French's Shed

Seeing French again got me to thinking about the first time I met him. He lived down the street, but when his dad got to drinking he lived out in his garden shed. The drinking got more regular, so French got that shed looking pretty good. He salvaged an old wood stove that used to be on a Caboose from a wrecked CNR train.

I heard him in there one night. The sound was travelling well on account of the freezing temperature. I'd been at a house party that the cops busted up and was walking home. I heard this drumming in the old shed. I looked in the window and saw French's back - his arms swinging to a beat. I knocked loud and went in. It was about -30 outside and about +30 inside. The wood stove was cranking hot. French had dragged his high hat and his snare drum through the snow. He pounded out some steady rhythms all night. We had a few beers that were near bursting from sitting in the snow.

I'd always try to listen for the drumming from the shed. I'd slip over and every now and then the stove would be humming and a few lads (sometimes French's brother too) would show up break out their beat up old flattops and we'd play some tunes. Soon you'd hear Wheat Kings, 38 Years Old, and later some Stompin' Tom and Bon Jovi (to be ironic and funny, but we loved it). The beers would stay cold outside and we'd be sweating, singing, playing and drumming in that old shed that sat out in the backyard. Smoke from our Rum and Wine flavoured Colts circled our heads. We'd blow some smoke out when we went to snag another beer or two.

These occasions were rare and unpredictable, but I always hoped I'd hear the steady thumping from the shed, or see the wood smoke rising above his yard.

The shed has been silent for far too long.