It’s celebrating 20 years in our community and has seen more than 5,000 souls pass through the home, including my own father’s in 2007. He had lung cancer and was living at home, becoming increasingly ill. He came from a time where you don’t ask anything of anyone, including your own children, and managed for a long time on his own. However, it was getting more and more obvious that he couldn’t do it for much longer. My older sister, who worked in the community and knew a lot of people, managed to get him into the centre. He was so relieved. I remember he woke up one morning while there, and a nurse was standing over him. He looked up at her and said, “Oh, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.” He was happy there, in a place where he had his own room with a patio and a big bathroom. He had refused to go to the hospital, so this was so much better for him. Family and friends came to visit. After 3 days, my Dad passed away. He was at peace; no more suffering. He died a graceful death without beeps and wires and people screaming or running around in the hallways. It was a place of quiet and calm and it made the process easier for us too.

And so, many years later, my friends and I joined countless others and walked to raise money for this amazing place. Our team is called On The Wings of Angels. By 8:15 am we were warming up with others who were running, walking or riding bikes. There were children as young as 3 or 4 who walked and young men and women who were no doubt running for their loved ones, grandmas, grandpas, aunts or uncles. So many people have been touched by cancer and so many have had their lives turned upside down by the illness. But today in the crowd you could feel the love. There was, to me anyway, just this vibe, a very heart-warming presence. Perhaps it was the spirits of all those souls. They were with us. I hope my father was watching as the ladies and I started on our walk.

I didn’t finish the 10k but managed to do 5k, which was pretty good. And that included a hill! So I was happy I at least finished that. There were three of my friends who did the 10k and that was awesome! We managed to raise $3,700 of our $5,000 goal. Teresa Burnatowski was our star fundraiser and brought in $2,700, but we all worked at getting the cash in. And we all donated as well to this cause that is so dear to my heart and to so many other families. Helping to raise this money felt good! And maybe that, too, was what made this event so important. We all felt we were doing what we could to keep this organization running.

With my friends and family along with me, walking by my side, I could not be more grateful or happy! It brings such joy to be with those you love. Raising money for such a wonderful organization is just a bonus.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Growing up, I remember being surrounded by strong women, especially my various aunts who made us kids toe the line. They were short on patience with any lack of respect like backtalk. Maybe they embraced the belief that ‘it takes a village to raise a child.’ They certainly dispensed immediate justice to anyone’s kid.

A good example was when I made the cardinal sin of visiting a friend. In those days, you were left to your own devices all day, except for meal times – which were etched into stone.

As I recalled it years later, I never saw it coming… only a blur, really… when at age twelve, I felt the sting of a wet tea towel snapping across my face by my friend’s mad mom. My crime? – interrupting their lunch. It made my skin welt up like it had just been lacerated. The sudden shock of this left me standing stunned – the door shut in my face.

As for any support at home? – nope! However, even if our neighbourhood acted like a ‘global village’ – my mom drew the line at abusive behaviour. Plus, she vehemently defended her family with a fierce temper towards other mothers. But, most families set the example with a ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’ type of discipline: so, best not to complain and risk getting punished twice.

What about women dealing with other strong women?

Take for example the quarrel between Tammy Wynette and Hillary Clinton – over Tammy’s song, ‘Stand By Your Man.’

“Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman,
Giving all your love to just one man…
But if you love him, you’ll forgive him…
‘Cause after all he’s just a man”

During a 1992 “60 Minutes” TV interview, when Hillary Clinton defended her support of husband and future President of the United States, Bill Clinton (despite his alleged affair with Gennifer Flowers) she trashed Wynette by saying: “I’m not sitting here some little woman standing by my man like Tammy Wynette.”

The backlash was swift and unforgiving – including from Tammy Wynette – who reiterated that “Nowhere does it say be a doormat and let this man walk on you.” Unlike most ego-driven men politicians, Mrs. Clinton apologized… fast! Maybe, she could sense a cosmic tea towel zinging her way. Sometimes, your heart just knows what’s true.

I remember women’s forgiveness much more than any punishment. I’ve seen the genuine hurt and deep disappointment in their eyes. And, it may have been a slow – two steps forward, one step back – journey; but, I believe I’m a better person… a better man. So, that’s my story: I’ve been saved by love.

