Raine Hamilton String Trio will be at the Harbourfront Theatre on March 31! Get your tickets by calling our box office at 902-888-2500 or on our website www.harbourfronttheatre.com
Theatre PEI
Songs for a Rainy Day
Monthly Archives: March 2022
Meet the Team
MEET THE TEAM
This fabulous team of creatives is making magic come to life in Leslie Arden’s The Princess and the Handmaiden at the Watermark Theatre!
Week one of rehearsal is already over – have you got your tickets? Limited availability with some shows sold out @watermarktheatre!
Theatre PEI
Getting the Hang of the Ropes
Applications open for Backstage Training Program
– Participants get hands-on experience with industry professionals –
After the success of the inaugural program, Confederation Centre of the Arts is once again running its Backstage Training Program. This paid opportunity gives participants hands-on training from highly accomplished industry professionals in a variety of production departments, including lighting, props, sound, stage management, and wardrobe. The program is supported by SkillsPEI.
“This program is a launching pad for people who are interested in working behind the scenes,” says Andrea Surich, General Manager of Theatre at Confederation Centre. “We are particularly interested in welcoming members of communities that have traditionally been underrepresented in our industry, and who have faced systemic barriers to training opportunities and exposure to the arts.”
The training sessions will run throughout April. After completing the program, some participants may be offered paid summer internships at The Charlottetown Festival, Victoria Playhouse, or Watermark Theatre.
Applications can be submitted via an online form on the Centre’s website. The deadline to apply to the program is Friday, March 11, 2022 at 5 p.m. Interviews will be held the week of March 21, and all successful applicants will be notified by the end of the month. Applicants with questions or requests for accommodations can contact Rosie Shaw, Theatre Project Coordinator at rshaw@confederationcentre.com or 902-388-0211.
Backstage Training Program Summary
· Program duration is either one week (30 hours) or two weeks (60 hours)
· Pay rate is $13.70/hour for training and $15/hour for internships
· Individuals may apply for and be selected for more than one session/department
· Training will be given in English
· Program hours are EI eligible
· Tentative schedule is Monday – Friday, 9 a.m. – 12 p.m. and 1 – 4 p.m. (six hours/day, five days/week)
· Schedule may vary based on department needs (i.e., some may have a Saturday work session due to holiday, training space availability, and/or production schedule)
Eligibility Criteria
- Canadian citizenship
- Current resident of P.E.I.
- 18 years of age or older
- Unemployed or underemployed (i.e., 20 hours/week or less)
- Not a current student
Training Dates
- Lighting (one week) April 18 – 22
- Props (two weeks) April 18 – 29
- Sound (one week) April 11 – 16
- Stage Management April 25 – 29
- Wardrobe (2 weeks) April 4 – 14
Theatre PEI
Six Oysters Ahoy
By Ed Staskus
“He was a very valiant man who first adventured on the eating of oysters.” King James VI and I
“I checked the weather report,” said Frank Glass.
“What did you find out?” asked Vera Glass.
“It’s going to be the same today as it was yesterday.”
“Is it going to rain all day?” asked Vera.
“You don’t need a weatherman for that,” said Frank, throwing a glance at the window.
A steady rain was falling outside the large front window of the cottage, down on the long sloping lawn of the Coastline Cottages, on the Gulf Shore Parkway, on the three houses on the other side of the road, and out to the horizon as far as they could see. The sky was dark over Doyle’s Cove. Broad surfboard-sized waves worked up the water. When Frank looked out the northwest-facing kitchen window, the sky, where the weather was coming from, was even darker.
“What should we do? It rained all day yesterday. I’m getting cabin fever.”
“We could play cards, read, and talk among ourselves. How about dinner and a show?”
“That sounds good, especially the part about dinner,” said Vera. “Where do you want to eat?”
“There’s a show opening tonight at the Victoria Theatre.”
“All right, but what about dinner?”
“We could eat at the Landmark, it’s right there.”
“I’ve always liked the Landmark,” said Vera. “Eugene is a great cook. They have the best meat pies.”
“Somebody told me he sold it and there are new owners,” said Frank.
“What? How can that be? Eugene and Olivier and Rachel are gone?”
The Sauve family tree had repurposed an old grocery store in Victoria into a café restaurant in the late 1980s, adding a deck, digging a basement for storage and coolers, and expanding their dining space several times. They were a perennial ‘Best Place to Eat on Prince Edward Island’ in the magazine Canadian Living.
“It’s now called the Landmark Oyster House.”
“I love oysters,” said Vera. “Let’s go.”
It was still raining when Frank and Vera drove up Church Hill Road and swung onto Route 6, through North Rustico to Route 13, through Hunter River and Kelly’s Cross. It was still raining when they pulled into the small seaside town of Victoria on the other side of Prince Edward Island, on the Northumberland Straight side, 45 minutes later. It rained on them as they rushed into the Landmark Oyster House.
There wasn’t a table to be had, but there were two seats at the bar.
