|
By Edward F. J. Lake, RN (Retired) (Written in June 2005 and updated in February 2009) It is rather strange how some people enter our lives with an aura of importance, make a big splash for a short period of time, and then depart without leaving the slightest impression upon us. Others slip into our lives without any kind of fanfare — even for the shortest periods of time — yet they affect us in the most profound way. Their unassuming deeds often leave indelible imprints upon our memories. Tony Collins of Bond's Path in Southeast, Placentia was one such person. Although I knew him for a relatively short time, he has always been part of my fondest early childhood memories. Over the past fifty years, various musical events and certain social experiences have often brought him to the forefront of my memory on many occasions. By my choice, I was reared by my grandmother and uncle, Bridget (Bride) and Edward (Ned) Cunningham of Freshwater. They had many friends in all the communities of the Placentia region, and the Collins family of Bond's Path was among them. My uncle could not play any musical instruments, but he was an outstanding singer. From the first time that he performed in a Christmas concert at Holy Rosary Parish Hall at Argentia in 1931, my uncle liked to sing. It was their love for singing that brought my uncle and Tony Collins together. When invited to our house to display his talent, Tony readily accepted. That first visit triggered a tradition that continued for five summers during the 1950s. Tony usually walked — perhaps “swung his way” is a better phrase — to our house from Bond's Path with his guitar slung across his back every second Sunday between 1950 and 1955. Now, that may not seem like any great feat but, in reality, it was quite extraordinary. You see, Tony Collins had a physical disability and used crutches to walk. In retrospect, walking the 2.1 miles (3.4 kilometers) to Placentia on crutches and a guitar strapped on his back, getting on and off the motorboat ferry to Jerseyside and walking the 1.9 (3.0 kilometers) miles to Freshwater when the weather was fine — all on a very rough and rocky road, a significant portion of which was uphill — was something most able-bodied young men would not think about doing. The fact that he made the return trip home in the same manner made me admire his determination and tenacity. After the automobile ferry MV Ambrose Shea was put into service in 1954, getting across Placentia Gut became much easier for everyone, especially Tony. I first met Tony Collins in the kitchen of our home at Freshwater on Sunday, August 6, 1950 and I will always remember that first encounter. It was not because of who he was or his ability to play a guitar and sing that first caught my attention. It was his crutches, which he had painted dark emerald green. Unlike those in use today, Tony's crutches were quite wide, had a different kind of bracing system, and oversized under-arm padding. He had a couple of small hooks attached to each crutch and, if he had any small items to carry, he put them in a cloth bag and hung them on the hooks. Thus, his hands were free to hold the crutches in place. At the time, I was four and a half years old and had never seen or heard about crutches; I did not know what they were. The only thing I could equate them with was a narrow ladder that my great uncle, Hugh (Hughie) Roche, used to get down in his fresh water well when it needed cleaning or repairs. To me, in all the naiveté of 1950 childhood, those crutches looked like the narrow ladder in Uncle Hughie's basement. It took a few visits before I got the nerve to ask him why he used to swing his body between two ladders instead of walking. Tony, my grandmother, and my uncle had a “grand old laugh” when I asked him about the crutches. I remember him laughing and saying, “You know, Ned, maybe I should write a song about that.” I do not know if he ever did. After arriving at our house, Tony would prop his crutches up against the wall behind the Enterprise wood and coal stove in the kitchen. Then he would sit in my grandmother's rocking chair and have a cup of tea, or a bottle of Coca Cola, and a wedge of fruit cake before picking up his guitar and breaking into song with my uncle. As he got older, the usual refreshments gave way to a more potent variety. If my uncle had any rum or whisky in the house, tea and Coca Cola were never given a second thought, unless, of course, some Coca Cola was poured into the rum. Tony seemed to prefer the rum because it “loosened up the vocal cords really good.” Sometimes, those singing sessions went on for several hours. I remember on a few occasions my uncle would ask him to stay until well after supper. Then he would make arrangements to get Tony home by taxi. He would engage Tommy Roche to take him to the wharf in Jerseyside and Bob Mooney to pick him at the wharf in Placentia and take him to Bond's Path. While he could have had a taxi at his disposal at any time, Tony preferred to walk. “I need the exercise; you'll never know who I might see and want