Chronicles of Duncan MacLeod: The Cure

In May of 2000 I was in the middle of a diploma program at a small IT college in Halifax, and was preparing to enjoy a long weekend. One of my classmates, Sean, had never been to Cape Breton, which to me would be like living in Egypt and never going to see the pyramids. With that in mind, plus the fact that a couple of young ladies from home wanted us to party with them in Cape Breton, Sean and I decided to spend a couple of days on the island.

My mother suggested we stay at my grandparents’ place. That sounded good to me, since we didn’t really have a place to stay. I’d had a major falling out with my father in 1992 and wouldn’t be showing up on his doorstep just yet. My best friend Ron was away at college, and most of my other friends had left Cape Breton as well. I still had plenty of relatives there, though. As for the girls we’d be partying with, they were staying with relatives of theirs as well. Like most Cape Bretoners, they didn’t actually live in Cape Breton. If everyone from Cape Breton were to go home all at once, the island might sink.

So anyway, one fine day in early May, Sean and I left Halifax and soon found ourselves passing under the iconic ‘Welcome to Cape Breton’ sign on the bridge that makes up part of the Canso Causeway. Soon after that we were greeting Papa, who was home alone at his house on Lorne Street in Sydney. That was my mother’s real reason for asking him if we could stay there: Nana was in the hospital and Papa would benefit from some company. Our visit would be good for all of us, she said.

Walking through Papa’s front door was like going back to a different time in my life. I had lived in so many different houses over the years, first with both parents, then with just my mother, then with just my father, and then on my own. But Nana and Papa’s house had never really changed, not in my lifetime. I hadn’t spent much time in that house since my childhood, but now there it was, my childhood, right where I’d left it. The patterns on the hard floors. The way voices echoed around. The way the house smelled, even without Nana’s cooking. The donuts in the kitchen. The pictures on the walls, including the one of Jesus and his sacred heart. All that was missing was Nana’s cackling laugh. ‘Honest to God!’ she’d say.

Sean and I spent more time in Papa’s house than we’d thought we would. I hadn’t seen Papa in a while — we’d never been really close — and had forgotten how witty he was. His jokes and anecdotes had us in stitches. He told us about his childhood trips up to Glencoe, his adventures at the steel plant, and all sorts of things. Sean and I were impressed. We spent the whole weekend impressed.

Sean was also impressed by the girls at Smooth Herman’s. It was our first full day in Cape Breton and we’d started drinking sometime in the afternoon at our friend’s parents’ place after listening to some of Papa’s stories. At some point we ended up at Smooth Herman’s Cabaret. I don’t remember much after that, just flashes of a drive (in whose car, I can’t remember) all around Sydney and maybe New Waterford. Then, in the wee dark hours of the morning, Sean and I were teetering on Papa’s front step, Getting the key into the lock was like trying to put a cat into a bathtub. Finally it went in and so did we.

Things fell apart, or rather we did, right after we’d entered the house. Both Sean and I were unable to walk up the stairs, so we made the ascent at a slow, unsteady crawl, giggling all the way. Waiting for us at the top of the stairs was Duncan MacLeod, who may or may not have said something, but if he did, I’m sure it was funny. I’m sure he probably found the sight before him pretty funny as well, since most of his grandchildren, myself included, had crawled up and down those same stairs as toddlers. In fact, Papa had us going up and down those stairs well before we could walk. I had probably been better at it in those days than on this particular night.

Daylight came too quickly and, it seemed, with ill intent. I awoke in the room my five uncles had once shared, the sunlight curled in a tight fist around my head, squeezing as hard as it could, or at least as hard as it dared without crushing me. The flimsy curtains were no match for the sun’s rays, which were now tearing into my skull like claws. Wow, I thought. There’s no way I can go hiking like this.

It was way too early to get up after the night we’d had, but Sean and I were supposed to go hiking with the girls. I couldn’t imagine backing out of a day of hiking in Cape Breton, but now I was doubting my lack of imagination. All I could imagine now was taking a tylenol, or two or three, and seeking out a dark place to hide from the sun’s claws, which were now picking through my stomach, stirring up the contents of the previous night’s revelry, trying to splash them back out so the sun could have them all for itself. No, a hike was not looking good.

The bacon and eggs Papa made for breakfast weren’t looking good either. In fact, nothing was looking good, least of all the faces of the neighbours who had come over to gawk at me as I slumped below the picture of Jesus with his sucking chest wound, my stomach threatening to imitate art right there on the kitchen table. The expressions on the neighbours’ faces were somewhere between ‘Oh you poor thing’ and ‘Tee hee oh you poor thing tee hee!’

Needless to say, I regretted the previous night’s binge.

“Well,” said Papa, reading my thoughts on my face, “I could give you the cure. Do you want the cure?”

The cure! It sounded beautiful for a moment, until I realized it would most likely involve ingesting something horrid. “Um…what’s in the cure?”

“It’s a glass of beer, a raw egg and some salt. But never mind what’s in it,” he said. “Do you want the cure or not? It works. Trust me, it works.”

