I Am an Islander

I Am an Islander

Patrick Ledwell

Language: English

Pages: 132


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

No man is a Prince Edward Island. That’s a good thing, because the tiny province is eroding a metre per year.  In his new collection of side-splitting essays, I am An Islander, Patrick Ledwell explores the hilarity of life viewed from the country’s crumbling Eastern edge. Raised in a big family, the Island comedian looks back at his rural roots. I am an Islander is a funny and heartfelt stockpile of standup, sketches, and rants, banked up to defend your good humour against everything that might erode it.


















If you are a holiday lollipop designer, why confine yourself to shapes actually proportional to a child’s face? At the barley toy factory they create elaborate sucker scenes that nestle into the cheek about as well as a collectible figurine. Oh, it’s Santa’s pointy sled on a pointy rooftop, with Santa’s boots sticking up out of a pointy chimney. A full afternoon of holiday fun bruising your face before that sugary statue is going to be even halfways lickable. Some year, I’m going to track down the barley toy factory and confiscate the moulds they’ve been using since Dickens was in diapers.

Like crystal. Affectiliate. If you agree the word would help clear up confusions, well, put ‘er there… partner. I was in line at the grocery store. While waiting, I overheard two older women discussing a mutual friend. “Edna’s on The Facebook,” one said. Yes, not just any Facebook, but the Facebook. “And she’s listing her status as ‘interested in men. ’” Her friend was quick to answer. “Edna? Interested in men? Imagine! ” “Imagine! ” It’s a word often overheard on Prince Edward Island as a kind of punctuation accompanying a thought.

Don’t worry. For your party, I’ll wear my fancy ones, with the pockets. I am an Islander. Tourists ask me, “Do you live and work here year-round? ” I say, “Well, those are two separate questions. ” I am an Islander. I don’t call that bag you bring to school a “backpack. ” It’s your kitbag. And what’s in your kitbag? Not your notebooks. They’re called scribblers. Hilroy scribblers. And on the cover is a map of Canada that’s missing PEI. I had a geography scribbler that failed to picture my own province. Good education.

I don’t think men play field hockey at Boston College,” I’d say, looking downcast at pilly pink gympants whose hips I failed to fill out. “So they’re pink,” my father would shoot back, “Who’d be looking at you? ” Oh, mainly the kids with the huge arms, Dad. The ones able to grow moustaches always seem to notice. I was in great aerobic shape that year, dodging them in gym class. My biggest hand-me-down problem was kicked off by a bright-red New England Patriots jacket. You’d think that an NFL football jacket would be accepted.

I can tell a Vader. They all have that breathing problem — you can hear them coming a half-click away. ” Three movies just to crack that one genealogical nut? G’way with ya. Oh, when I say “G’way with ya,” I don’t mean, “Go physically away. ” I mean, “Come closer. And tell me more about someone who isn’t around right now. ” I am an Islander. Nova Scotia sent me a pamphlet claiming they’re “shaped by the sea. ” Well, la-dee-frickin’-dah. I live on an Island that’s not just shaped by the sea — it’s eroding by the minute.

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