to talk to along the way,” he used to say to my grandmother when she wanted him to take a taxi home. Together, Tony Collins and my uncle sang Hank William's songs, Newfoundland songs and, everyone's favorite, Irish songs. Tony also used to write his own songs and my uncle liked to listen to them. My uncle used to refer to Tony as “The Troubadour of Bond's Path.” Thus, the title for this article! During those kitchen concerts — and I would imagine there were more in other people's homes as well — Tony Collins would light up when he sang and played his guitar. A positive response to any song that he had written brought a sparkle to his eyes and a big smile on his face. During an interview with his sister Alice in 2005, she told me that Tony “loved it when he got a positive response for singing.” According to Alice, if anyone gave him a compliment of any kind, he would say, ‘I finally got a star!' Those private performances in our kitchen were testing grounds for The Troubadour of Bond's Path, and I would like to think that he got as much out of them as we did. They all helped to polish his talent as a performer and eventually enabled him to earn money for doing something he thoroughly enjoyed doing anyway. As he obtained more and more requests for public appearances at local garden party concerts, other special occasion concerts, and nightclubs, Tony's weekends became very busy. Consequently, the private performances in our kitchen came to an end in 1955. Tony's big break came that same year when he was invited to perform in various nightclubs at U.S. Naval Station, Argentia. Upon hearing about the death of Tony Collins in 1990, I checked my diaries, recorded this childhood memory, and put it away with many others I had written up to that time. While typing it for storage on a compact disc in February 2005, I decided to make it more pertinent by adding an overview of Tony life and his love for music. Since I had very little contact with him after 1955, I had to rely on members of his family to provide the necessary information that would make the story I started fifteen years ago more complete. Born Anthony Joseph Aloysius Collins on Sunday, June 2, 1935, he was the son of Charles (Charlie) Collins of Bond's Path and Agnes (Aggie) Tobin of Ship Cove on the Cape Shore. His father carried the mail by horse-and-buggy year round back and forth between Placentia and Patrick's Cove for 29 years. His mother was a schoolteacher at Ship Cove — later transferred to Cuslett — and it was there during his mail deliveries that Charlie Collins first met her. Tony was the eighth of twelve children and his brothers and sisters were: Kathleen, who died because of a mal-absorption disorder at the age of two months; Celine; Charles, better known as Charlie; Kathleen, who was named for the first-born in the family; Mary Frances, better known as Mae; Kevin; Peter; Agnes; Eleanor, better known as Polly; Leone; and Alice. Known in Bond's Path as a bit of a “hard skeet” when he was growing up, Tony often tried to avoid chores any way he could. One day after school, when he was nine years old, his mother sent him out to “make splits” for starting the morning fires in the kitchen stove. On that particular afternoon, he went back into the house and told his mother he could not do the work because he had too much pain in his left leg . At first, she thought he might be up to one of his usual tricks to avoid doing his evening chores. However, as she observed him more closely, she realized that he was in obvious distress. She took him to see the doctor at Placentia Cottage Hospital, which had been constructed the year before. It was there that Doctor James Paton told Aggie Collins her son had polio and that he would have to go to the General Hospital in St. John's for treatment. The months that followed were extremely difficult for the Collins family. At one point, the doctors told Tony's parents that his leg might have to be amputated. Aggie Collins was a religious woman and immediately started “making novenas,” saying special prayers, to St. Anne, asking that she cure her son. On the morning that Tony was scheduled to have surgery, Aggie Collins prayed for a favorable recovery. When she went to the hospital and the doctor told her that amputation of her son's leg was not necessary after all, her faith in St. Anne was sealed forever. Tony spent several months in the General Hospital having treatment before being discharged to the care of his mother. After he went home from hospital, much of Tony's time was spent in bed; part of the rehabilitation regimen included an abundance of bed rest. During that period, James (Jimmy) Barron, who lived directly across the road from Tony's bedroom window, was the agent for Imperial Oil's ESSO furnace and stove oil. Every morning at about six o'clock, he would start his truck and let it warm up before beginning another day of delivering oil to his customers. As the truck was warming up, Jimmy Barron attended to other chores around his property. Each morning, Tony Collins would open his window