“Are you sure?” It did sound pretty horrid.

“Look,” said Papa, “there used to be signs that said ‘Drink Canada Dry’, and I used to say ‘I tried, it can’t be done!’ I used this hangover cure all the time. It works. Do you want it or not? Just take the cure and you’ll feel fine.”

Sean was eager to go hiking. The girls had already called. Twice. I just wanted to feel better.

“Okay,” I said, gulping hard. “Let’s do it.”

“You’ll be fine,” Papa said again. “If you can keep it down.”


One of the stories Papa told us during that May weekend was about the fateful day about 20 years earlier when his drinking had finally caught up with him.

Papa had been an alcoholic. In fact, some of the boys at the plant used to call him Drunken Duncan. Another nickname of his was Hold Fast MacLeod, a play on the motto of Clan MacLeod. He was given that nickname because he somehow managed to hold onto his job in spite of getting in trouble multiple times over his drinking problem.

It all came to a head one day when he found himself standing in that same kitchen facing my aunt Susan, three men from the Steelworkers’ Union, and Father Doyle from the local diocese. It was an intervention. Duncan MacLeod would have one final chance to hold fast to his job. But only if he could give up the drink.

Determined to keep his job and provide for his family, Papa poured whatever remained from his most recent bender right down the drain. He put the empty quart bottles under the sink, closed the cupboard door, and said “There. That’s it. I’m done.”

Susan and the union men left. Father Doyle lingered long enough to see Papa pick up the phone and call for a taxi. In Cape Breton you could call for a taxi to bring you things like some milk, maybe some bread, or a quart of two of whatever your poison was.

“Ah, Duncan,” said Father Doyle, shaking his head. “You couldn’t even wait for them to be out of the driveway before trying to get more liquor.”

Papa put the phone receiver back into its cradle and turned to face Father Doyle. “Look, Father…I really am going to quit. I really am done. But I have to do it on my terms. Will you stay with me?”

“Of course I’ll stay with you, Duncan.” Father Doyle wasn’t about to give up on Duncan MacLeod.

After the taxi showed up, Duncan MacLeod and the Reverend Daniel Alphonsus Doyle got loaded together. Oh, the stories they must have told that night.

The next morning, Papa poured whatever remained down the drain, put the empty quart bottle under the sink, and closed the cupboard door. And never drank another drop.

It was hard at first. On his first day back to work at the steel plant after quitting drinking, he told me, a car horn sent him jumping into the air. His body and mind would take some time to adjust.

But adjust he did, and never looked back. He would even start keeping full bottles of beer and whatever else in the cupboard under the sink, for guests. But they weren’t for him. He was cured.


I stood at the sink in the bathroom right above the kitchen, staring at myself in the mirror, or at least some pale, frightened young man who I knew had to be me. Next to the sink was the cure. I tried not to look at it. I took deep breaths. When I exhaled, my cheeks puffed up. On the wall behind me, next to the locked door, there was a small plaque with the yellow and black MacLeod tartan, the clan badge, and the clan motto: Hold Fast. Let’s do it. I plucked the cure from its perch and turned to the toilet. After a few more deep breaths, I did it.

The cure went in hard and fast, punching and kicking its way in, wrenching those claws from my innards. It happened so fast, I didn’t know which side was winning. I felt something tearing away from my stomach and hurtling upwards. I feared the worst. My mouth opened wide and a demonic sound shot out, announcing the arrival of…a single drop of blood. At least it looked like blood. To this day I have no idea what it was, really, but it looked like a single drop of blood, and it plopped silently and unceremoniously into the toilet. That was it.

Really, that was it. I was cured.

“Wow!” I said as I strutted into the kitchen. “The cure worked! My headache’s gone, and I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up anymore!”

Sean shot me a look of confusion that bordered on theatrical. “Didn’t you just puke, man?”

I told Sean about the gagging, the retching, and the single drop of bloody whatever. We laughed. I think we even heard another story or two from Papa. Another story for the Chronicles of Duncan MacLeod. We laughed some more. Then we went hiking with the girls. On the way, we went through the drive-thru at the Sydney River McDonald’s. I had a very greasy sausage mcmuffin (with egg, of course) and still felt great. We spent the day at Cape Dauphin, where we explored the coastline and climbed along ropes to enter Glooscap’s Cave, also known as the Fairy Hole, accessible only at low tide. By the time we got back to Sydney, I was sunburnt and exhausted, but still feeling great.

A few months later I gave up drinking — cold turkey, just like Papa had — and went years without so much as a drop. I wouldn’t say I was cured. But that’s a story for another day.


Chronicles of Duncan MacLeod is a series of posts on my MacLeod ancestors, based on a combination of research and stories told to me by my grandfather, Duncan MacLeod. To read other posts in the series, click here.


Over the last few years, my blog posts have been so few and far between that it sometimes feels weird to still call myself a blogger. This is my first post of 2015, and it’s May already. There were only three posts in 2014, three in 2013, and I think five in 2012. It seems like the glory days of blogging are but a memory. Last May, my blog reached its tenth anniversary. A decade, imagine. And I didn’t even post anything about it. It came and went, without ceremony, without even an acknowledgment. Like it didn’t matter. Like maybe it was just time to let it go.