Someone once told me, “Keep ‘tilting windmills’ especially your own!” I can be myself, but I’m… just a man.

That’s the way I figure it. – FP

As a special note: Some say, regarding the long reign of Queen Elizabeth II, that she had an unparalleled sense of duty… others say to a fault. But, during her June 1997 Royal Tour to Canada, her visiting motorcade passed right through our small town. She looked right at us, but struggled to lower the locked limo window… to more personally wave back. To us, this small gesture showed she cared.

A strong woman, she never asked for the thankless job as monarch, but dedicated her life to it… her leadership becoming intertwined with the role, itself. Plus, she was a global force for peace and stability – highlighted by her reassuring voice and message of hope to millions at Christmas – anxiously received by people of faith, or not.

FP

Photo Credit

Photo is courtesy of the author

First published at fredparry.ca

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry

Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His raison d’etre? “I’m one of those people who believe that if my work serves the common good, it will last; if not, it will die with me. I still believe that’s true.” Fred spent ten years as a columnist for Metroland Media Group – a division of the publishing conglomerate Torstar Corporation.

His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is also available via Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

This is an article I wrote that was printed in The Gazette in 2011 (now the Montreal Gazette), and turned out to be a fitting follow-up to one I’d previously written, which they printed eight years earlier in 2003.

It’s about how a friend and I became teenagers again for one magical night, how we managed to have the best time ever, and how it all came together.

(This article was originally printed in The Gazette in 2011 and has been edited for online publication at Life As A Human.)

* * *

Back in the spring of 2003, I wrote an article for The Gazette in the ‘Life Stories’ section called “What if I Wear Black and Sing in a Rock Band?” It was a story about hitting my forties and being cool. Now that I’m in my fifties, I still want to be cool and, well, when an opportunity arises, you gotta reach for that brass ring, as Holden Caufield would say. So when I heard that Fucked Up was the backup band for a Foo Fighters show on August 10th, I called my friend Alison. Her nephew, Damian Abraham, is the frontman for Fucked Up, a hardcore punk rock band from the Toronto area that has risen to success after many years of playing countless venues, including the washroom of MTV. You could say they’ve paid their dues.

Several months after asking Al about the upcoming show, she emailed me to say she had talked to Damian and we were going! I was ecstatic; how cool is that? She wasn’t sure where the seats were and I told her I didn’t care, as long as we were going. Now, I have to tell you, my friend Al has been a music aficionado for as long as I’ve known her; we grew up in Pointe Claire, and became friends when we were kids.

A couple of days before the show, Al messaged me on Facebook to tell me we were going backstage. I just about fell out of my chair! That was huge – these things don’t happen to the likes of moi! Not to mention, both my kids are huge fans of Fucked Up and Foo Fighters.

Alison picked me up the day of the concert and I felt like we were teenagers again. It had been a while since just the two of us had been out partying together. Al is a shameless groupie. She travels everywhere in her SUV and has met so many people. I could make a list here but let’s just say, when Alison gets something in her head, she does it.

I’ll use the movie Almost Famous to illustrate our night at the Bell Center: Alison is Penny Lane (played by Kate Hudson in the movie) and I’m William (played by Patrick Fugit), the inexperienced fifteen-year-old journalist trying to write the best rock and roll piece ever. Following Al around that arena was exhausting. I have to tell you, too, she’s in much better shape than I am. I fell down about three times during the entire walkabout backstage, mostly falling down stairs (okay, the wine might have had something to do with it but we won’t discuss that here.) It was like being in boot camp for old rockers, trying to keep up with her. And just like Penny Lane in the movie, Al seemed to know her way around the place.

After we watched Fucked Up do their set, we went backstage to meet them. They were very gracious and signed a shirt for my son and Damian signed the new CD they just released called David Comes Alive (which is brilliant, by the way). While we were talking to the band, Damian said, “Okay, I have to go see Foo Fighters, Sandra (from Fucked Up) hasn’t met them yet.” So Al said to me, “Come on, Marth” and she just followed Damian. I lagged behind with Al, who was prompting me to hurry up. I was just hoping I wouldn’t fall again, break a leg and miss the rest of the night. On the way to Foo Fighters’ dressing room, we bumped into one of the band members from Doughboys who Al later told me was the uncle of a friend of her son’s. The music world, I surmised, is smaller than we realize.