“Look, we’re right in front of the oysters,” said Vera, as they sat down at the closed end of it. “I love this spot.”
Kieran Goodwin, the bartender, agreed, standing on the other side of the bar, on the other side of a large shallow stainless steel bin full of raw oysters on ice.
“Best seats in the house,” he said. “They were going to put the bar in the front room, but the dimensions didn’t work out.”
“Who’s they?” asked Frank.
Vera looked the chalkboard on the wall up and down. The names of the oysters on ice were written on the board. There were six of them, Valley Pearl, Sand Dune, Shipwreck, Blackberry Point, Lucky Limes, and Dukes. She looked down into the bin. She couldn’t make heads or tails of which were which. She knew raw oysters were alive, more-or-less.
She wondered, how could you tell?
“Greg and Marly Anderson,” said Kieran. “They own a wedding venue up the road.” It is the Grand Victoria Wedding Events Venue, in a restored former 19th century church. “When this opportunity came up, when Eugene was looking to tone it down a bit, they decided to purchase it.”
“I worked at the Oyster House in Charlottetown shucking oysters for almost five years,” said Marly. “We heard that the family wanted to retire because they had been working at this restaurant for 29 years. We already felt a connection to this place and we are friends and neighbors with the family.”
“They’ve put their roots down in the community, are making their stand here,” said Kieran.
“I like what they’ve done in here, casual but upscale,” said Vera.
“It looks like the kitchen is more enclosed than it was,” observed Frank.
“Yeah, they did up a wall,” said Kieran. “When you used to walk in, you could peek right in.”
“I remember Eugene telling us once he learned all his cooking from his mom. Who does the cooking now?”
“Kaela Barnett is our chef.”
“We couldn’t do this without her,” said Greg Anderson.
Somebody’s got to have a steady hand on the ladle that stirs the soup.
“I’m thinking of doing oysters and a board,” said Vera.
“That’s a good choice,” said Kieran. “I recommend the large board. You get a bit of everything. I personally like getting some cheese.”
“Me, too.”
“Are you oyster connoisseurs?” asked Kieran.
“Not me,” said Frank. “I can’t remember the last time I ate an oyster.”
“I wish I was, but I love them,” said Vera. “We were on the island last year and went to the Merchantman in Charlottetown with Doug and Rachel, Eugene’s daughter. We had oysters and she went through all the ones we ate, explaining them to me.”
“Would you like something from the bar?” asked Kieran.
“I’ll take the Gahan on tap, the 1772 Pale Ale.”
“What wine goes with oysters?” asked Vera.
“We have a beautiful California chardonnay,” said Kieran. “It’s great with shellfish. I recommend it.”
“This is good, fruity,” said Vera, tasting it.
“We have six oysters,” said Kieran. “You could do one of each.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” said Vera.
“I think I’ll have the seafood chowder and some of the board,” said Frank.
“Oh, Frank, try one,” said Vera.
“Lucky Limes are my favorite,” said Kieran. “It’s a good medium oyster.”
“OK, I’ll try it,” said Frank, shrugging.
Kieran handed him a Lucky Lime.
“How do I eat this thing?” Frank asked Vera.
“Sometimes I chew it, sometimes I don’t,” she said.
“Some people like putting stuff on it, like horseradish, which kills the taste,” said Kieran. “But straight up is best. That’s how islanders do it, just shuck it.”
Frank looked down at the liquid-filled half shell.
“From the wide end,” said Kieran.
He slurped the oyster into his mouth and swallowed it.
“Now you’re a pro,” said Vera.
“That wasn’t bad,” said Frank. “How could you tell it was a Lucky Lime? They all look the same to me.”
“If you look at the chalkboard, it’s one through six. That’s one way.”
“Can you tell by looking at them?” asked Vera.
“I can tell by the shell,” said Kieran. “The ones that are more green, that means there’s more saltwater content. So this is a Sand Dune, quite briny. That one is almost straight salt water.” He pointed to an even darker greener shell.
“The Shipwreck, the name made me nervous to have it, but it was mild,” said Vera.
“It would be farther up the estuary, closer to fresh water.”
“Blackberry Point was very salty.”
“The Blackberry’s are from Malpeque, which is near Cavendish,” said Kieran. “The Sand Dune is from Surrey, down east, and the Lucky Limes are from New London Bay. Valley Pearl is from Tyne Valley and the Dukes are from Ten Mile Creek.”
“I thought you were just making all this up,” said Frank.
“No, its like wine,” said Kieran.
“How did you get into the shellfish racket?” asked Frank.
“I graduated in business, traveled, lived in New Zealand and Australia, and then came back home, and worked in a bank as a financial advisor for six years, in Summerside and Charlottetown, but then I just got tired of working in a bank, and went back to school.”
“How did you find your way here, behind the bar?”
“I date Jamie, who is Marly’s sister.”
“Are those pickled carrots?” asked Vera, pointing at the charcuterie board in front of her.
“Yes, and you have raisin jam, too,” said Kieran.