and whistle a tune for Jimmy Barron, who responded by clapping his hands and dancing a few steps to the rhythm of Tony's tune. According to Tony's sister, Alice, Jimmy Barron's response “delighted Tony to no end.” She said, “That was one of the things that kept Tony alive and gave him the determination to live a normal life.” Tony did not have any crutches at that time because he still had not reached the stage of recovery routine where he would have been given walking aids. That did not always sit well with him and he took it upon himself to become as active as possible. One morning, after his mother had gone to Mass, he hopped outside on his good leg, pulled a picket off the fence and used it to hobble his way to St. Edward's School in Bond's Path. According to Alice, he “never stopped going after that.” As Tony grew, his left leg did not. Consequently, it was several inches shorter that the right one. By the summer of 1953, Tony was able to ambulate, albeit lopsided, more and more efficiently without the crutches, but only for short distances. By the end of 1954, he had stopped using them altogether. However, he had to rely on them during those occasions when he experienced painful flare-ups, which were often accompanied by abscesses on his affected hip. Charlie and Aggie Collins “let Tony off with “murder,” so to speak, because of his illness. Although his brothers and sisters resented him for getting away with punishment that they had to endure, their antipathy was not long lasting. Indeed, they viewed him as “the core of the family.” The Collins family was quite musical. Tony's mother played the organ and his father used to sing. Just about all of his brothers and sisters were talented and musically inclined. All the children could sing or play some kind of an instrument. Like her mother, Agnes played the piano and organ quite well. According to Tony's sister, Alice O'Keefe, the only exception in the talent department was Celine. In an interview, she said, “Poor Celine, she didn't have a note in her body. All she could do was hum!” Alice stated that her sister Kathleen (Kathy) was the “exceptional song writer” in the family … and it is here that I must take a little digression to tell about a unique piece of history from the life of that particular Collins sibling. Kathleen Collins left her home in Bond's Path and moved to the United States in 1950. It was the half-way point in the twentieth century and many young people were going to the land of “milk and honey” to pursue their dreams and a better way of life. Her sister Mae was also there. Like many young Newfoundlanders who had seen or experienced life in the fast lane at U.S. Naval Station, Argentia, they wanted more than the slow-paced Newfoundland society could give them. They wanted to see and live some of the many experiences which they heard the Americans talk about on a daily basis. Although she chose to live in the United Sates, Kathleen never forgot her roots. One day, several decades after she had left Newfoundland, she was waiting in her car on the parking lot of a doctor's office for a friend who had a medical appointment. As she sat in the car, her mind wandered back to the days of her youth in Bond's Path. She committed her thoughts to paper in the form of a poem and sent it to her relatives and a local newspaper. Here is that poem: A Poem of Bond's Path Is the Pinnacle still standing where the burnt woods used to be? Is the landwash meadow still a part of my father's property? Nothing ever stays the same, there is always such a rush, Are the changes for the better, or are they for the worse!
Is the stocking belly path still there, a shortcut to Point Verde? It was more or less a Lovers' Lane, that's what we always heard. Is the brook that flowed beside our house still babbling on its way? Or has it changed directions, or dried up into clay?
Is St. Edward's School still standing, or has it been torn down? That old one-room schoolhouse, with memories abound. The trees that we took francum from, when we didn't have real gum, Are they still around or have they been cut down for progress on the run?
Are street light shining now, where the stars lit up the night? Are the roads all paved with concrete to keep the pot holes out of sight? When progress comes, the things we love will sometimes go away. But
the simple landmarks of Bond's Path are memories that will stay
Kathleen wrote the following poem for the Southeast-Bond's Path Come Home book, An Arm Full of Memories, in 2006: Take My Little Hand Take my little hand and fly with me, To the land that you love and yearn to see, Don't be afraid to fly, I'll be right here by your side. Take my little hand and fly with me,
Those simple words came to me in a dream, Saying, Grandma, come on home, it's Come Home Year. You'll have lots of things to do, meeting people you once knew, So take my little hand and have no fear.
I packed my bags and headed for the plane, I was happy to be going home again, I was heading for the land where I was born, And would be welcomed, like the dew in early morn.
