Bob Anders

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, it was a beautiful day on Cape Breton Island. Our dear friend, Buz Watkins, took a few of us to explore Big Intervale in Margaree Valley, a lovely and magical place that also has 10 million mosquitoes in the summertime. I remember Don and Marilyn Beamish were there, Buz, me and Cliff. Near the end of a very long dirt road, we stopped to visit a crazy local character name of Calvin Drake. Now Calvin, who was maybe in his sixties at the time, had obviously been drinking and smoking dope. We found him out back, clambering over a huge pile of firewood, with a 40-ouncer of rum in one hand and a running chain saw in the other. Insanely dangerous. He staggered down to greet us, and somehow got us all in a line. Like a mad general inspecting the troops, Calvin greeted each of us in turn. Demented as he was, he had this way of staring right into your soul, naked, it was scary (remind you of anyone?). With each one, he stopped and then said something like “Um hmm” and moved on. Cliff was last. Calvin looked right into his eyes, one foot away, for a very long moment, and then exclaimed, really loud, something like, “That guy is OK!!!” That was Cliff. I’ll miss you, my friend.