“Chutney, stop the madness!” exclaimed Vera. “Oh, it’s strawberry jam. It just looks like chutney. It’s delicious.”
“We had raisin pie at a small diner in Hunter River the other day,” said Frank.
“The one by the side of the road, up from the Irving gas station?” asked Kieran.
“That’s the one,” said Frank. “The waitress told us she always thinks of raisin pie as funeral pie, because back in the day, if there was a funeral in the winter, women always made raisin pies for the reception after the memorial service, because raisins kept all year round.”
“Can I take my oyster shells with me?” asked Vera.
“Sure,” said Kieran. ”We can get a little bag for you.”
“You can really taste the sea eating oysters,” said Vera. “Blackberry Point was a little thin and too salty, but once you eat one, and you don’t like it, whoa, what are you going to do? Valley Pearl didn’t have a lot of flavor, but there was some good texture to it. Lucky Lime was very good. My favorite was Sand Dune. It had a strong ocean flavor, briny.”
“I’ve heard people say oysters are slimy, but the one I had, it didn’t seem that way,” said Frank. “I can see having oysters again.”
“Don’t people sometimes say the world is your oyster?” said Vera.
“Do you want dessert?” asked Kieran.
“Do you have carrot cake?”
“It’s made here.”
“We’ll split a slice of that, and two coffees, thanks.”
As Vera and Frank dug into their carrot cake, there was a commotion at the other end of the bar. Kieran, Jamie, and Marly were huddling over glowing screens.
“Did your electronics go haywire?” asked Frank when Kieran brought them coffee.
“The microwave in the basement tripped the breaker. We hardly ever use it, except to melt butter sometimes. It’s weird, it’s been working until now. We have a thing that magnifies our wi-fi signal. We just found out it’s on the same circuit.”
“My mother was a pastry chef,” said Vera. ”She didn’t use microwaves much, but whenever she did, she always said, ‘I’m going to nuke it now!’”
Frank and Vera used their forks on the last crumbs of their cake and finished their coffee. Frank checked the time on his iPhone. “Time to go, sweetheart,” he said. They paid the bill and stood to go.
“Enjoy the show, hope to see you again,” Kieran said as Frank and Vera walked out of the Oyster House.
“It’s raining and sunny at the same time,” said Frank as they dashed across the street to the Victoria Theatre, yellow slanting sunlight leading the way.
“That’s PEI for you,” said Vera. “By the way, what are we seeing?”
“Where You Are.”
“I know where we are,” said Vera.
“That’s the name of the show,” said Frank.
“Aha, I see,” said Vera.
“Hustle it up, we’re almost late.”
They went up the steps into the theater, got their programs, and sat down. Vera tucked the bag of shells under her seat. “Wherever you are, there you are, oyster boys and girls,” she thought, making sure they were safe and sound.
“How could you even tell?” she wondered, as the lights went down and the show started.
Photograph by Vanessa Staskus
Ed Staskus edits Theatre PEi. He posts stories on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com and Cleveland Ohio Daybook http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com.
By Ed Staskus
“He was a very valiant man who first adventured on the eating of oysters.” King James VI and I
“I checked the weather report,” said Frank Glass.
“What did you find out?” asked Vera Glass.
“It’s going to be the same today as it was yesterday.”
“Is it going to rain all day?” asked Vera.
“You don’t need a weatherman for that,” said Frank, throwing a glance at the window.
A steady rain was falling outside the large front window of the cottage, down on the long sloping lawn of the Coastline Cottages, on the Gulf Shore Parkway, on the three houses on the other side of the road, and out to the horizon as far as they could see. The sky was dark over Doyle’s Cove. Broad surfboard-sized waves worked up the water. When Frank looked out the northwest-facing kitchen window, the sky, where the weather was coming from, was even darker.
“What should we do? It rained all day yesterday. I’m getting cabin fever.”
“We could play cards, read, and talk among ourselves. How about dinner and a show?”
“That sounds good, especially the part about dinner,” said Vera. “Where do you want to eat?”
“There’s a show opening tonight at the Victoria Theatre.”
“All right, but what about dinner?”
“We could eat at the Landmark, it’s right there.”
“I’ve always liked the Landmark,” said Vera. “Eugene is a great cook. They have the best meat pies.”
“Somebody told me he sold it and there are new owners,” said Frank.
“What? How can that be? Eugene and Olivier and Rachel are gone?”
The Sauve family tree had repurposed an old grocery store in Victoria into a café restaurant in the late 1980s, adding a deck, digging a basement for storage and coolers, and expanding their dining space several times. They were a perennial ‘Best Place to Eat on Prince Edward Island’ in the magazine Canadian Living.
“It’s now called the Landmark Oyster House.”
“I love oysters,” said Vera. “Let’s go.”
It was still raining when Frank and Vera drove up Church Hill Road and swung onto Route 6, through North Rustico to Route 13, through Hunter River and Kelly’s Cross. It was still raining when they pulled into the small seaside town of Victoria on the other side of Prince Edward Island, on the Northumberland Straight side, 45 minutes later. It rained on them as they rushed into the Landmark Oyster House.