I woke before the plane could touch the ground, It was just a dream that I was homeward bound, That tiny little voice I still can hear, Come on, Grandma, fly with me, it's Come Home Year. When Kathleen Collins went to the United States, she stayed with her uncle, Osbourne Tobin, who lived in Boston and was better known to all the Collins children as “Uncle Toby.” It was there that she met, and lost, her first boyfriend. It was because of the distance between them that they also communicated through letters on a regular basis. After wooing Kathleen for more than a year, he broke off the relationship and never gave her any reason for his sudden change of heart. Initially, she thought it was because of something she had said or done, but could not think of anything that would have caused him to radically change his mind. After adjusting to the loss — in a mournful sort of way — she decided it was time to get on with life and leave the past behind. One day, she took all her boyfriend's love letters, which she had tied together with blue ribbon, and took them to the basement of her uncle's house and burned them in the furnace. She read each letter one final time before she threw it into the fire. In the process of separating herself from the written memories, Kathleen composed a song about the letters in her mind. After the deed was done, she committed her lyrical thoughts to paper and named the song “Your Old Love Letters,” the lyrics of which appear below: Your Old Love Letters Written by Kathleen Collins Sung by Porter Wagoner
I burned them slowly one by one, Before I'd light the flame I'd read them, To try and find the wrongs I'd done.
The last one broke my heart in two, And all alone I left you weeping, For the ashes of your letters tied in blue.
I watched my dreams go up in smoke, I lived again those precious mem'ries, I heard each tender word you spoke.
The last one said that we were through, Our love is there among the embers, In the ashes of your letters tied in blue.
For several years, Kathleen's song about her first failed love affair was well known within the family and her circle of friends. Indeed, Mae liked the song and sang it quite often. One night in 1957, Kathleen and Mae were at a nightclub called The Ranch with a group of friends and new acquaintances. In those days, patrons who had “entertaining talent” were encouraged to get up on the stage and demonstrate their skills, much the same as today's “Open Mike Night” at many social establishments. That night, Mae Collins went to the stage and sang her sister's song. It was a big hit with everyone in attendance. When one of their new-found friends at the next table — a long-distance truck driver — discovered that Kathleen was the one who had written the song, he told her that he liked it very much. He also told her that his uncle owned a recording studio in Nashville and they were always looking for new songs. Consequently, she wrote the lyrics, with her name and address, on a piece of paper and gave them to the young man whose name she did not remember. She did not consider her talent to be anything out of the ordinary — a major flaw in the attitude of many Newfoundlanders in those days — so there were no thoughts that her song would be seriously considered by anyone in a professional recording studio. She was just proud to share her song with someone who said he liked it very much! In 1961, Kathleen Collins was traveling in a car with her husband, Peter Zuzma, when they heard Porter Wagoner singing his big hit Your Old Love Letters on the radio. She could hardly believe her ears! The song she had written almost a decade earlier was being sung by a noted performer on the Country and Western Hit Parade. What she did not know was the fact that, while Porter Wagoner made the song famous, others also recorded it. Over the years, it was recorded by Johnny Bond, Norma Jean, Jim Reeves, Faron Young, Billie Jo Spears, and Ricky Skaggs. Each of those singers put his/her own brand on it by altering some of the lyrics to suit his/her own objectives. Unfortunately, Kathleen Collins Zuzma never received any credit or remuneration for the song she wrote in 1953. She did not make a fuss about it because she had no way to prove the song was hers. Who knows what happenened to it after she gave it to the young man who claimed his uncle worked in a recording studio in Nashville! Perhaps it lay in a pile of submitted material until Porter Wagoner went through it and found something he liked! Your Old Love Letters was the title of a Porter Wagoner album that sold millions of copies. It was also one of twenty tracks that were on the album titled The Essential Porter Wagoner. Those two albums are shown below:
While there probably no intentional wrong doing on anyone's part regarding the acquisition and recording of Your Old Love Letters, it should be known that a young woman from Bond's Path, Newfoundland wrote the song after being forsaken by the man she thought truly loved her. Kathleen Zuzma — who lived in Williamsport, Virginia — spent the last few years of her life dealing with the devastating effects of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary disease (COPD). She died on Tuesday, January 20, 2009, the same day that Maureen Linehan of Placentia died and Barack Obama was inaugurated as the 44th — and first African-American — president of the United States. Her husband Peter had died a decade earlier. Argentia.org hereby extends sincere condolence to all the members of the Collins and Zuzma families. In 2008, Kathleen summed up her thoughts of her married life with Peter Zuzma in a song she titled “Memories Are All I Have.” She gave the song to singer David Blackmore of Nova Scotia (formerly of Port aux Basques, Newfoundland), who was going to include it on his next album. As of this publication date, Blackmore has not recorded that song. And now back to our presentation on Kathleen's brother! Tony Collins got his first guitar as a bribe. His mother promised to buy a new guitar for him if he passed his grade nine exams. After passing — and his mother had kept her promise — Tony started practicing according to the instruction booklet that came with the guitar. In addition to that, he learned many things about guitar playing from his good friend Thomas (Tom) Green of Point Verde. After learning how to play, Tony used to take his guitar to school and play before morning and afternoon classes began, and again at recess. It was at school that he discovered there was money to be earned by playing and singing. Some of the students would drop a nickel or dime into his guitar if he played what they requested. Tony Collins married Margaret (Marg) Downey of Colinet, St. Mary's Bay on Monday, March 17, 1952. The date was significant for both bride and groom because it was St. Patrick's Day and their ancestors had come to Newfoundland from Ireland in the 1800s. Tony and Marg had five children: Kevin, twins Kenneth (Kenny) and Keith, Joan, and Anthony (Tony, Jr.). Tony referred to his only daughter as “Dermaseets,” but the present-day members of his family never knew why.
Actually, that term is the misspelled version of a word that cannot be found in any conventional dictionary. It was one of many such words that were used quite commonly in Little Placentia — Argentia, as of 1901 — from the mid-1700s until 1941. The prefix “derma” referred to “skin” and the suffix “seethe” referred to a state of agitation, boiling, or bubbling. Thus, a “dermaseethe,” or “dermaseet,” as pronounced in an Irish-Newfoundland brogue, was a person whose personality was said to be impish, bubbly, boisterous, or hyperactive. Put another way, the person was a “real divilskin.” That term, too, was an Argentia version of the widely known expression, “devil kin.” When used in reference to girls, dermaseet was generally taken to mean they were tomboys. Considering he liked writing and singing songs, Tony had a way with words. Learning about such a unique word from some former Argentia resident would certainly have caught his attention, and he would have found some way to make use it. Having one girl grow up with three brothers was just the opportunity he needed. One of the first memorable occasions involving the Collins family occurred at Dunville in 1958. The Women's Institute sponsored a fair to raise funds for various projects. Tony Collins supported the event by putting off a concert. He and his sisters, Mae, Agnes, and Eleanor sang separately and together; everyone thoroughly enjoyed their renditions of country and western, Irish, and Newfoundland songs. The Americans at Argentia liked to entertain, and be entertained. When local performers made a good impression, U.S. Navy officials kept inviting them back to Argentia. Tony Collins was one such entertainer and the U.S. service personnel liked his extensive repertoire of country and western songs. They especially liked his versions of the very popular Johnny Cash hits. For an extensive period of time Tony Collins and his band members were in demand at Argentia just about every weekend. Some of the Americans used to refer to him as the “Weekend Man.” Tony's most frequent appearances at Argentia were at the U.S. Marines' Blue Room. Besides the pre-arranged payment he received, Tony also received a kind of bonus. Some of the regular American female patrons at the Blue Room liked his music and the country and western style in which he dressed. At almost every performance, they used to “pass the hat” and give whatever money they collected to Tony and his band.