At this point, Foo Fighters were just preparing to go onstage. I was like William – completely baffled at the fact I was in Foo Fighters’ dressing room with Fucked Up! I thought for a minute there would be a phone call from my mother telling me not to do drugs. Yes, I felt like a kid. But how cool is that? It was pretty cool! I got to meet Dave Grohl, Nate and Taylor. Because the band was just heading onstage, they didn’t have a lot of time, but they were kind enough to take pictures with us and of course I told Dave that I loved him. He said, “I love you too”.

I think meeting a rock band was just as cool as singing in one, even when you’re fifty-something years old. Maybe even better – there’s no pressure. Just pinch me! Even two days later, I’m still on a high from it all!

Thanks Penny (aka Al) for the chance to be William and live out my Almost Famous fantasy. And thanks to those amazing and clearly-generous bands for entertaining us with some of the best rock and roll I’ve heard in a long while.

You made this old rocker feel fifteen again!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

For example, Elvis had about 50 top-ten hit songs and never wrote a single one. Why? In my humble opinion, Elvis internalized a song so well that whatever was meaningful to him, was relatable to anyone.

The King

‘MY WAY’ by Paul Anka’: Canadians fans know a great tune when they hear one… especially when it’s from a “hometown” boy. He didn’t create the melody; but, as a superb lyricist, he changed the original meaning of the song – popularized in 1969 by Frank Sinatra.

I’ve listened to it sung by Sinatra, Elvis (even Anka himself) and my preferred version is from Elvis. Once he decided to vocally lean into a ballad or gospel tune… well, mom was right: they didn’t call him “the king” for nothing.

It’s hard to say where he sent you; but, better have packed your emotional bags, it was a trip. I just know that his version brought a tear to my eye within the first few words.

‘HALLELUJAH’ by Leonard Cohen: It would be a rare Canadian who doesn’t know of our nation’s poet laureate. And, although, he won Canadian Male Vocalist of the year – which he joked could only happen in Canada – the great man was reduced to tears when singer extraordinaire, K.D. Lang, performed her definitive rendition… part of a televised tribute.

KD Lang – 2010 Olympics Opening Ceremonies

And, who can forget K.D.’s “gold medal” performance of the song at the opening ceremony of the Vancouver 2010 Olympics? Talk about there not having a ‘dry eye in the house’… what about the world?!

‘WOMAN’ by John Lennon: In his last interview, at age 40, the man of peace said he had precious little of it as a young man: he fought men and hit women – something he sorely regretted.

That’s what I find both amazing and remarkable – that he could admit this and write this beautiful song as a consequence. We all have pasts; but, that doesn’t mean we necessarily learn from our mistakes… mature and grow as adults. But, after reading his words of repentance, I believed him. It’s what makes ‘Woman’ much more than a typical “rock and roll” love song. History shows he beat the booze, the drugs, the crazy life style and, together, found peace with his wife Yoko.

“Woman, I know you understand
the little child inside the man
Please remember my life is in your hands”
~Woman by John Lennon

Interestingly, it was another Lennon original – ‘In My Life’– that my daughter Jessica chose for the traditional Father/ Bride dance at her wedding. Looking back, we were ‘talking about my g-g-g-generation’… while celebrating hers.

Throughout his life, Lennon sang with deep understanding and vulnerability, and reminded us that big boys don’t cry, but men do.

Photo Credits

Elvis – Wikimedia Public Domain

KD Lang – Wikimedia Creative Commons

First published at fredparry.ca

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry
Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His newspaper column, Music in Me, can be found in ‘The New Hamburg Independent’ Metroland Media. His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is Available from Amazon and Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

Lebby was my bohemian. Her large, gold-hoop earrings dangled loosely around her thin neck. Her printed dress oozed many colors, each one bleeding into the other, her cigarette held in her long fingers, nails painted. Just like in the fashion magazines, Lebby exuded exotic; the epitome of sophistication; an Andy Warhol wanna-be. She was a sixties beauty with her dark hair cut short, much like Twiggy’s, and big sunglasses on, the ones that covered most of her face. She took long hauls of her cigarette when she would look out into the street from her chair in the living room.