There wasn’t a table to be had, but there were two seats at the bar.
“Look, we’re right in front of the oysters,” said Vera, as they sat down at the closed end of it. “I love this spot.”
Kieran Goodwin, the bartender, agreed, standing on the other side of the bar, on the other side of a large shallow stainless steel bin full of raw oysters on ice.
“Best seats in the house,” he said. “They were going to put the bar in the front room, but the dimensions didn’t work out.”
“Who’s they?” asked Frank.
Vera looked the chalkboard on the wall up and down. The names of the oysters on ice were written on the board. There were six of them, Valley Pearl, Sand Dune, Shipwreck, Blackberry Point, Lucky Limes, and Dukes. She looked down into the bin. She couldn’t make heads or tails of which were which. She knew raw oysters were alive, more-or-less.
She wondered, how could you tell?
“Greg and Marly Anderson,” said Kieran. “They own a wedding venue up the road.” It is the Grand Victoria Wedding Events Venue, in a restored former 19th century church. “When this opportunity came up, when Eugene was looking to tone it down a bit, they decided to purchase it.”
“I worked at the Oyster House in Charlottetown shucking oysters for almost five years,” said Marly. “We heard that the family wanted to retire because they had been working at this restaurant for 29 years. We already felt a connection to this place and we are friends and neighbors with the family.”
“They’ve put their roots down in the community, are making their stand here,” said Kieran.
“I like what they’ve done in here, casual but upscale,” said Vera.
“It looks like the kitchen is more enclosed than it was,” observed Frank.
“Yeah, they did up a wall,” said Kieran. “When you used to walk in, you could peek right in.”
“I remember Eugene telling us once he learned all his cooking from his mom. Who does the cooking now?”
“Kaela Barnett is our chef.”
“We couldn’t do this without her,” said Greg Anderson.
Somebody’s got to have a steady hand on the ladle that stirs the soup.
“I’m thinking of doing oysters and a board,” said Vera.
“That’s a good choice,” said Kieran. “I recommend the large board. You get a bit of everything. I personally like getting some cheese.”
“Me, too.”
“Are you oyster connoisseurs?” asked Kieran.
“Not me,” said Frank. “I can’t remember the last time I ate an oyster.”
“I wish I was, but I love them,” said Vera. “We were on the island last year and went to the Merchantman in Charlottetown with Doug and Rachel, Eugene’s daughter. We had oysters and she went through all the ones we ate, explaining them to me.”
“Would you like something from the bar?” asked Kieran.
“I’ll take the Gahan on tap, the 1772 Pale Ale.”
“What wine goes with oysters?” asked Vera.
“We have a beautiful California chardonnay,” said Kieran. “It’s great with shellfish. I recommend it.”
“This is good, fruity,” said Vera, tasting it.
“We have six oysters,” said Kieran. “You could do one of each.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” said Vera.
“I think I’ll have the seafood chowder and some of the board,” said Frank.
“Oh, Frank, try one,” said Vera.
“Lucky Limes are my favorite,” said Kieran. “It’s a good medium oyster.”
“OK, I’ll try it,” said Frank, shrugging.
Kieran handed him a Lucky Lime.
“How do I eat this thing?” Frank asked Vera.
“Sometimes I chew it, sometimes I don’t,” she said.
“Some people like putting stuff on it, like horseradish, which kills the taste,” said Kieran. “But straight up is best. That’s how islanders do it, just shuck it.”
Frank looked down at the liquid-filled half shell.
“From the wide end,” said Kieran.
He slurped the oyster into his mouth and swallowed it.
“Now you’re a pro,” said Vera.
“That wasn’t bad,” said Frank. “How could you tell it was a Lucky Lime? They all look the same to me.”
“If you look at the chalkboard, it’s one through six. That’s one way.”
“Can you tell by looking at them?” asked Vera.
“I can tell by the shell,” said Kieran. “The ones that are more green, that means there’s more saltwater content. So this is a Sand Dune, quite briny. That one is almost straight salt water.” He pointed to an even darker greener shell.
“The Shipwreck, the name made me nervous to have it, but it was mild,” said Vera.
“It would be farther up the estuary, closer to fresh water.”
“Blackberry Point was very salty.”
“The Blackberry’s are from Malpeque, which is near Cavendish,” said Kieran. “The Sand Dune is from Surrey, down east, and the Lucky Limes are from New London Bay. Valley Pearl is from Tyne Valley and the Dukes are from Ten Mile Creek.”
“I thought you were just making all this up,” said Frank.
“No, its like wine,” said Kieran.
“How did you get into the shellfish racket?” asked Frank.
“I graduated in business, traveled, lived in New Zealand and Australia, and then came back home, and worked in a bank as a financial advisor for six years, in Summerside and Charlottetown, but then I just got tired of working in a bank, and went back to school.”
“How did you find your way here, behind the bar?”
