It was last August that I wrote a post on Gord Downie of the Tragically Hip and his final concert (here). In it I argued that the extremely talented Downie, the ultimate Canadian in the liberal's view of Canada, did not require platitudes as he endured his final battle with cancer, but rather grace (too). Well the giant of Canadiana culture, who oddly enough had Tom Petty as his favourite musician growing up, has died. And if you believe our drama teacher turned prime minister, we are now less of a country because of it. The legendary poet-rocker Gord Downie, the one of who's music I and countless others admire, has died. No poetry about it. Just death, which comes for us all.

What has struck me most is the typical way a death such as his is portrayed. That is, a seemingly happy death. Surrounded by family. The Canadian dream to the non-bitter end. He lived and died a hero.

The highlight of my summer: driving past a Bobcaygeon sign.

Tonight my son Joseph and I were at Mass. In what can surely be attributed to my worldly distractedness, or maybe just a moment of grace too, at the elevation of the chalice I was prompted to pray for Downie's soul. In death he still does not need platitudes, but prayers. There is only one who has conquered death. The one roundly mocked and hated by many of our Canadian liberals, Jesus, is the one hope for Downie.

Later at Mass: "but only say the word and my soul shall be healed." No greater poetry. No greater depth. No greater love. While many rush to canonize a musician into Canadian heaven, shall we not forget about the real heaven? Downie was so hip to so many. So hip he could do not wrong. So hip that he is already jamming in some mysterious other world with Tom Petty and all other worthy icons. So hip. So perfectly hip. With an intense void in his life. So tragically hip.

- - -

As Joseph and I got home from Mass the sky was lit up with stars. They were breathlessly arrayed in forms which we admired for their beauty and grandeur. Yes, those constellations. And again I thought of Downie. His mythical "constellations" of Bobcaygeon, revealing themselves one star at a time. Another star has joined the constellations. One made by God. Whether he knew it or not.

He knows now.

And yes Gord, this life was just a dress rehearsal, for true life.

(Do) Tell me What the Poets are Doing

Part of our homeschool year included memorizing poetry. Joseph mastered 7 poems, mostly by renowned poet Robert Louis Stevenson. John Paul, not to be outdone, memorized nearly all of them as well. We recorded their favourite performances for your enjoyment! A little awkward, perhaps, but cute, nonetheless.

What you don't see in that last one, is that from the waist down, John Paul is wearing nothing at all. Aren't you glad I just told you that?!

And just as the blog title is a spin off the Tragically Hip song our boys love to sing, they wanted to record their own rendition of the Hip's Bobcaygeon that Dan teases them with whenever they ask him to recite poetry. Just for fun: Bobcaygeon:

Parked Eyes

Parked Eyes

We went for a walk down the street,

near a park we strolled with our feet.

And what did we see while out there?

Two women, seated on the park chairs.

Little kids called and yelled to be heard:

"Watch me!" "Over here!" and other such words.

But the women kept their backs to these kids.

Their faces stared down, too busy, they hid.

Down the slide zoomed a lively spry girl.

She nearly fell on her bottom at the end of the whirl.

Giggles and laughter, youth lived to its full.

The women unmoved, save a smirk between lulls.

So we continued our stroll down the street.

In the bright spring sun filled with heat.

I silently wondered and pondered inside:

"One could steal those little kids if one tried.

Yet not a notice would these women give

But to their own little world they do live.

Their children will grow too fast, how nice,

while backs are turned, eyes only for a device."

As we arrived home from our young evening stroll,

I noticed my own kids, how big and how tall!

Will their youth slip from my busy eyes?

Or will they stay open, as those of the wise?