I lived alone, I very frequently started the clothes removal process almost immediately after the door closed behind me. I was standing in my bathroom washing my face and brushing my teeth when there was a knock on my door. I ignored it, it was late, dark, and I lived in a slightly questionable part of the city. There was a second cluster of knocking after a minute or so passes, which I continued to ignore. That's when I heard a key scrape in the lock at this point, I was getting cranky. It was late, I lived alone, and if someone wanted to talk to me, they could do so during business hours. I walked to the door and opened it just as the upstairs husband was turning the knob. I startled him, and then he took in the scene; me at 250lbs stark naked with one hand on my hip and the other on the doorknob.

I greeted him with very unfriendly words, colourfully asking what he wanted at this hour.  He stammered and asked me to cover up, I replied definitely and demanded he explain his actions, or I was calling the police.  He then informed me that they did not appreciate my housing homeless men and that I would be given the paperwork in the morning for my eviction. Needless to say, the door was slammed, and I found a new housing arrangement ASAP. 

This, of course, became one of Dad's favourite stories and the muse for many of his poetic works, one of which can be seen above. 

Here is too many more summer nights going for a stagger through a field of tents and campers, a lifetime of yard sales, stories, phone calls, concerts and general shanagains. Thanks for the life lessons and for teaching me never to back down...oh, and don't forget the wonderful anxiety and the unique spelling (see incorrect) of my middle name. 

          The famous Father Daughter weekend banner, when she was all new and shiny!

Dad lounging on his front porch drinking a beer

                                                         Dad, Kerri and I 

Early  morning blues fest beers

The Festival Family a few years back

Dad showing off his tattoo, I have the same one and yes, we got them at one of the fests!

*Nick fits, better known as fuck fits, were as a result of what we (the kids, ex-wife and his sisters) now all agree is most likely an undiagnosed anxiety disorder....with a pinch of oppositional defiance disorder sprinkled on top.

**Yes, we bought the bread! We had intended to all along. 

*** The following summer, I made a banner stating that it was a FATHER DAUGHTER WEEKEND. Luckily there has been no further confusion.