“I date Jamie, who is Marly’s sister.”
“Are those pickled carrots?” asked Vera, pointing at the charcuterie board in front of her.
“Yes, and you have raisin jam, too,” said Kieran.
“Chutney, stop the madness!” exclaimed Vera. “Oh, it’s strawberry jam. It just looks like chutney. It’s delicious.”
“We had raisin pie at a small diner in Hunter River the other day,” said Frank.
“The one by the side of the road, up from the Irving gas station?” asked Kieran.
“That’s the one,” said Frank. “The waitress told us she always thinks of raisin pie as funeral pie, because back in the day, if there was a funeral in the winter, women always made raisin pies for the reception after the memorial service, because raisins kept all year round.”
“Can I take my oyster shells with me?” asked Vera.
“Sure,” said Kieran. ”We can get a little bag for you.”
“You can really taste the sea eating oysters,” said Vera. “Blackberry Point was a little thin and too salty, but once you eat one, and you don’t like it, whoa, what are you going to do? Valley Pearl didn’t have a lot of flavor, but there was some good texture to it. Lucky Lime was very good. My favorite was Sand Dune. It had a strong ocean flavor, briny.”
“I’ve heard people say oysters are slimy, but the one I had, it didn’t seem that way,” said Frank. “I can see having oysters again.”
“Don’t people sometimes say the world is your oyster?” said Vera.
“Do you want dessert?” asked Kieran.
“Do you have carrot cake?”
“It’s made here.”
“We’ll split a slice of that, and two coffees, thanks.”
As Vera and Frank dug into their carrot cake, there was a commotion at the other end of the bar. Kieran, Jamie, and Marly were huddling over glowing screens.
“Did your electronics go haywire?” asked Frank when Kieran brought them coffee.
“The microwave in the basement tripped the breaker. We hardly ever use it, except to melt butter sometimes. It’s weird, it’s been working until now. We have a thing that magnifies our wi-fi signal. We just found out it’s on the same circuit.”
“My mother was a pastry chef,” said Vera. ”She didn’t use microwaves much, but whenever she did, she always said, ‘I’m going to nuke it now!’”
Frank and Vera used their forks on the last crumbs of their cake and finished their coffee. Frank checked the time on his iPhone. “Time to go, sweetheart,” he said. They paid the bill and stood to go.
“Enjoy the show, hope to see you again,” Kieran said as Frank and Vera walked out of the Oyster House.
“It’s raining and sunny at the same time,” said Frank as they dashed across the street to the Victoria Theatre, yellow slanting sunlight leading the way.
“That’s PEI for you,” said Vera. “By the way, what are we seeing?”
“Where You Are.”
“I know where we are,” said Vera.
“That’s the name of the show,” said Frank.
“Aha, I see,” said Vera.
“Hustle it up, we’re almost late.”
They went up the steps into the theater, got their programs, and sat down. Vera tucked the bag of shells under her seat. “Wherever you are, there you are, oyster boys and girls,” she thought, making sure they were safe and sound.
“How could you even tell?” she wondered, as the lights went down and the show started.
Photograph by Vanessa Staskus
Ed Staskus edits Theatre PEI. He posts stories on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com and Cleveland Ohio Daybook http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com.
Theatre PEI
Mr. Hatch On the Way
This heartwarming puppet play at the Harbourfront Theatre examines the effect that kindness can have on a lonely existence. Join washerwomen Betsy, Edna, and Molly on May 7th as they bring Mr. Hatch’s story to life and help him search for his secret admirer!
Theatre PEI
Call for Submisssions
THE GUILD IS SEEKING PROPOSALS FROM PROFESSIONAL PEI ARTISTS.
We are interested in progressive, forward-looking practices; inventive approaches in artistic production; work that deals with issues of current social urgency, including diverse perspectives and histories; and work based on an articulate conceptual and/or critical and/or poetic thesis. We encourage and facilitate the presentation of curatorial and artistic works that have not yet been exhibited in this locale. We are enthusiastic about artists’ most recent endeavours and art forms that propel contemporary production and incite conversation.
Exhibitions will be reviewed by a jury of professional artists, and will be mounted in the Hilda Woolnough Gallery @ The Guild, with the duration and structure of the shows being determined in part by the volume of submissions. Exhibitions will run from July 2022 to January 2023 with the dates subject to change.
We encourage those including, but not limited to those who identify as women, indigenous, POC, members of visible minorities, LGBTQ2SIA+ and persons with disabilities to apply.
Please note, this call is open to all professional artists who are residents of PEI.
Submissions Deadline is April 30th, 2022 at 5pm.
Artist fees that follow CARFAC standard guidelines will be paid for these exhibitions.
Submissions must be sent via email to bmarkham@theguildpei.com with The Guild Submission in the subject line.
Submissions must include:
– current CV (maximum three pages)
– artist statement
– detailed exhibition proposal: *please indicate clearly if you are proposing a solo exhibition or if you would like to be included in a group exhibition.
