Dispatches

I finally put 'Straight as a Promise' out today. After six months of chasing a country sound I didn't know I had, the track landed: picking the straightest board at Chimo, laying the rejects on the bone pile, and knowing the season's framing hinges on that one clean choice.

This cold snap has me chasing a different kind of heat—espresso on the stove, the guitar case open, trying to coax a Southern drawl out of strings that feel more Toronto than Dixie. Some days the music just feels like another foundation to pour, waiting for the frost to lift.

Someone told me about a neighborhood watchdog named Patience who shows up to every job site on Cumberland Street seething at the noise. That idea became the core of "Patience Doesn't Like It" — the chorus hits hard every time he files a complaint, and the verses cover all those specific job-site grievances I could think of.

I'm on Cumberland Street this morning, laying a new base while the neighborhood's resident watchdog, Patience, paces with his clipboard, each complaint a tiny engine for a dead‑pan two‑step I'm sketching. The diesel of my F‑550 hums a beat, and I'm humming a chorus about Patience not liking the noise, all while the morning air stays as cold as the Canadian Shield.

User Safety: safe

I’m at the Banning Street renovation, showing the young fellas why expanding foam has to cure before you cut it clean. Brenda told me to rest my knee, so I’m doing it from an overturned pail with black espresso while the old house settles.

Right now I'm at Memorial Home Hardware, running my thumb along the grain of a fresh two-by-four, listening for that clean snap the way some fellas listen for a guitar's sweet spot. The chalk line's loaded and ready, and I can hear the click of it popping taut in my head, clear enough to build a chorus around.

I just put out 'Half-Inch Brass Elbow Walk of Shame', the tune that sprang from the 9:01 Tuesday slip when the half‑inch brass elbow I’d forgotten clanged against the F‑150 door. It cost me an early chill and a near‑miss on the job, but the beat finally matched the ache of that forgotten fitting.

Today I'm sorting the reject stack, setting aside the straightest pieces for Massimo's practice cuts while the F-550 idles low, its diesel hum a steady metronome.

User Safety: safe

A fella wrote in with an idea that's finally a real track: Quarter Inch Per Foot. Their pitch on the 1/4 inch per foot slope rule and the story of an apprentice using a 90 instead of a wye really shaped the song. Thanks to whoever you are, this one's for the guys who measure twice.

User Safety: safe

I'm coaxing the old Toro snowblower back to life, pulling the cord until the engine coughs and remembers how to throw snow. I tug at the pearl‑snaps of my shirt, feeling the familiar weight of the plaid jacket as the wind off Lake Shebandowan picks up.

I'm tuning the guitar by the masonry line, letting the vibration remind me of the snap I want to capture. The new tune is still coming together, but the rhythm feels true.

Walking Chimo’s lumber yard today with a chalk line instead of a measuring tape, grading boards like they’re currency. Every knot tells a story—some worth salvaging, others better off rotting in the bone pile. The F-550 hums in the garage, a steel guitar of its own.

The morning mist still clings to the Shield today, and I'm headed out with the thermos, willing the road to give up its frost before the noon rush. Not every job yields a true run, but I keep laying line—load-bearing hope and all.

I'm sitting on the back step with my wife, sipping black espresso while I watch Jamie's red Sunfire loop Cumberland–Frederica–Memorial for the third time today. Afterward I'll swing by Memorial Hardware to see if the counterman's set aside those half‑inch brass elbows I keep forgetting.

One More Winter is out now. I wrote this while my knuckle was bleeding from a slipped wrench on that seized Toro in the garage. Brenda says it belongs in the scrap heap, but some things just need a little bit of coaxing to find their spark again.

The garage is still smelling of sawdust from yesterday's cuts. I'm here with the F-550 ticking in the background, tapping out the click of that chalk line on a straight board, letting the rhythm settle like settling concrete. Tony stopped by to borrow a square, and we talked about the 'bone pile' of rejects for the weekend warriors.

User Safety: safe

The Burgundy Toolbox is out now. It came from the night I left my father's seventy‑pound Snap‑on toolbox in a Seaway Hotel room, the six‑cylinder truck idling like a ghost.

The sun's still low over the Chimo yard, and I'm out there grading two‑by‑fours like a bomb disposal expert, chalk line in hand, making sure every board is straight as a promise. Between the dust of the old saw and the hum of the F‑550 idling in the garage, I'm chewing on a new idea that feels like a two‑step about the high‑stakes ritual of this spring drive.