She was my bohemian; a rhapsody in color. She was older than I was by eleven years and I yearned to be like her. I wanted to spend time with her, this mysterious young woman named Lebby who lived in our house. She had arrived years before as an infant, my mother’s sister’s child. And she had stayed, here in Montreal. As time went by, though, she decided to leave us for good and move back to Toronto with her mother. When she would come back to Montreal to visit I would show her my wardrobe, new clothes handed down to me from various friends of my mother’s. I would stand on the bed singing “Second Hand Rose”, modeling my latest outfits, and she would laugh and clap and tell me I looked fabulous.

She would talk to me about her adventures in Rio de Janeiro. She lived there for a year with her husband at the time. Their relationship didn’t last long and before I knew it she was living in Scotland and sending me fabulous makeup from London, England, the top fashion haven of the world. Not to mention it was the home of the Beatles.

“I’m never getting married,” I would tell her on our visits. This, after listening to her and her girlfriend ruminate over their love lives. “Oh, and I am never, ever having kids,” I would add. She would laugh and light another smoke. “Sure you will,” she would tell me. “Don’t listen to us,” pointing to her girlfriend, “we are very bad examples.” But I didn’t think so at all. I thought Lebby was the bee’s knees, the bomb, the crème de la crème. She just had this very provincial air about her. She was also very sweet and never made fun of me or thought I was too young or too naive. She made me feel grown up and smart.

When I would visit her when she lived in Ottawa she would take me to parties – parties in restaurants. I felt like a celebrity, because for me it was only celebrities that partied in restaurants. The people at these parties were different, too, with foreign-sounding names and they all talked with accents – German and British. My bohemian, that was Lebby. She could sit with the well-to-do Ivy League crowd or the hip and wild crowd.

She introduced me to the symphony, I might have been twelve at the time. I was sure I was going to be bored but I wasn’t. I had never been to a concert before. The music was overwhelming to me. It was just so powerful and loud and it jumped out at me. These small lessons in life with Lebby were delivered with love as gifts. They were tokens of joy for me that continued into adulthood.

As we grew older, our lives moved in directions neither one of us could have probably imagined. Yet the connection we had, deepened as we aged. As it turned out, we both became as traditional and ‘white bread’ as the next person. We both married and had children. But although our lives were mired in tradition and mediocrity, there was still that bohemian living within us that would emerge and transform us both.

Living with an alcoholic for several years certainly sent me down a path I would never have imagined going down. A path where light was muted and the shades were drawn. Without Lebby’s support, that path would have been more treacherous than I could have handled. Yet we muddled through the mire and dirt and ghostly skeletons in our closets. And we were transformed, emerging from that path, our spirits whole.

“What should we do for our ritual, Maaaa?” Lebby would ask over the phone. She and I had taken this journey together. It was a journey of discovery. Our rituals helped us see things more clearly and grounded us as we tried to find meaning in our lives. Having given up on her corporate job, Lebby now embarked on her passion – she started to paint. Using different techniques and mediums, the color was no longer printed on her gorgeous dresses but appeared now on canvases.

The two of us were sitting in her living room one night, the heat spilling into the room even with the air conditioning on. It was hot. The humidity and heat just seemed to bring out a ritual for us that night. I grabbed a huge stainless steel bowl, cold and lovely to the touch, and on that hot night I started to sing. I didn’t sing anything in particular, words just came out in that kind of sing-song sort of way. The bowl seemed to sing too, beneath my touch. Slowly, the sound from the bowl and my singing grew louder and louder. Lebby joined in, grabbing a pot as well. Before we knew it the two of us were caught up in a sort of ritualistic drumming session with stainless steel. It didn’t matter what we were singing, what mattered was the pounding of the bowls, the irresistible desire to smack the hell out of them as loudly and as powerfully as we could. We became the music. Like the symphony of years gone by, we were the music. The jazz of life.