– copies of catalogue texts or reviews (if relevant)
– max. 10 jpeg images or audio/visual samples
Text files are to be sent as a single PDF.
Large images must be shared via dropbox link or Google drive.
For more information please email Brian Markham at bmarkham@theguildpei.com
Theatre PEI
Getting Back to Life
The Prince Edward Island Government is currently in Step 1 of the Living with COVID-19 Transition Plan. The Centre is following guidance from the Chief Public Health Office, and the following measures are currently in place:
Events are operating at 50% capacity, which is 550 patrons in the Mainstage Theatre and 100 patrons at The Mack.
Patrons may be seated beside people outside of their party but can request to move to an available alternative seat prior to the performance.
Masks are required at all times but can be removed at your seat while actively eating or drinking.
As of Monday, February 28, proof of vaccination is not required at events.
For the latest information on Centre protocols, including a look ahead at Step 2 & 3, visit: https://confederationcentre.com/…/covid-restrictions…/
Theatre PEI
Thrills and Spills
By Ed Staskus
Two days after we got married in the Lithuanian Roman Catholic church on Cleveland’s east side my wife and I drove over the Rainbow Bridge to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. It used to be called the Honeymoon Bridge, but it collapsed in 1938. When the new one opened in 1941 a quote from the Book of Genesis about a “bow in the clouds” was engraved on the side of the bridge. A half century later the span was still standing, God willing.
We must have looked happy as larks when we got to the other side of the crossing. After paying the toll, and showing the border patrol our driver’s licenses, we were told to join a line of cars off to the side. Ten minutes later German Shepherds and their handlers showed up, sniffing the cars up and down for drugs. One of the uniforms used a tactical mirror to inspect the underside of the cars.
When it was over and done with and they told us we were free to go, I said, “Love is the drug, man.” The lawman at my driver’s side window didn’t like it and scowled but Rin Tin Tin gave me a forty-two-tooth salute. He was glad to be going back to headquarters for grub. We were steps from the Honeymoon Capital of the World.
After lunch we went to Goat Island, bought tickets, got outfitted in bright yellow ponchos, and were elevatored 18 stories down to the Niagara Gorge. The Cave of the Winds started life as a rock overhang that was like a cave. There used to be an overhanging ledge of Lockport Dolostone at the top of the gorge which stuck out more than 100 feet. The overhang wasn’t there anymore but the Hurricane Deck was. We followed a guide on a series of wood walkways to it, stopping standing staring at the thundering water 20 feet away. It sprayed us in the face. There was a rainbow right there. We could almost touch it.
“Did you bring a camera?” my wife asked.
“No,” I said.
“That’s all right, better to remember it the way we want to,” she said.
Since we were soggy already, we decided to go to the Journey Behind the Falls. An elevator went down 13 stories through bedrock to tunnels that led to the Cataract Portal and the Great Falls Portal. We walked to the Lower Observation Deck at the foot of the Falls and watched one-fifth of the world’s freshwater crash down at 40 MPH into the basin below. We left dripping freshwater behind us.
There was still some daylight left in the day, and waterlogged as we were with nothing to lose, we boarded the Maid of the Mist. The first boat in 1846 was called Maid of the Mist and the name had never changed although the ships had. The first ones were steam powered. Ours was a diesel-powered vessel put into service in 1955. It was two years after Marilyn Monroe cuckolded and tried to murder her husband Joseph Cotton in the movie “Niagara.”
The first Maid of the Mist was a barge-like steamer that was more ferry than anything else. It was a 72-foot-long side-wheeler powered by a wood-and coal-fired boiler. The ferrying only lasted two years, when a suspension bridge opened. Not knowing what to do with the boat, the owners finally decided to make it a sightseeing wheeler.
We took the Incline Railway from street level down to the boat dock. The new Maid was looking good, having replaced the old Maid in 1983. The old boat was plying the Amazon River as a missionary ship under an assumed name. She had been a trooper in her day. In 1960 the Maid wheeled to the starboard and the crew rescued Roger Woodward, a seven-year-old who became the first person to survive going over the Horseshoe Falls wearing only a life jacket. Getting on the boat we were both handed blue ponchos and advised to wear them, or else.
“Or else what?” I asked.
“You’re free to not wear it and soak in the experience,” the man said. We put our ponchos on and cinched the hoods.
The boat chugged to the base of the American Falls. It started to rock and roll. We kept our balance hanging on to a rail. I never knew water droplets could pummel or that half a million gallons of water pouring out of the faucet at once could be so loud. The Maid went on to the basin of the Canadian Horseshoe Falls. We stood at the front of the boat on the upper level up close and personal. The captain took her closer and closer. We got as close as it gets. The waterfall was in our faces. We could barely keep our eyes open. It might as well have been raining, even though the sky was sunny and blue. When the boat turned to go back, she spun around in place, spray coming at us from every direction.
There was a full moon that night. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.” We had fun fooling around that night.
