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1. Roger Dallaire Todd Cloes

   “Do you hear that!?” I said excitedly to my buddy Vase, “that’s not a radio! That’s real, let’s go!”
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   We were in Camlachie, I was probably seven, Vase would be nine. We were sitting on the raised cement base that secured the tall Shell sign in front of Reid’s Variety and Gas on Old Lakeshore Road. Mrs Reid closed up shop at ten so I’m going to guess it was 9ish.

   Crickets and frogs or the occasional passing car would be all you’d hear at that time of night in Huron Heights in 1971.
   Often Vase and I would buy a pop and sit out front of Reid’s after dark, watching various characters coming and going, getting their cigarettes and gas and whatnot. It was a typical end to most summer days for him and I back then.
   We spent the sunny days on the beach or riding bikes, catching frogs in the ditch, seeing what was going on at Lamrecton Camp, fishing in Perch Creek, building forts and playing with the other kids in Huron Heights, but mostly we hung out with each other.

   When nightfall came neither Vase or I were allowed to go too far from our cottages so we would typically go to the store for a pop and sip it out front below the Shell sign. Finishing our Orange Crush or Root Beers we’d bring the empties back into the store to Mrs Reid and spend the bottle return money on mo-jo’s and black babies.
   Getting on our bikes we’d lazily ride around the narrow gravel road that fronted the summer cottages of Huron Heights for something to do.
   On weekends many cottage owners would have guests so there would be more cars parked on the edge of road and on front lawns.
   We’d ride around and see people gathered around bon fires in backyards, sitting in lawn chairs, on Coleman coolers or log stumps.
   It would typically be hot and humid so out so every screened door and window were open on the cottages. Inside you could glimpse people sitting at kitchen tables playing cards bathed in soft light from hanging swag lamps.
   Surrounded by the din of crickets accompanied by the gentle sound of gravel under our bike tires we’d ride our bikes around lazily chewing on a mo-jo. Punctuating the darkness would be the occasional loud crack of dry wood burning in a fire pit, the murmur of quiet conversations, loud laughter erupting sporadically, and usually the sounds of CKLW from a transistor radio atop a picnic table.

   Part of our night bike cruises included stopping at the top of the wooden stairs that led to the beach. We would lean our bikes on the fence that lined the narrow grass path to the stairs then walk down them and see who might be having a bon fire there. We’d look West towards the street lights in Brights Grove, and East into the pitch blackness, seeing orange glowing bon fires that dotted the shore line all the way to Blue Point. It was so quiet on the beach.

   It was a night just like one of these, Vase and I sitting on our bikes at the top of the beach stairs at the end of Franklin St. We were talking, staring out over the pitch blackness that was Lake Huron dimly lit by the stars when we both heard it. A sudden burst of happy cheers, loud robust voices and some excited hand clapping.
   The clamour was coming from behind us, from a nearby cottage. Listening closer now as the voices and clapping subside a bit a acoustic guitar started ringing out and a guy’s voice started singing along with it.

   Snapping my head towards Vase I said loudly. “Do you hear that!! that isn’t a radio! that’s real!”
   I immediately started backing my bike up turning it around saying “let’s go see, c’mon!”
   We peddled our bikes on the grass path away from the beach stairs following the sound. We didn’t have far to go, just a few cottages from the path on the left was where the music was coming from.
   We stopped our bikes at the edge of the driveway there, while still sitting on our bikes we could hear the guitar and singing much louder and clearer now.
   The playing and singing was so good, I was immediately captivated by it. We sat on our bikes and listened but we couldn’t see the guy who was playing and singing, whoever it was, he was just out of our sight line, around the back corner of the cottage.

   I sat stunned cocking my ear, the playing and singing was good, perfectly matched. The guy was performing modern songs I had heard on the radio and loved, Beatle songs, Monkee’s songs, Elvis songs, I could hardly believe my ears!
   We were kinda inching our way up the driveway closer to hear better and we were watching the people that surrounded this musician we still couldn’t see. The people watching were singing along on the chorus’ of the songs, laughing, clapping their hands and having a riot. When the guy would end a song they would call out different song requests joyfully and loudly and he knew every song they wanted and would start right into one to cheers.
   The people watching were having so much fun, they were laughing and talking all at once in both French and English, enjoying drinks, singing and just generally having one hell of a good time.
   A smiling man that I recognized as someone my Dad called Leo started coming up the driveway towards us. “Hi guy’s! You wanna hear the music? come on!” he said waving us in.
   “Yes! Thank you!” I blurted out. I got off my bike and laid it right down on the driveway, I started towards the sound of that guitar and voice. Rounding the back corner of the cottage we stopped and stood quietly behind the people sitting at the back in their lawn chairs.

   There was the guy playing, Roger Delaire, I didn’t know it was Roger then, but there he was holding his guitar, slightly hunched over it, looking at his hand on the neck, strumming with the other hard and precisely, singing out loudly and beautifully. Wow.
   Roger was seated on a wooden bench, He never hesitated on a chord or a word in the songs he was playing, it came out deliberately and confidently from beginning to end. Roger smiled widely in between singing the words, bobbing his head unconsciously keeping time, the joy he was sharing with everyone with his performance just kept coming in waves. I don’t think I blinked the whole time I watched him.

   His played so good that it looked like magic to me then, some kind of trick, like a rabbit out of a hat, how is he doing that?? I was mesmerized, it made me instantly feel happy and the feeling stayed with me with every song he played.
   I had never seen anything like it yet in my short lifetime, sure on TV I had seen guitar players, but this was live, right in front of me, it was real. Up to this point I thought musicians who could play like that fell from the sky, not live on the next street over.
   Vase and I stood watching Roger play seven or eight songs in a row, he never stopped for long , just starting right into another one that was requested the loudest.

   Not knowing for sure, but sensing it was time for me to be home, Vase and I quietly left as the party carried on. Riding away on our bikes I could still hear Roger’s voice singing and guitar playing slowly fade as we got further away.
   My ears strained to hear him play one more song, and I still do.
   Rest and play in peace Roger.
   Todd Cloes

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