Michael’s Mitts

Posted on August 6, 2015 under Storytelling with one comment

Don’t mess with Michael!

The first thing you notice when you meet Michael MacDonald of Red Islands, Cape Breton, is his hands.

They are the hands of one who has known hard labour. They are the hands of a stevedore, an auto body repairman and a fisherman. They are the hands of a man who still cuts his own wood to heat his home. They are the hands of a one-time pugilist. They are also the hands that gently caress a fiddle.

These are Michael’s mitts.

Honest toil. Like many people of his generation, he grew up without electricity and many other comforts in life. That’s just how it was back then and it was the norm. It was a hard life. But Michael does not lament these times. “The harder your upbringing is, the farther you go. Life was not handed to us on a silver platter.” He chuckles when he hears about people going to gyms to get a workout. Mike is a great walker and loves the outdoors. “Exercise and fresh air is all you really need.”

Like many Cape Bretoners, Michael went “down the road” to Ontario in his youth. He worked in Ottawa and Toronto and it was during this time that boxing became a central part of his life. He was an up and comer in the boxing world. When asked how he got his start, Michael says that he honed his craft behind the Big Pond dance hall! He trained in the same gym as the legendary heavyweight, George Chuvalo. He says that he never went into the ring with Chuvalo “which explains why I’m still alive today.”

He was intrigued with the boxing world and retired undefeated. An accident while back in Nova Scotia, curtailed any dreams of making it to the big times. But rather than bemoaning this fact, Michael says it was a blessing. Many of his boxing contemporaries are no longer alive or have suffered from brain damage. He also became quite skeptical about the business, as most of the boxers were pawns. “For every boxer that got rich, there were a thousand who didn’t, much of the gate being taken by trainers and managers.”

In one memorable fight, as he made his way to the ring, someone came out of the crowd and put him in a headlock. “I’m Neily John the Widow and I’m your mother’s first cousin.” This was a subtle reminder not to forget ones roots in Cape Breton and not to let fame get to Michael’s head.

It was much later in life, when he returned to Red Islands, that Michael pursued in earnest his life-long passion for the fiddle. Throughout Cape Breton, fiddles remain the anchor of kitchen parties and community dances. At the age of 12 he took his one and only fiddle lesson from none other than Johnny “Rye”. Johnny was from St. Peter’s and was a gifted musician. According to Johnny, a fiddle out of tune was a fiddle that couldn’t be played, so he taught Michael the ABC’s of fiddle tuning. Johnny would tune the fiddle and then “untune” it, repeating the exercise a half dozen times until Michael could do it perfectly.

Michael enjoys playing in public. He says that funerals are one of his mainstays. “You don’t get much criticism from the guest of honor when all you do is play at funerals.”

Not only does Michael play but he also repairs and builds fiddles. When asked about how he learned to build a stringed instrument, he said he simply learned by doing … part of his ingrained self-sufficiency.

Like a cat with nine lives, Michael has survived some major health scares in recent years. A short while ago he was gravely ill and spent the better part of a year in palliative care. “The nursing staff finally gave up on me when I wouldn’t die and shipped me back home.” During this period of time, Michael nearly threw in the towel on more than one occasion. He describes “the most peaceful feeling imaginable” as he entered the tunnel. When pushed for detail, he said the only other thing he could compare it to was when he won a fight and raised his gloves in the air.

Michael has no regrets. “It is the best life I ever had,” he quips. His greatest pleasure is to jump into his boat and spend time on his beloved Bras D ’or Lakes.

The conversation is wrapping up when Michael goes over and opens the fiddle case. He gently holds the instrument in his broad, rough hands. Far from the fury of a boxing ring, while staring out at the water, he plays “Niel Gow’s Lament” and “Ashokan Farewell”. His love of music and the place he calls home is apparent.

His bright eyes sparkle. There will be no more “going down the road” for this Cape Bretoner.

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