The next day we went high and dry. We were done with getting wet and took a helicopter ride. The chopper was an Enstrom, operated by Pan-Air. They had a “Chapel in the Sky” service although since we were freshly minted, there was no need for more vows. The helicopter sat six, but my wife and I and two Japanese men were the only ones on the flight. We sat in the front with the pilot and the Japs sat in back, where they took a million pictures. The front of the chopper was plexiglass. When I looked down the sky was right under our feet. Rainbows shot up at us from the rapids and falls.
The ride was only ten or fifteen minutes long, but we got an eyeful. The bird’s-eyeview was nothing if not breath-taking. We saw the American Falls, Bridal Veil Falls, Horseshoe Falls, Whirlpool Rapids, the Rainbow Bridge, and Queen Victoria Park.
“Ooh-wee,” we both said when the helicopter landed. We got our land legs back and went back to the Howard Johnson’s for a nap and dinner. The Japs stayed behind taking pictures of the chopper.
The next day we left Niagara Falls, messed around in Toronto, and drove to Ottawa in our VW Golf. The city is the capital of Canada, on the south bank of the Ottawa River, straddling the provinces of Ontario and Quebec. Brian Mulroney was the Prime Minister. He kept order by saying things like, “I am not denying anything I did not say.” The city had been there since 1826 and by 1989 was the fourth-largest one in the country. A big part of it burned down in 1900 and had to be re-built for the better. We stayed at a small motel near Pig Island. The drive to Byward Market and Lower Town was a short one up Colonel By Dr. along the Rideau Canal. We discovered a Portuguese bakery in Lower Town and pigged out.
We visited the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica, Parliament Hill, which is the neo-Gothic home of the law of the land, checked out the Centennial Flame and the statue of Queen Victoria, took a stroll through Major’s Hill Park, and had dinner two nights back-to-back at two terrific restaurants near Confederation Park, walking the food and drink off afterwards, and tossing a Loonie in the fountain, the one-dollar coin introduced two years earlier.
One afternoon we were standing on the Mackenzie King Bridge watching boats going to and from the locks when we noticed a houseboat coming our way. The canal was built starting in 1826. More than a thousand Irish, Scottish, and French laborers died of malaria digging it out. It opened in 1832. The idea behind the canal was a lifeline between Montreal and the naval base at Kingston in case Canada ever went to war with the United States.
The Pumper was the first steamboat to make the trip, carrying Colonel By and his family. John By was the man who made the canal happen. Canada and the United States never went to war and the canal became a thoroughfare for shipping grain, timber, and minerals from the hinterland to the east. Immigrants used it moving westward. After railroads appropriated the shipping trade, the canal was mostly used by pleasure craft.
It was a pleasure watching the houseboat approach. A man was sitting in a folding chair at the bow. His legs were crossed, he was reading a newspaper, and smoking a cigar. A woman was standing at the stern with a long pole. She was slowly leaning into the pole and pushing the forty-foot flat bottomed houseboat forward. She kept her push pole lined up with the center line of the boat to keep it moving in a straight line. I could see they had an inboard motor but weren’t using it. Smoke from her husband’s cigar drifted back to her. She waved it away from her face.
“Take notes,” I told my new bride.
“That’ll be the day,” she grumbled.
After we got home from our honeymoon, we often went back to Canada, to Montreal and Quebec City, up the St Lawrence River, and to Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. We never went back to Ottawa, not for any especial reason. One morning while I was looking out our living room window at yet another winter storm blowing through town, my wife asked me if I had seen the news about the protests in Ottawa. I flipped an iPad open and read the news. Sure enough, protests were roiling the capital.
A convoy of truckers had descended on the city three weeks earlier protesting a regulation requiring drivers moving goods across the USA Canada border to be vaccinated against the 19 virus. Other truckers were blocking bridges between Windsor and Detroit and another bridge linking Alberta to North Dakota. The federal police had already arrested more than a dozen drivers out west and seized all their guns and ammo. They had been planning on ambushing and shooting law enforcement officers.
When the Ottawa camel train pulled into town to throw gasoline on the fire they rumbled straight to Wellington St. and Parliament Hill and surrounded it. Their $100,000 travel trailers, $150,000 recreational vehicles, and $200,000 heavy trucks brought traffic to a standstill. Businesses shut down for the duration. There wasn’t any money coming in, anyway. Flatbed trucks became stages. Organizers clapped themselves on the back and made misinformation speeches. DJ’s spun rap cranked up so everybody within miles could hear it. Bouncy castles were plopped down in the streets for kids playing hooky. Some drivers had brought their children with them. An inflatable hot tub was pumped up and set up for rest and recreation. They flew QAnon and Confederate flags, even though QAnon is a Whac-A-Mole, and Johnny Reb got his ass kicked a long time ago.
Who flies slaveholder-or-die flags to prove how virtuous they are? Folks who want a slave of their own? Folks who live in caves? Folks who are far over the full moon?