Lebby is still my bohemian, and the music of life continues to play on. Her hair has changed to grey but I would prefer to say it’s silver. She stands at her easel and studies her work; immerses herself in it. Her studio is filled with light as the sun shines through the glass windows. A paintbrush is now in her long fingers rather than a cigarette. The smell of garlic is in the air, as there is always something cooking in the kitchen. Music is playing quietly on the CD player in the background, the sound of Neil Diamond, or is it Paul Simon? Art books are piled in every corner of her studio. Gold hoops have been replaced with delicate studs. Each day I am thankful that I have this lovely woman in my life, a woman who watched me grow up and who connected me to things that I would not have otherwise known about. 

Lebby looks at her canvas and splashes orange across it. “Isn’t that just the most scrumptious color Maaaaa?” she says out loud. “It sure is,” I reply.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Known to some under such aliases as tatas, boobs, melons, orbs, tits, and one of my favorites: the girls. As a young prepubescent girl who loved to do any kind of boy thing, the whole development issue was one I tried desperately to avoid. This was rather difficult in my house, though. My older brother (who is also intellectually handicapped), made it perfectly clear to all concerned at dinner one night, saying to my mother and everyone else within hearing distance, “Mom, Martha’s growing breasts.” Yes, this was when I seriously considered running away from home for good.

Now, it seemed to me that after this hideous incident, everyone on the planet must be staring at the ever-increasing size of my developing chest. Hence, the need to cover up said body. I wore every kind of plaid there was in the late ’70s to make sure nobody had an inkling of what might be underneath. Shy was not even the word I would use to describe how I felt about my body. I didn’t want anyone looking at me – ever. What was a girl to do? So I wore clothes that covered up my long legs, my curves and my breasts.

Oh, how I wish I had that body now – fit, lean and tall! Yes, when I look back on it, I realize just how insane my behavior was. As I aged, my breasts and I became somewhat more comfortable with each other. Let’s just say, I began to appreciate their value. I wouldn’t say I flaunted them, but when I needed to use the girls, they were there. We had, as they say in some circles, ‘an understanding.’

But by the time I was in my mid-thirties, my breasts had once again become a burden to me. They had expanded several sizes, along with the rest of me. I was no longer the young, thin curvaceous chick. It seemed my body was going through yet another drastic change. Having had two children by this time, I realized something had to be done with all the weight I carried in front of me. My breasts had to go! Not entirely, but certainly a good portion would have to say “ta ta.” This decision did not occur overnight; it was one that I took very seriously. I knew it would break my husband’s heart. He, too, had become fond of my breasts and had a certain rapport with them, yet he knew all too well what my issue was with them. For my own health, I had to at least look at what it would mean to have a breast reduction.

At forty I decided it was time! I wasn’t going to have any more children and I had drummed up enough courage to go through with the surgery. It wasn’t easy and was downright scary. It was day surgery, but it seemed to me at the time that the recovery was endless. But I survived and haven’t regretted the decision once, although I think sometimes my husband still gets a little misty-eyed about ‘the old set of girls’! Frankly, another reason for having the reduction was that one of my doctors suggested it would be much easier for them to detect any kind of breast cancer. When there is a lot of mass, it’s a lot more difficult for the mammogram to detect anything suspicious.

In my mid-forties, several years after my reduction, I discovered a lump in my right breast. Elective surgery is one thing. You weigh the pros and cons; your decision is your decision and you live with the outcome. When your body decides to rebel against you? Well, that’s a whole other story.

The lump was easy to detect. It felt ugly, and I was panic-stricken at what it meant. The first thing, of course, was to call the doctor. An appointment was set up and my husband and I went to see him. A mammogram was done as well as a biopsy. None of it was pretty. It was a hundred times more frightening than breast reduction surgery. This was just the beginning of the journey.

As it turned out, the doctors who consulted on my case all agreed that the lump needed to be removed. They wanted to make sure it wasn’t cancerous. A date was set for surgery and once again the girls and I were the recipients of our surgeon’s expertise. This surgery was hardly as brutal as the reduction, but the implications after surgery were far more anxiety-provoking. Again, I had to summon every ounce of courage and hope I could in order to get through the long wait for the results of the biopsy. Although the doctor assured me right after the surgery that he didn’t think it was cancerous, you want that in writing. The wait was excruciating.

