When I first moved out of my parents’ home, I bought a red-brick oneroom schoolhouse in Sprucedale, about 20 minutes down a winding dirt road from where I live now. It had a gothic fireplace and northfacing windows, so it always felt a bit dark. It served as my struggling artist bachelor pad for nearly a decade. I even had a studio set up and recorded a few records there. It was a beautiful place. Living in a 100-year-old building could be trying though, especially for a young
rock ’n’ roll guy who was always on the road.
I was so secluded, and nature felt much more intimate there. In winter, it was a battle to keep out the -40 C chill; for a while it was heated only by wood, and I’d go into Huntsville to warm up in the grocery store. There were animals, too; a squirrel once ate the handle off my microwave oven and there were often mouse nests in my studio, which was the warmest place in the house. But I kind of liked the imposition. It felt authentic, like when I come home from a ski with a beard full of snow.
That schoolhouse also had significant familial connections. My grandmother, who passed on her profound love of nature and whose maiden name became my stage name, got her education there. Some of my family is buried in a nearby cemetery. We’ve been in this area for a long time.
I think when you grow up on the Canadian Shield there’s a stability, an unshakable foundation that nobody really points out to you, but I feel it gives me peace. Being a musician lacks stability, and it’s something I long for. There’s always been a magic about this place.