Drivers put their air horns on autopilot 24/7. It didn’t take long for everybody living nearby to get sick of it. “You got vehicles laying on their horns for hours and hours at a time,” said Peter Simpson. “We don’t even live on Parliament Hill. It’s very difficult to work or relax or to do anything. All you can do is focus on calming yourself down.”
The morning I read about the protests was the morning things were coming to a head. The police sat on their hands for weeks until the mayor got tired of it, fired the police chief, put a by the book man in charge, and a few days later the cops were showing up in force. “It’s horrific,” said Dagny Pawlak, a protestor spokeswoman. “It’s a dark moment in Canadian history. Never in my life would I have believed anyone if they told me that our own Prime Minister would refuse dialogue and choose violence against peaceful protesters instead.”
“Look, I am a big, brassy guy who won and won big,” is what Brian Mulroney always said. “I do what I want.” But he wasn’t the Prime Minister anymore. Justin Trudeau was the man upstairs. He said the truckers were “an insult to memory and truth.” He did what he had to do.
When I was student at Cleveland State University in the 1970s we went marching from our campus down Euclid Ave. to Public Square every spring to protest the Vietnam War. We never marched in wintertime because it was too cold and snowy. Nobody wanted to be plowed under by a snowplow. We wore buttons saying, “How Many More?” and “I’m a Viet Nam Dropout” and “Ship the GI’s Home Now!” Many of the GI’s shooting it out with Charlie were true believers who volunteered. The rest were unlucky trailer trash. They were the ones who were always getting drafted first. We were college students with draft deferments and wanted to keep it that way.
We carried banners and damp handkerchiefs in our pockets. Everybody wore sensible shoes. One springtime I noticed two coeds next to me wearing pumps with two-inch heels and straps that looked like they would snap at the slightest provocation.
“You might want to change into flats,” I said.
“Why would we want to do that?” one of them asked.
“In case you’ve got to run.” They giggled and skipped away. The last time I saw them they were skinning their knees trying to run and getting themselves easily arrested.
When we got to the Sailors and Soldiers Monument, firebrands made fiery speeches, we chanted slogans, listened to more speeches about justice and freedom, half of us high on weed, and waited for the cops to show up. When they did and ordered us to disperse and we didn’t, they lobbed tear gas at us. We gave them the finger. They beat us with rubber batons. We threw cherry bombs at them. They sent in the mounted police. Nobody wanted to be trampled by a horse. We usually ran for the train station in the Terminal Tower trying to lose ourselves in the workaday crowd.
I never went on a Civil Rights march. They had it worse. Vigilantes and police used whips, Billy clubs, guns, dogs, Cossack-style horses, fire hoses, and tear gas. When we were protesting the Vietnam War, we were white kids being corralled by white policemen. They didn’t like us but weren’t trying to kill us.
The Freedom Convoy in Ottawa had plenty of banners and slogans. Reading them was like trying to find meaning in a bowl of alphabet soup. Mandate Freedom 4 All. He Will Not Divide. Hold the Line. Take Back Our Freedom. We Will Not Acquiesce. Were they trying to dam up Niagara Falls with toothpicks? One of the signs said they were willing to take a bullet for their country. What about taking a shot for your neighbors?
Matthew Wall, an electrician from Manitoba, joined the Freedom Convoy after popping psychedelics and having a vision. “I’m here for the rights of our kids, for parents’ rights, for everyone’s rights,” he said. “It is so kids can live in a future where they don’t have to have something covering their face. You don’t have the human connection, don’t see them smile anymore. It’s dehumanizing. They’re taking away the love!”
Many of Ottawa’s residents had their own slogan: Make Ottawa Boring Again!
“I wonder what would be going on if it was the 1340s and 1350s?” I wondered aloud to my wife, watching it snow in the meantime.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean, I wonder how long the lines would be to get vaccinated against the Bubonic Plague if it was the plague instead of the 19 virus,” I said.
Five years into the pandemic at the beginning of the Middle Ages almost 50 million Europeans were dead, more than half of the population. They called it the Great Pestilence. They didn’t have vaccines. They resorted to mixing tree resin, roots of white lilies, and human excrement into a porridge and slathering it all over themselves. If you caught the Black Death, your chances of making it back alive were almost zero. Nobody died peacefully in an ICU. There were no ICU’s. They got crazy feverish, their joints on fire like a ten-alarm. They broke out in buboes, oozing pus and blood, vomiting non-stop, and got diarrhea to die for.. The suffering went on non-stop for a week-or-so. When it was over, they fell down dead in the streets, glad it was over.
“I bet the spaghetti o’s with their portable spas in Ottawa would be the first ones pushing their way to the head of the vaccination line while crying there is a conspiracy to push them to the back. They would be going 100 MPH in their trucks and RV’s to get somewhere anywhere to snag a shot, not complaining about government overreach.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “Thank goodness we’re on the other side of the Middle Ages.”
“Hats off to that, sugar, although now and then when there’s a full moon it’s back to the Dark Ages,” I said.
Ed Staskus edits Theatre PEI. He posts stories on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com and Cleveland Ohio Daybook http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com.
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