Everything turned out well, and the girls and I have become like old buddies again. I watch over them and make sure I don’t feel any other signs of lumps or bumps or anything out of the ordinary. We are content, it seems, with the outcome of each of our surgeries, and I hope and pray that there will be none in the future.

For me, and for my breasts, the journey so far has taken us down several roads, and we (the girls and I) have discovered just how fragile and sacred life and our bodies really are. I was one who was blessed with a positive outcome and did not have to fight the battle to maintain the health of my breasts. So many women have, though, including some friends of mine. Their courage, determination and hope inspire us all and give us pause to celebrate their warrior spirits in the face of this devastating and horrendous disease.

My breasts (or whatever you want to call them!) are growing old gracefully. Our journey, I pray, will not be over for years to come. I cherish and am grateful for my good health right now, and I understand that aging is a time-warranted event. I still really, really wish I could have that young, thin, curvaceous body back. Just so I could really appreciate it!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

With up to 15 hour workdays for staff, whirlwind schedules where timings at a venue can be dissected into ten minute segments, these visits become a blur. So when recently asked what my favorite visit was I had to give it some thought before answering, the 1991 Royal Visit to Ontario with Prince Charles, Princess Diana, Prince William and Prince Harry, which included the royal yacht HMY Britannia.

Official portrait of the 1991 Royal Visit to Ontario with Their Royal Highnesses The Prince and Princess of Wales, Prince William and Prince Harry on the aft deck of HMY Britannia, with the author sitting front row, first on left.

William and Harry, who arrived in Canada two days before Prince Charles and Princess Diana, moved into the royal apartments on Britannia. As it turned out the visit’s most amusing moment occurred prior to their parents’ arrival when William and Harry rushed down the gangway of Britannia and then scampered along Toronto’s Queen Elisabeth II Quay to the gangway of Britannia’s escort ship HMCS Ottawa (DDH 229).

A woman, whom I assumed to be their nanny followed closely behind the two young princes’. Eyeing the forward anti-aircraft gun on Ottawa’s bow William and Harry gleefully ran up the ship’s gangway and made their way to the bow with the clear intent of climbing the gun. Standing quayside with a couple of other officers we watched in amusement and started to joke about who was going to tell Prince William, a future king of Canada, that he couldn’t climb on his ship’s guns. I knew the Ottawa’s crew would handle the situation. But before anyone could say anything, we heard a loud, firm command, “William, Harry, get off that gun” emanating from their nanny. Caught with their fingers in the cookie jar – so to speak – the boys sheepishly stepped down from the turret and followed her off the ship, Harry with an impish grin that remains burned into my memory to this day.

HRH The Earl of Wessex, Prince Edward presenting Jonathan Frey with the 2011 Duke of Edinburgh’s Gold Award at Toronto’s Evergreen Brick Works.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Joseph Frey

This happened to me with the recent passing of singer / guitarist Glen Campbell. I read many of the tributes and interviews and got up to date with the history of the man – like you would in an interview.

Initially, I found his Rhinestone Cowboy music video – he’s riding a star-spangled rodeo horse and decked out in a glittering cowboy getup – to be incongruous, as set against the reality of what I knew as serious world-wide issues. It seemed that everything they said about showbiz was true: you have to get through the superficial tinsel in order to find the real tinsel.

And, because of that perceived lack of credibility, I wrongly misjudged the man and his great talent and achievements. As imperfect human beings, we’re the first to ask for forgiveness and understanding; but, are we the first to extend it?

Of course, music insiders knew him as a virtuoso guitarist – who Alice Cooper said was one of the five best in the music business. Despite not being able to read music, Campbell was in great demand as a session musician – from Sinatra to the Beach Boys – and could hold his own with anyone.

Then, there was his pitch-perfect, warm tonal voice that made him a household name with such hits as Galveston, Wichita Lineman, By the Time I Get to Phoenix, Gentle on My Mind, and of course Rhinestone Cowboy – over 45 million in sales, six Grammy awards, his own national TV show, plus acted in a movie opposite John Wayne.

