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Salt Spring Island, BC Canada
She/he/they do not want me to use they’s name in this chronicle so I will only refer to they as The Old Professor. Some folks don't appreciate the notoriety of 25 likes on Facebook. It’s only fair that I respect the Professor’s privacy.
The Old Professor is banned from the Salt Spring show because the local sponsors don’t want anyone in the building who has tested positive for the Covid Virus.
The Old Professor has been an covid Zombie for about four days now, mostly hiding out in a pup tent. At first his tent was under an apple tree in the middle of a field at Nameste Farm (Gabriola) and now it is attached by a silver tarp to a rusted out travel trailer behind the big bus on the west side of the upper pasture at The Paradise Within Farm. This is where we are all camped. It is near Fulford Harbor on Salt Spring Island.
The silver tarp stretches over his tent and provides a shaded cave where the Old Professor can duck under to be out of the sun. They sits there on a camp chair practicing their’s Ukulele. Professor has been writing songs for the past few days. Most of them begin with the phrase: “Lordy, lordy, this Covid sucks”. I believe the Professor has found just about every English word that rhymes with “sucks”. All in all it is a labor of love and resistance. The Professor is substantially sick. Nothing life-threatening but still a coating of crud in the lungs and sinuses. Plus there is the quarantine-thing from the rest group. I check on they frequently, but it’s always masked and from 12 feet away.
None of this can dilute The Old Professor’s enthusiasm.
It is a shame really because the Old Professor’s comedy act has been one of the most consistent laughter- gathering bits in our otherwise music-heavy show.
It’s a small emergency so I attempt some show infill for the Old Professor. I do it with my newly-invented Hercules Sausage bit: I come on stage dressed as a Canadien logger, a ball cap on my head embroidered with a Canadian flag and the words “Elbows Up”. I proceed to explain to Dmitri Karamazov the secret ingredients in our Hercules sausage (old growth saw dust). Brilliant. Comedic genius.
I thought I was being funny, but apparently not….”
After two performances we cut my bit from the show. By popular demand, I must note.
Ok, so I’m not much a performer. No substitute for the Old Professor. Granted.
My true job is to observe. So I go back down to the beach.
The 47 ft schooner Vagrant is sitting at anchor in Fulford Harbor, clutched by low tide with less then a fathom of water under her keel. The water is so shallow it seems like we can walk out to her and climb aboard. Her captain, Erin Marden, has loaned her to Aqua Chautauqua and taken part in all of our activities, ferrying passengers among the islands. It is a privilege to go aboard and sail with him and Our British Friend has booked passage south to Galiano. In the meantime we are swimming in the shallows, over a beach of barnacles and crushed oyster shells, it’s good to have water shoes, and the ocean is surprisingly warm for this northern latitude. I’m able to wash myself pretty thoroughly and remove the stench of my failed comedy debut.
I should probably admit here that despite me failings, I am still in the show.
In my mono-tonic voice I lead an a-Capella group we call “A Fine Kettle of Fish”. We are the second act in the first half of The Big Show. We march on stage to a pirate rhythm and we sing all the verses of a Sea Shanty known popularly as “The Wellerman Song” I’ve rewritten the lyrics to follow (somewhat) the plot of Moby Dick though I am quite sure that no one really gets the references. (No one really understood Herman Melville until about 100 years after his death, so I don’t feel so bad.) We wear stripey French sailor shirts. We are early in the show and so far (to my uncertain knowledge) no one has walked out during our 2.56 minutes of fame. Luckily both REAL sea captains (Eric and Erin) are anchoring the group, so just in case we are run out of town for music abuse…. we can sail away into the sunset.
And speaking of sunsets we have reached the part of the tour where we can finally see to the horizon and the pink of the summer clouds as they cling to the far line of water and dipping twilight. It’s a magical view, imagined for several days now and made even more poignant by the idea that we might actually make it to the end of the tour.
The thought of which does not seem to be a concern for the Old Professor.
Professor is almost through this Covid Ordeal having processed the virus, tested negative twice and is now on the mend. The virus now goes on to infect Professor’s son, who is now a famous Karamazov Brother (Zhukov) and a key player in the Big Show. Zhukov is a decent actor and fine juggler and his new found fame is soon tempered when he somehow manages to contract the Zombie virus from others he is tenting too closely with. No judgement here. My male instincts led me to some precarious situations when I was his age. Chautauqua tours always provided lush opportunities for that kind of thing. Hopefully there will be no lasting repercussions. We need his talent.
The Karamazov Brothers are beginning to fall like fruit flies. How many more characters can be stolen from the novel? The second string substitutes are getting thin. And the show must go on.
But even though they won’t let the Old Professor perform in the show at Salt Springs, the Professor sits in a folding chair just outside the side door of Fulford Bay Community Hall. The Professor is wearing a surgical mask and their eyes are sparkling with amusement. They is still enjoying themselves. No matter what.
The Old Professor has many years of experience on Chautauqua tours and they has seen many people come and go and I am sure this is not the first time they has seen someone like me, die on stage.
“Not bad,” the Professor says as I come to stand next to they’s chair. My heart is pounding with the exertion of not being funny. “Have you ever considered learning the Ukulele?”
“I totally bombed,” I say.
“Sure,” they says, “But it only makes the rest of us look that much better.”
The Professor seems to be laughing under the mask. We are very old friends and I look into the upper half of their face and see they is totally enjoying the big turd I just left on stage.
“Like everything else it’s a community service.” the Professor continues. “And at least you didn’t try to juggle.”
The show at Salt Spring Island is surprisingly successful. Twice, at other shows, people have come up to me afterward wanting to buy Hercules Sausage. My routine somehow backfired.
This time after the show I am left completely alone.
I suppose there is something to be said for THAT.