08/29/2026
WE’VE KICKED THE BUCKET-gigs!
Our yearly Caledon community farm concerts began right after COVID, as a way to bring folks back together again. And we really wanted everyone to come, even if money was tight—so there was no cover. We just put out buckets for donations, and then we covered the rest.
Over the years we had bluegrass and blues, an east coast kitchen party, one of Stopmin’ Tom’s most favourite bands that he ever played with, and Juno-winning rockabilly icon, Paul James.
It was a dream come true to create a farm concert, somewhat similar to what my father grew up with on the Marshall family homestead in Mono Centre back in the 30s and 40s. Every once in a while, country folk would gather at either the local community center or at someone’s farm for a wee bit of a shindig. (Below is an excerpt from my book, AN ASS NAMED GRACE 2027, that talks about those times back when life was simple.)
Unfortunately, I no longer live on the farm, so the hard decision was made to discontinue Bucket Gigs.
Thanks to all of you for coming out. Sometimes we had about 175 attending, and other times it was over 300 and the parking field was packed. We were blessed with incredible weather every single year. And I know for a fact that the horses had a blast—especially the minis (Kiwi and Sugar) as they grazed through the crowd.
Anyway, I’ve been putting off this announcement because it’s hard to say goodbye to the highlight of my year. Please keep on being kind to each other; don’t let the negative win (turn off the news!) and keep supporting live music. (I’ve just found a new place that does an incredible job—Erin Hill Acres)
Thanks fer comin' out y'all.
DG Marshall
www.dgmarshall.com
*My 92-year-old father died in my arms just a few months ago. It was a good death and an even better life. He smiled when I read this section of my book because he still dreamed of those days. This is for all my country neighbours and old-timer farming friends:
# # #
Church suppers were a big hit in the farming community. Two or three times a year, families and neighbors up and down the dirt roads—both young and old—would sit beside each other at long wooden tables in the church hall, usually located in the basement. The most popular drawing cards would be the infamous strawberry socials near the end of June and the Thanksgiving or Christmas potlucks. Tablecloths would be covered with multiple renditions of homemade potato salads, deviled eggs, chutneys, homegrown corn, radishes, and a variety of turnip and squash dishes. Farm-raised turkey, duck, goose, or ham took up the most real estate on a plate.
And then there were the pies. Oh, the pies—raspberry, strawberry, strawberry—rhubarb, apple, coconut cream, pecan, and lemon meringue. It was Homer Simpson heaven.
However, the pièce de résistance of the entire affair was a certain baked goody that’s still judged at local fall fairs to this very day. I ain’t talking about cookies, cupcakes, or brownies. I speak with great reverence for those legendary, mouth-watering, and delectable temptations, simply known as… butter tarts. Thank God for the womenfolk from farming communities who could bake like no other. And thank God for lard! Without this pig fat, the flaky crust of the tart shell would not have been able to delicately house the magical and sometimes secret filling that inspired competition among the friendliest of neighbors and kinfolk. Tart feuds—flaky folks raisin hell.
There was a common-sense and neighborly way of life that helped facilitate the Marshalls and the Parkers getting to know each other within their respective rural communities. If Grant Addison and Leone Hyacinthe had never sat near each other on a hard pew during a Sunday service, never attended a church social together, or never “accidentally” run into each other at a barn dance, I would have never met my mother and father.
Because of Dad’s love of music and dancing with the ladies, the shindigs at the local hall or someone’s barn were his favorite social outings away from the responsibilities and chores on the farm. He would tell stories of being a young lad in the 1930s, sitting on a bale of straw and watching the adults kick up the dust in a hayloft of someone’s barn, as they square danced to the sound of a local fiddler playing East Coast jams like “The Little Burnt Potato,” Soldier’s Joy,” or “The Mason’s Apron.” These musical throwbacks paid homage to the various clans who came across the pond from their Celtic homelands, with a dream of planting more than just potatoes.
The music stirred everyone’s spirits, but it was the instructions shouted out by The Caller that moved the feet of each square group, composed of four couples. This man’s voice would bark clear across the dance floor. The cadence-driven lyrics were something my father would fervently listen to and idolize. He would even mimic the callers he used to listen to while lying on the floor as a teenager by the family radio, which magically picked up a country music show from West Virginia at night, called The Wheeling Jamboree.
As he got older, Dad started calling square dances himself and eventually became one of the best in the area. Now in his 90s, he can still remember the words he used to shout out back in the day. Funny little rhymes that helped create some memorable nights for his entire community. Here’s a wee sample he gave me:
Step right up and come down eight. And all swing out by the garden gate.
All grand chain and pass her by, wink at the next one on the sly.
And when you come down, all swing, swing with your partners all.
Allemande left at the corners all. And right to your partner, grand chain all.
Pass her by and give her a smile, and meet her again in a very wee while.
And when you meet her, how do you do, you’ll swing her, and she’ll swing you.
Now dip and dive on the ocean wave. Four and six across the hall.
Dip and dive to your places, y’all. Allemande left at the corners all.
Do si do at the corners all, then do si do with your own little doll.
Now, pass her by and give her a nod. Then keep on going, and tramp on the sod.
Place the ladies back to back, and the gents take a walk on the outside track.
And do si do with the one you swung, and all come down with the next little one.
Now roll them out, then roll them in, then the gents to the left, and do it again!
*GRANT ADDISON MARSHALL 1933-2026*
