November 1995
By Barry Stagg
The Political Parson
Here comes the Political Parson, crisp and tied up and suited on this summer day. Pacing with briefcase, boggy mud on his heels, stern concentration on his face. Here comes the Political Parson. Ambitious deacon born and bred and now let loose again among the locals. Years of learning ritual and formal ceremony have steeled him to the task of moulding the open minds of his unsuspecting flock.
Small waves whip up the marsh pond and the weak sun beats down between big, fat rainy clouds and the day goes on, sun creeping along, a salt encrusted shore. The Political Parson has his black briefcase standing hard against the muddy marsh. He has his stern face and his stories of the ancient rituals of authority to power his destiny. The Political Parson can only welcome progress just as he welcomes organization and stiff, stern ritual. Along he lopes drawing pleasure from the idea that these people need him and rely upon his authority, but especially warm in the realization that the local pulp mill has fuelled his vigour with a healthy and permanent retainer.
There are truck stops here now and gas stations and takeout restaurants and here and there across the Island, traffic lights and a bit of pavement. June is still the same and most of the land just murmurs along vacantly absorbing the minor meddlings that the chief nomads have inflicted.
Electricity and telegraph lines hum along in the breeze, singing a song reminding some of the days when the wind sang in the lines and sails bellowed. Today we are land bound, we wait, we scan the beach and we wait for the gesture from today's Political Parson. Here he comes again, education oozing from every pore, white shirt with tie done up tightly, neck bulging, willing to live with that reduced blood supply to achieve the formal beauty of the pulpit. The Political Parson remembers the military and his brief tenure there, and somewhere, not too far from the centre of his mind, he glories in the fact that there is no war. The Political Parson is a peace time military man wishing to devote his full energies to the military conquest of the folkss he left behind and who now come to him cap in hand to take his word on the law.
The Political Parson wonders just what can be done to bring a bit of culture to this marshy land. He wonders about opera and the orchestra and maybe just a tint of high society. He does not dither on this but moves on toting the formidable briefcase like a portable barricade against the marshland. Boggy, boggy days are in the Parson's past, days of sweat-hard work and people firm in their belief in hard labour as soul food. The Political Parson embraces all of this and he knows firmly that his flock does likewise. But the Political Parson has read widely. He has seen elsewhere in the Empire the need for stability, the need for new power, the need to promote the local deacons to the pulpit.
Along the wooden path he moves, here and there his brown shoes catching a bit of bog mud as the wooden steps of this endless bridge give way to water, bog and gravity. The briefcase picks up a few black flecks of solid fresh dirt, but the Parson is oblivious to these minor irritations. Along he moves, his cuffs now just a mix of black mud and fresh dry cleaning. Here is the court house, or is it the school, or is it the Orange Lodge? No, it is the Knights of Columbus. The Political Parson clucks a little inwardly, purses his lips and moves on in but not without a silent murmer of prayer to the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Night comes and the sixty-one Chevs move around, forest-green cars crawling along muddy roads. The pavement puts in an appearance and a couple of U.S. Army trucks thunder by. This is "The Base". The night time is the right time. Where is the Political Parson? He is there with his tie slightly undone, looking a little sheepish, but with a drink in his hand, and is that a girl, a local girl?
He's on the beer on the Base. Black guys, Americans, servicemen are wielding huge instruments, saxophones, trumpets, an upright bass and a couple of electric guitars. Pounding music, something called Rock and Roll. No hymns here. The phrase "Jug Band Music and Rhythm and Blues", "Jug Band Music and Rhythm and Blues", "Jug Band Music and Rhythm and Blues" keeps throbbing through his head. "Where in the hell did that come from"? he murmurs to himself and stops startled at the absolute sacrilege of the dreadful H-word. The Political Parson has absolutely no doubt about his own ultimate destiny but he is certainly taking no chances with his performance on this worldly coil. The only thing to do is to simply get plastered, lose his memory and work on getting his trouser buttons undone.
"Jug Band Music, Jug Band Music", that infernal, terrible phrase, a little shorter this time comes back. What's this up on the stage? White guys with fiddles and guitars making just as much noise and laughing just as much as these big, black G.I.'s did last set. It really is Jug Band Music as some fellow sticks on a straw hat and does a few perfunctory moans on a big glass jug before taking up a fiddle and dashing off a sweat drenched reel.
The Parson is well on his way now as that nickel beer and the N.C.O. Club are sending him skyward minute by minute. Where is the briefcase? Where are his papers? "Jug Band Music and Rhythm and Blues", Jug Band Music and Rhythm and Blues".
Good intentions and cheap American beer have collided and set this boy to rocking as certain as Sunday morning and the inevitable hangover battle in the dawn.Hello good times. Hello bad times. Hello 1962.