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A FORTUITOUS BOARDWALK ENCOUNTER
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It was a warm Saturday lunchtime, the kind that wraps you in a comfortable embrace and whispers promises of good times ahead. I was nestled in my usual spot, a familiar corner where I had spent the past couple of months sharing my music with the passersby. Busking had become a way of life for me, but little did I know that this particular day would be a game changer.
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Anne and I had our busking routine down to a science. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings were prime time in Port Credit, drawing in city dwellers seeking romantic strolls along the boardwalk by the river and down to the lake.
Positioning myself strategically halfway down the bustling boardwalk each weekend throughout the summer, I'd kick things off with a rousing melody on my pipes. The haunting tunes never failed to lure in a curious crowd. Once I had their attention, I'd seamlessly transition to strumming my guitar, belting out a few crowd-pleasing tunes.
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The beauty of it all lay in the constant flow of new faces. Pipes, guitar, a brief intermission, and then it was back to the beginning. Rinse and repeat. And with each passing moment, the tips piled up faster than I could count. What started as a simple pastime was quickly turning into a lucrative gig, I had no expenses, I lived across the river.
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Ah, yes, our secret weapon in the busking game: Anne's knack for lip-reading. As I worked my musical magic, Anne would perch herself at a discreet distance, eagle-eyed and attentive. With her skill, she could decipher the whispers and conversations floating through the crowd, giving us valuable insights into what tunes and songs were striking a chord with our audience.
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We fine-tuned our repertoire accordingly, tailoring each performance to match the mood and preferences of the passersby. It was like having a real-time feedback loop right there on the boardwalk.
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One particular moment stands out vividly in my memory. One sunny afternoon, as I was in the midst of my piping performance, Anne caught wind of a conversation nearby. A curious son had leaned in to his elderly mother, inquiring about my bagpipe skills. Without missing a beat, the dear lady's response echoed across the air: "No, he's shite."
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Anne's eyes twinkled mischievously as she relayed the exchange to me later. It was moments like these that made our busking escapades not just profitable, but downright entertaining.
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On this particular Saturday afternoon, as the notes of Neil Young songs wafted through the air, a crowd began to gather. A few appreciative listeners tossed tips into my battered guitar case. Taking a moment to catch my breath and sip some water, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I saw a man in his forties, strolling with his partner and son. He wore the kind of smile that hinted at shared memories.
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"Hey there," he said, "you know any Led Zeppelin?"
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I shook my head regretfully, but offered a glimmer of hope, "Not today, but if you come back next week, I'll have one for you."
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He nodded, undeterred, "How about U2?"
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A stroke of luck — U2 happened to be in my repertoire. I launched into "One," and as the final notes lingered, he dropped a generous $20 bill into my tip box. Grateful, I thanked him, and our conversation took an unexpected turn.
Detecting my Scottish accent, he inquired about my hometown. When I mentioned West Linton on the northern fringes of The Scottish Borders, he fell silent. His gaze intensified, and then he uttered the words that spun my world around.
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"My cousin is the pharmacist in West Linton."
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Unbelievable. It turned out that the small village I called home was just a mile down the road from Romanno Bridge, where his cousin lived. The world suddenly felt more compact, connected by the threads of coincidence — Romanno Bridge is a village on the Lyne Water, on the A701, in the Scottish Borders area of Scotland. Settlements nearby include West Linton, the small hamlet of Halmyre where my parents lived, Dolphinton, Blyth Bridge, and Mountain Cross. The village is served by a community centre, a small primary school and a church.
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Our chat continued, and he asked about my plans in Canada. I explained that I had just received my papers and would be job hunting. Serendipity struck again — the man was a booker for several bars and restaurants in the area, organising entertainment for them. He posed a question that would alter the course of my journey.
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"Would you like to be on the weekly roster? It pays $250 a night."
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I was floored. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Anne and I danced with joy at the unexpected turn of events. But as excitement filled the air, a harsh reality dawned upon us — I lacked the necessary equipment for the upcoming gig in two weeks.
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As the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting its golden glow upon the tranquil waters of Port Credit's river, I carefully stowed away my guitar, pipes, and the well-earned tips from the evening's busking. Anne and I made our way through the dispersing crowds towards her parked car, nestled in the lot adjacent to the bustling restaurant overlooking the river.
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Weekends here meant a 45-minute wait for a table, so folks often strolled by the river while they waited. And that's where I serenaded them.
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With our heads down, counting the days tips, almost $800, we smiled at each other, just as we were about to make our exit, a tap on the car window startled us. Peering through the glass, we were met with the sight of a police officer, hand resting on his holster. He inquired about our activities, and we explained our evening of busking. It turned out he was on the lookout for "runners" from the restaurant—diners who scarpered without settling their bill.
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Initially deeming us suspicious, the officer's demeanour shifted when I revealed the contents of my pipe case—nothing illicit, just my instruments and the day's earnings. A chuckle escaped him as he confessed his initial suspicion of drug dealing.
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Engaging in conversation, I shared a bit of my story, and after a brief exchange, he bid us farewell. Though we were far from drug dealers, it was comforting to know that the local constabulary kept a watchful eye on the area, even if it led to some amusing misunderstandings.
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Racing against time, the next day we hurried to the local guitar store, arranging rentals for an amp, microphone, guitar, and mic stand. Rehearsals at home became a routine, and the pieces slowly fell into place.
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The night of my first gig arrived, and it went off without a hitch. Over the next year, I found myself booked for two or three gigs a week, building a presence in the local scene. With diligent saving, we managed to purchase my own gear, marking a significant milestone in my musical journey.
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Yet, there was another chapter waiting to unfold — a chapter unrelated to the melodies and chords that had become the soundtrack of my life. Steady employment beckoned, and so began the next phase of this incredible journey.
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