The greatest highlight of Tony Collins' singing career occurred during the 19th annual USO Show at U.S. Naval Station, Argentia in 1960. The USO Show, by the way, was incorporated at New York City on Tuesday, February 4, 1941. One of the headlining stars in 1960 was none other than Johnny Cash! Since the servicemen at Argentia were well acquainted with Tony Collins, they invited him and his band, The Visions, to be the opening act for the famous country and western singer. By 1967, Johnny Cash was well on the road to drug and alcohol addiction, an affliction that would eventually take many years to overcome. Prior to his appearance on stage at Argentia, Johnny Cash had several drinks. After being introduced and singing only two songs, he left the stage for a break and never returned. Actually, he was too inebriated to continue the concert and Tony Collins and his band filled in for the rest of Johnny Cash's allotted time by performing only the hit songs that had been recorded by Johnny Cash. According to reports from some of those who were in attendance, everyone was so thrilled with the performance of Tony Collins and The Visions that the entire audience gave them a standing ovation. Several of those who were in attendance said that Johnny Cash “wasn't even missed.” Tony's 18-year-old sister, Alice, also attended that USO Show. During our interview, she told me that she was very proud to see her brother, “all decked out in his sequins-adorned costume,” make such a good impression on everyone in Argentia. Alice also told me that, even though they were not of legal age, she and Eleanor always attended the dances at clubs where Tony and his band played. For several months after that experience, Tony used to open all his concerts and dances with the words, “Hello, I'm Johnny Cash,” a line made famous by Johnny Cash and used at the opening of every one of his concerts. Since the local people of the day knew about Tony's experience at Argentia, they always gave a big cheer after Tony uttered his introductory comment. The same thing used to happen at the Blue Room! During his life, Tony Collins worked at a variety of jobs to support his family. He was a time-keeper with the Placentia branch of the Department of Highways, he worked on the fox farm at Black Point near Point Verde, he was a foreman at Pyramid Homes Limited in Argentia, and he operated his own taxi service form 1978 to 1988. It was during those years that he became known as the “singing taxi driver.” According to his sister, Alice, Tony often sang for riders “whether they wanted to hear him or not.” During the time he operated the taxi service, Tony had a contract with the Department of Social Services to transport mentally and physically handicapped children from their homes to school and back again. He used to sing to them during every trip and they “dearly loved” every minute of those impromptu performances. Tony Collins had several bands during his singing career. They were: The Hayseeders, The Sunnysiders, The Visions, and The Top Cat Band, which was better known as “The TCs.” During his musical career, Tony Collins had the help of many local performers, most of whom were exceptional musicians in their own right. The following is a list of musicians and singers who played in bands established by The Troubadour of Bond's Path.
Anthony (Tony) Ostrowski was a 23-year-old electrician with Seabees in the Department of Public Works at U.S. Naval Station, Argentia. He was stationed at Argentia from July 1963 to August 1964 and during that time he played steel guitar with the Sunnysiders. He married Bernice Martin of Freshwater on Saturday, May 30, 1964. They had one child, Theresa, and they now reside in Euson, New Jersey. Billy Griffiths was better known in the region by his nickname “Scruff” and Gerard Morrissey was simply “Moss.” Charles (Charlie) Cheeseman was more commonly called “Chuck,” while his brother Irwin was known as “Chick.” During the time that The Visions were in existence, Petty Officer William (Billy) Deel used to act as master of ceremonies for the band. Playing the harmonica and rhythm guitar, he made guest appearances with The Visions as well. Sometimes, he was known to get out front and step dance to the jigs and reels of button accordion player Joe Tremblett. Deel worked with the Special Services Department at U.S. Naval Station, Argentia. Over the years, Tony Collins wrote many songs but, unfortunately, most of them were never recorded on tape or in writing. The most notable of those that have survived include: • A Chicken Bar Waitress — which he wrote about his wife during the time she worked at Mary Browne's chicken bar in Placentia. • A Girl in Marystown • A House on the Hill in Freshwater — which he wrote about his friends Patrick and Eva Green who lived in Freshwater. • For Mother on Mother's Day • Girls of Old Lamaline • Grandpa • Heart Broken Heart • I Begged Her not to Leave, But I Was Glad to See Her Go • If We Didn't Have Each Other What in the World Would We Ever Do, which he wrote about his sister Eleanor and her husband, Robert (Bob) Martin. • Tribute to Mary Rose — which he wrote about Mary Rose McCue upon hearing about her tragic death in 1980. McCue was married to Joseph (Joe) Buchanan and was living in the