Yet, his demons were many: his cross addiction to cocaine and alcohol – with three failed marriages – hard times like he sang about in Rhinestone Cowboy.

“There’s been a load of compromisin’ / On the road to my horizon /
But I’m gonna be where the lights are shining on me”

His salvation? With the faithful help and love of his fourth wife, Kim, he beat the booze, beat the drugs, became Christian and was there – and along with his five grown children – announcing he had Alzheimer’s and was doing a final ‘Goodbye’ tour. It was a sellout as fans welcomed the chance to honour this crossover legend.

The family’s ultimate aim was to bring awareness and support for Alzheimer’s victims and their caregivers: careliving.org

But, before Alzheimer’s reached its final stage, he co-wrote ‘I’m Not Gonna Miss You.’

“I’m still here, but yet I’m gone / I don’t play guitar or sing my song…
I’m never gonna know what you go through / All the things I say or do”

As psychiatrist Victor Frankl observed in his book ‘A Man’s Search for Meaning’, men like Campbell were “worthy of their suffering.” Can anyone ask more?

Perhaps, just a breath away, Glen Campbell’s riding tall in the saddle… again.

Photo Credits

Riding high again – Fair Use
Feature image – crop from video

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry
Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His newspaper column, Music in Me, can be found in ‘The New Hamburg Independent’ Metroland Media. His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is Available from Amazon and Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

“I love guiding people to make their own knives,” says Barry, looking as stern as Vulcan’s lieutenant yet speaking with gentle good humour. “I love sharing my passion with them. There’s something about the sounds of the workshop that just draws you in – the song of the anvil, the roar of the forge, even the smell of my burning gloves. It’s primal, and magical.”

Barry was the initial artisan tenant approached and installed at Seppeltsfield when the Jam Factory leased the old stables within the Barossa winery complex in November 2013. Having such a public workspace represents a significant step up for the humble Barossa cutler, who previously made his knives in a shed at home. A New Zealander, who came to the Barossa in the 1970s and has stayed, working as a chauffeur and road construction worker for 18 years before concentrating on his true passion of knife making, Barry’s business as a professional cutler is booming. At Seppeltsfield, he not only has the space to produce more of his idiosyncratic knives that each cost from $400, but also entertains the passing public with his skill.

“One day, a woman watching me work asked if I would allow her to make a knife. I hadn’t even considered doing that before but said sure, why not? As soon as other people found out about this, the requests kept coming in, and they just keep coming.”

Demand for knife-making workshops has accelerated so much that Barry has had to put a ceiling on allocating no more than two weeks a month to teaching participants, as orders from customers for his own signature knives are banking up. Participants can nominate their own dates for either a one-day or two-day knife making workshops, or to learn how to forge Damascus steel. Participants have ranged from a 14-year-old girl making a knife beside her father, to a 75-year-old man, and a woman fashioning her late grandfather’s old hunting rifle into a kitchen knife, with the barrel becoming the blade and the stock transformed into the handle.

The reputation of Barry’s knife workshops has also ensured that he doesn’t have to hunt for metal; scrap items from local farms and workshops are deposited at his foundry door. Huge steel plough shears, old files, coil springs from old Holdens, timber mill saw blades, giant ball bearings – they all become Barry’s knives.

Making your own knife with Barry Gardner: step by step.

1: New steel is created by fusing together 19 layers of different recycled metals. The furnace is heated to 2300C and the metals, welded to an iron rod, become a white-hot mass.

2: The glowing metal is hammered on an anvil to create a solid piece of steel. Borax is coated onto the metal and hammered: it acts as a flux that draws out any impurities, such as rust, and these fly off the molten bar when struck, looking like a shower of sparks.

Barry hammering the metal on an anvil.

3: The new lump of steel is laid out on a bench, rolled out to lengths of about half a metre, folded and then rolled again. The more it is folded, the stronger the steel becomes. Barry makes steel for knives that has at least 100 layers.

4: A knife shape is drawn on a section of steel plate, comprising the blade with the tang that is inserted into a handle, then the shape is cut by Barry.

5: A guard that slides onto the tang is cut and shaped from a different type of metal; Barry likes using brass or stainless steel. A fibrous spacer (often in contrasting colours of white, red or black) is cut, shaped and inserted as a decorative touch.

