Turtle Channel!!!

No one knew why he did it. Day after day, came rain or shine, there he stood at the corner of Alberta and Kilmaan Streets playing his guitar and singing softly. He placed no hat in front of him for monetary collection. In fact, any attempts to give him money was always promptly rejected. He once spent twenty minutes in a conversation with a very insistent 70-year-old woman on why he wouldn't take her ten dollar note. He had appeared one day many years ago, to the town. He was not homeless, nor was he poor. He was always immaculately dressed, with his black cotton pants, brown trenchcoat, shiny leather shoes and a tall hat. His clothes may be out of fashion, but they were always clean and impeccable. The locals became accustomed to his music and voice and any new resident quickly became acquainted with him. In the little town of Guevkirsten, there were no tourists.

He was known to all, and knew all. In such a small town, it was not hard to know everyone who lived there.

At dawn, the marketplace nearby would slowly come alive. Farmers, fish mongers and butchers would pass him by and every morning they would exchange at least one short sentence with him. He knew if they had a good harvest at the fields, or good haul at sea, or healthy livestock. He also would know if they had a bad night from being shunned by the wife to sleeping on the couch after coming home a wee bit too late from the tavern. He knew if they were happy, sad or just bored. And from their collective news at dawn, he would strum his faithful guitar and sing his self-composed lyrics.

With the sun high up in the sky and singing birds come the housewives, who would regularly be seen dragging their youngest children in tow. They would wish him good morning, listen to his tune and hurry off to the marketplace. If he were singing a joyful tune, they knew that the harvest and meat would probably be good and they couldn't want to get to the market for their shopping! If he were singing a soulful tune, they would also hurry off to the market to try to get the best bargain before any other woman snatches up a better deal or a better piece of meat. But most of the time, his tune was merry and the women would hurry off anyway, eager to shop and spend their money on food and perhaps some new clothes for the children. The young children who followed their mothers often wander off to him and his guitar while their mommys bargain to their hearts content. The women never worried, for crime was low in their little town, and at any rate they knew their children can be found playing near him at the corner of Alberta and Kilmaan Streets. He would entertain his chlidish audience with stories and accompanying music. His stories were always different, but they all ended the same way: singing a merry folk song that all the children would know by heart from the age of three. Most of them could remember up to five of his folk songs.

The women and young children would soon leave the marketplace before noon. The mothers who stopped to claim their children from his loyal audience would have a small chat with him. He would know their latest triumphs (see the pretty blue bonnet my husband got for me, all I had to do was praise his muscles a little!), and also their latest grievances (ooh, little Tim broke my favourite porcelein vase last night!) He would share in their victories and help shoulder the pain that their children caused them. All the gossip would certainly pass through his ears, and the best thing about him was that they never passed through his lips. He deflected all unwanted questions and probings by strumming his guitar and breaking into yet another song.

At noon, the older children would return home from school. Most of them, if not all, would stop by his side to sing along with him. He was never made fun of, for he was their favourite friend and the only entertainment available to the children apart from the occasional arrival of the circus or moving funfair. The children knew and loved him, sang his songs, told him of their day in school and some even make up new songs to sing along with him. They stayed for a half hour, and hurry off home to eat and to help out in the housework. The girls would have to cook, clean or tend to the front garden while the boys would have to manage the vegetable patches in the back yard, mend the fences or fix the plumbing. Hence the half hour they spent with him would be the time with they are totally carefree to gossip among each other while being entertained by his guitar.

In the afternoon, the market closes and so do all the shops. The shopkeepers would pass him by, stopping to inquire about his health and to talk about their business. Often, they would share a little of their produce with him, some gave him chocolates, some gave him bread and some gave him a pipe. He would, in return, listen to their troubles and wash away their worries with a song. It always worked.

The evenings saw the men return from work, and walking out to the pubs and taverns. They would pass him by, sober, and later in the night a little more tipsy than their wives would prefer. They listened and talked to him before a drink, and sang with him after. On specials nights, like someone's birthday, he would join them in the pub...him and his faithful old guitar...playing the birthday song, and any other song requests.

He was well liked.

Yet, he had no job. No one knew where he got the money to eat. He never worked, for he was always there, at the corner of Alberta and Kilmaan Street, standing and strumming his guitar. No one knew anything about his family or his friends.

He was not there, at the corner of Alberta and Kilmaan Streets, one fine day in early October just before the autumn claimed the land. The music and singing was missed terribly. The town icon was lost. They waited for him for two days, they went to his known address, they even called the police in the big city 2 hours away. But no one knew where he went. He had simply disappeared.

And it was very quiet, there at the corner of Alberta and Kilmaan Streets.

Three months later, the young boys began to take out their guitars to sing there for about a half hour after their school closes. Their mothers did not disapprove. The men followed their suit, and started taking guitars to the pubs and taverns at nights. The women started singing to the marketplace, and the young children in tow also humming along the same tune.

The man was gone, but the music never died.