United States with their young son, Scott. She was also eight months pregnant with their second child at the time. On December 21, 1980, she was involved in a car accident in which she, her baby, and her brother-in-law were killed by a drunk driver. It is interesting to note that the Collins family refers to this particular song as Mary of Fox Harbour, while the relatives of Mary Rose McCue refer to it as Tribute to Mary Rose, the original title Tony Collins gave it. • Merry Christmas to Joan — which he wrote for his daughter after she had left home. • The Ocean Ranger Tony Collins died on Sunday, July 1, 1990 (Canada Day), at the age of 55. That day, he started out for Castle Hill in Jerseyside with his good friend Nicholas (Nick) Lannon. They were going down over the Blockhouse Hill when Tony developed pain in his chest. It was so severe that he turned around and went home, where he collapsed. Since Alice was a nursing assistant at Placentia Cottage Hospital, she was the first one Tony's wife called. When she arrived, Tony was still alive, but he had a very weak pulse. Resuscitation efforts at his home, in the ambulance, and at the hospital were unsuccessful. Many of the children to whom he used to sing in his taxi never forgot Tony's kindness to them; they were among his many friends who paid tribute to him at the funeral home and attended his funeral. Tony Collins, The Troubadour of Bond's Path, left a legacy of music to his family and a treasure trove of memories for those who knew him. His son Kevin is now a well-known international recording artist who has had many successful concert tours around North America and in Ireland. In addition to being the Weekend Man at U.S. Naval Station, Argentia, Tony Collins was a Weekend Man for our family for several years during the 1950s. In keeping with those analogies, it rather ironic that he was born on a Sunday and died on a Sunday ... a Weekend Man in the strictest sense of the word!
In 1987, Tony Collins wrote a song about his father for his son, Kevin, to record. Titled Grandpa, the song has yet to be recorded. During an interview on Tuesday, April 5, 2005, Tony's nephew, Robert (Robbie) Martin, of Paradise, Conception Bay, performed an excellent rendition of his uncle's song for me. Grandpa (By Tony Collins) My Grandpa worked his heart out for a livin' A mailman, he worked in many a storm Grandpa did the chores and the garden So the family was not hungry and was warm.
Every 31 days his cheque was 29 dollars Such little pay for a job so big and tough And in 29 years he kept that mail a movin' I suppose, Lord, he slaved long enough.
They raised 11 kids on a little pay Prayers were said and it was off to school each day Everyone helped along, sing an evening song To try and keep troubles away.
But Grandpa died and left Grandma all the burden She raised her children and never did complain When she passed away, I thought I'd never forget it I'm her grandson and I always will remain.
Nan and Grandpa, this is just a little token For everything you've done so very kind I only wish you were here two see me Playin' music like my dad done in his time.
I'm
playin' music like my dad done in his time.
Tony's sister, Eleanor (Polly) Martin, lived only a short distance from his house and he would always call her on the phone when he wanted her to listen to some new song he had written or to watch a video of some of his favorite country and western singers. Eleanor sometimes found those call annoying if she was in the middle of doing something else because she knew all too well that Tony was not one to take “no” for an answer. When Eleanor did not answer the telephone, Tony would stand in the doorway of his house and shout out to her as loud as he could. To satisfy Tony and keep the neighbors from being annoyed, she usually ended up doing what Tony wanted. About ten years after his death, Eleanor was in one of her “missing Tony spells,” so she wrote a song called “He Don't Call Me Anymore.” Tony's son, Kevin, recorded his aunt's song and included it on the CD Jump In And Swim. My youngest child, Maureen, was killed in a tragic car accident near Belfast, Northern Ireland on February 17, 2004. She was on a six-month working holiday and was being oriented to her new surroundings when that terribly tragedy occurred, so I can understand all too well what Eleanor Collins Martin was thinking and feeling when she wrote the song. For that reason, I consider it appropriate to end this memory of Tony Collins with Eleanor Martin's tribute to her brother: He Don't Call Me Anymore He used to call me on the phone He used to call me from the door He'd be so mad, I wouldn't answer Now, he don't call me anymore.
He'd say, “Come down and watch George Jones” He'd have a dial tone on the phone We'd sit and talk 'till three or four Now, he don't call me anymore.
He was my friend; I dearly loved him But God called him ten years or more He's up there singing country music And he don't call me anymore.
Someday, I know we'll meet again up yonder He'll have his guitar, that's for sure We'll sing the songs we sang so often And he can call me just once more.
He was my friend; I dearly loved him But God called him ten years or more He's up there singing country music And he don't call me anymore. |