It feels like it does matter, though, that I’ve had this blog for eleven years now. It matters because this blog has helped me. A lot. When I moved to Malaysia, it was kind of crazy, this guy in his twenties just picking up and moving to the other side of the world, to a different culture, a different world. Starting a blog enabled me to keep in touch with people back home, to tell stories about my life here, to share my observations and opinions. And it enabled me to connect with a bunch of interesting people, some of whom I still consider friends. I hardly had any friends of my own here until I started blogging. It was a big thing for me.

Besides helping me keep in touch with my family, blogging also put me in touch with relatives I never knew I had. Seriously. Genealogy is a hobby of mine, and naturally found its way into my blog. I often received comments and emails from people who were also descended from people I wrote about. Some of those relatives have helped me fill in some big blanks. I’ve become close to some of them, like the lady who emailed me to see if I could help her find her biological family and turned out to be my third cousin. Without my blog, I never would have known about her and many other people. I might never have known what my great-great-grandparents looked like (another third cousin found my via my blog and sent me a photo of them from the 1800s). I’m really glad I started blogging about that stuff.

Not only was I meeting people, I was writing. I had always been interested in writing; as a blogger, I was doing it. Sometimes I was writing about nothing. Sometimes I was writing about big issues. Either way, I was writing, and people were reading it. If not for blogging, I probably wouldn’t have been given opportunities to write for money — first as a guest columnist for Dina Zaman in her Rentakkini days, then as a guest columnist for Tell Magazine, then as a staff writer/subeditor for the latter. I wouldn’t have met a blogger and Tell columnist who lured me away from the magazine and put me to work as a media analyst. I’ve been a media analyst for over six years now. What began as a temporary gig has turned into a career of sorts. It’s something I’m good at, partly because of those blogging days. In the meantime, I’ve written articles here and there, done some editing, and have even had some of my writing published in books — one in the US, one in Canada, and one here in Malaysia.

I’m still active online, of course. I post stuff daily on Facebook; I share short observations and links on Twitter; and I share my photos on Instagram. All three of those are linked in various ways and together have pretty much replaced my blog.

So why am I still doing this blogging thing? Why do I renew my website’s hosting plan every year? Why do I still feel like I want to keep this thing going?

Well, I still like writing. I still like stories. And, like I said, it still matters. I’d very much like it to keep being all the things it’s been throughout the years. In fact, I really do hope it can keep being all those things. You see, one day last year, my wife and I decided to move back to Canada. It was a crazy idea, after working so hard to build a life for ourselves here in Malaysia, but we started the process and it’s still moving along. Her application for Canadian permanent residence is in a pile at a Citizenship and Immigration Canada office somewhere. Once it’s processed, we’ll be leaving our life here in Selangor and settling down in Nova Scotia. I’ll be moving back home, not moving to a whole new country, but somehow it will feel a bit less like the former and a bit more like the latter. I haven’t set foot on Canadian soil in a decade. I’m not exactly the same person I was when I left 13 years ago; my home isn’t quite the same place it was back then, either. My wife will be an immigrant, like I’ve been all these years, but then not like I’ve been all these years. And our kids will be a bit of both. They’ve been Canadian citizens since birth but they’ve never been there. They’re Malaysian to the core, and here we are plunking them down in Canada. The move will be an interesting experience for me, for Leen, for the boys. It will be interesting for each of us in our own ways, and for all of us as a family. It will be a big adventure.

I think it would be nice to have my blog then, to write about that adventure. To share it with people I know back here in Malaysia. And maybe even to meet people in Canada, people in my community, both the ‘real world’ and the online community. To meet people who love stories, like I do.

In the meantime, I’ll be in Malaysia for at least a few more months. We’re not in any hurry to go, even if we are looking forward to starting a new chapter in our lives on the other side of the world. We’re happy to have some more time to enjoy our life here. This is all part of the adventure.

It helps, I think, that some of the bloggers from the “good old days” are still blogging, and that some — like Ailin Abdullah and Kak Teh — have been encouraging people to bring long-dormant blogs back to life. A blog revival; why not? Blogs are still relevant, despite claims to the contrary, and despite the fact that they’re not what they once were. They’re still part of the adventure.

I’d like to keep this adventure going. Let’s see how that goes.


In my dreams I give my younger self advice. When I’m gone, he goes “Wow. Who the hell was that?” and goes on to do all the same stupid things I warned him about.

Then I go visit my future self and tell him about all this, and he goes “You came all the way here to tell me something I already know?” And he laughs at me and walks away.

But then he stops and sighs a great big sigh, and turns around and comes back. He puts a hand on my shoulder and starts talking. His tone is different now, softer, though I can’t quite understand what he’s saying. He looks like he feels genuine concern for me. He’s…his features start to blur. Nothing he says makes any sense.

And when he’s gone I shake my head and laugh and say “Wow. Who the hell was that?”