Yes, what a party it was. On Remembrance Day the Canadian Legion hall was jumping and I thrilled to the pipers on the bandstand, but mostly it was big round Don Johnson - his ruddy-cheeked smile dominated by an ample military moustache - who roused us roaring for more. Kaboom went his drum, ratatatat came the snares, while bagpipes wailed Amazing Grace to old soldiers whose weeping poured forth in a cascading tumult like the Spey down a Highland glen.
"We have to raise some bucks for the Pipe Band, lads and laddies. Now who'll make a request and pay for the privilege of hearing once more the sweet strains of Scotland the Brave?" Don ballyhooed. "Or perhaps, Scottish Soldier? We'll even play C-A-N-A-D-A for you if it comes to that!" The crowd roared. Don, the barker, bowed with a flourish.
Now I consider myself a charitable guy, but just maybe it was the liquor and the sentiment that brought out my overgenerous impulse just then. "I'd like once more to hear Amazing Grace and maybe the band could do the grand march again down the center of the hall, please." Waving fifty dollars in the air, I suddenly realized that every eye was on me and I blushed while Don Johnson lit up like an Armistice Poppy. It was, after all, ostensibly a Scottish affair, wasn't it? The band members then marched out and back with red faced dedication, joining us at the table following an encore. We lifted many before the night was out, and somehow during the celebration I had become public relations person for the Legion Pipe Band, covering their winning activities for the next year or so.
Night after night I'd hear Don upstairs over the bar rehearsing his drummers along with the band, and then he'd come have a drink or a beer with us barflies. He'd spin a tale of his loves: Margaret, their military romance and many admirable children. And music sweet as purple heather on a warm August day.
"So what kind of business do you do, Don?" I asked.
"Able and Ready, septic tank service. At your disposal," he smiled and handed me his card with great pride. "I'm in shit, deep shit, good-paying shit. I figured if you want to be a success get into something nobody else wants to talk about. And there's an endless inventory."
"Furnish the people with milk of magnesia,
To expand the supply of human excreta."
Both Don and his wife Margaret were keen gregarious motorcycle enthusiasts: "We just got back from Arizona," he told me once. "What a party those guys have there, and just get a load of my machine -- a Honda Gold Eagle 2000. Everything imaginable on that freeway flyer. Take a gander! Oh Mamma!" So for months they'd cruise the highways and rally while Nancy, the eldest daughter, took care of business, and for the rest it was intense pumping, digging and messy heavy work. Each Christmas would find him playing Santa Clause on the biker's Teddy Bear Run for physically impaired and ill children.
I remember when he told me about his darling Margaret's bout with cancer; I empathized as I saw the tears fill his eyes and we hugged. He had a hundred friends closer than I, but none better during that moment.
My heart became heavy too when recently I telephoned Able and Ready and a strange voice answered. "To whom am I speaking?" I asked.
"Don Johnson," came the reply.
"Huh? Is that you, Don?" Something wrong with his voice?
"Oh. Don Junior. My dad passed on a year and a half back."
Don Johnson, the son, turned up the next day, to me a younger version of his daddy. Once more tears welled as I recalled our last meeting, Amazing Grace, and the sweetness of him at the window.
Don Johnson - truly an unforgettable poetic Renaissance Man:
"Human waste, my very fine friend, Until the day we die! The sources never seem to end, A most gracious, abundant supply."
With Amazing Grace how true, how true.
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