6: Material for a knife handle is selected, from rare Australian hardwoods (Gidgee, Lace Sheoak, Vasticola, White Mallee) or animal horn, then cut to shape, grinded and sanded.

7: Barry grinds one side of the metal blade to give the knife an edge. He creates a perfect straight line, leaving a sharp gleam if the metal is stainless steel, or a beautiful wavering grain if Damascus steel is used.

Damascus Steel

8: The handle is slotted to take the tang up to the guard, then filled with glue and pressed hard together. If necessary, a small hole is drilled and a brass pin inserted to keep the handle and tang fixed firmly.

9: The wooden handle is dipped in thick tung oil to draw out the grain of the wood, then dried and polished, along with the blade, to a lustrous sheen.

Lots of patience is required throughout a workshop day that starts at 8am and finishes about 6pm, or when the knife is finished. All the cutting, grinding and filing is done in careful increments, but Barry says the joy is in doing it properly.

“A knife should become an extension of your hand, and a real joy to use,” says Barry. “With every knife, I aim to design something functional and well-made that will last for generations to come.”

Photo Credits

Photos by David Sly – All Rights Reserved

What is it that makes receiving applause so addictive? Is it the gratification that one feels at a job well done? Or is it the knowledge that you have in some way please and lifted an entire room of people, matching and exceeding their expectations?

Applause is an expression of acceptance which, as human beings, is something that we all strive for in one way or another. It is the most basic of human rights and, when an entertainer puts on a performance, this is their way of expressing who they are. Without the applause, everything else means nothing.

Hooked from an Early Age

For most performers, there is one significant life event that propelled them onto the stage. For Oliver B, a London-based magician, this came at the tender age of six years old when he bought a magic trick from a man in Liverpool Street Market.

From the moment he first performed to his friend’s parents and the look of amazement on their faces, Oliver’s life was devoted to the art of magic. “The feeling never gets old, nor does seeing people’s reactions,” the magician says on his website.

Oliver B continued to wow audience from that moment on, setting his sights on becoming a full-time magician as this was where his heart lay. Magic, and its effects captured his imagination and that of whoever he performed to which, of course, satisfied Oliver B’s addiction – the need for the applause.

Why Magic?

The stage is home to a diverse range of entertainers – singers, dancers and comics among others. They all perform with the objective of making the audience feel good and, if even just for a moment, forget where they are and focus entirely on the events that are unfolding before them.

Oliver B

This is why Oliver B fell in love with magic, as there is nothing else that provides moments of astonishment as a well-performed trick that keeps the audience guessing long after the lights have gone out. The very best magicians make us question the laws of physics, second guessing everything that we read in our textbooks at school. For this period of time, anything is possible and our imaginations do not even cover half of it.

Who wouldn’t want to be the protagonist of such a series of unexplainable events? In that moment, you are more than human and, for a performer such as Oliver B who comes from a background not dissimilar from anyone else in the audience that is a special feeling.

Up Close and Personal

Smoke and mirrors is a commonly used phrase to describe magicians, which makes those that perform up close and personal in front of their audience all the more exciting. There is no room for error on the part of the performer, and the audience is engrossed in the trick performed right in front of them.

It is these performances that Oliver B thrives on, as he is able to actively involve the audience and remove any feeling of falseness that may cloud performances from a distance. Performing his magic live a matter of inches in front of the eyes his spectators, the magician is almost naked for all to see.

So imagine the feeling when he still manages to shock his audience, making them question everything that they thought they knew. The proceeding applause is the finishing, and most important, touch that gives Oliver B everything that he desires.

As much as Oliver is unique, he is also very much the same in the way that he lives to perform, loves to amaze and craves the applause and the acceptance that comes with it.

Photo Credits

Applause – Shutterstock

Oliver B – Courtesy Oliver B – All Rights Reserved

Guest Author Bio
Maise Hunns

Maise Hunns is Magician Oliver B’s right-hand woman. She has worked with him for many years and helped him to practice the art of magic and grow his passionate performances. As a family friend, she knew Oliver when he was just 6 years old and began his journey into magic.