Quest for a Long-Lost Friend

Verily, Verily I Solemnly Declare this to be a Faithful and Mostly Truthsome Chronicle of the Quest for a Long-Lost Friend Who Vanished Somewhere Along the Enchanted Shores of the Salish Sea and the Blessed Isles of Pender, Mayne, Holy Ganges and Serendip, Including the Fantastical Tale of His Fateful Re-Discovery, Along with an Historical Accounting of the Magical Life and Times of that Esteemed and Legendary Personage, one Garney (Garnet) Coburn. May He Rest in Peace and Grace Us Still.

For me, and I think many others, the big yellow house at 1122 Woodstock Avenue, in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, was an almost mythical place existing in an enchanted time. And the characters who lived or visited there, circa 1971, were more like inhabitants of Middle Earth, or Narnia than simply tenants in an old Victorian mansion converted into a warren of rooms and suites. I was greatly privileged to experience that special place back then, but, as you will see, that old Woodstock magic is still very much alive in the world. And we have Garney and his wife Zoë to thank for that.

First, I must beg a little patience of ye. Alas, poor reader, you have unwittingly fallen into the gnarly clutches of a historian here and I simply must provide a little historical context to my highly personal story about Garney. It is the resolute conviction of my admittedly arcane profession that to truly know a person we must learn something of the time and place he lives in. So, prepare thyself a soothing drink, take a comfy seat, dab a little patchouli oil behind your ears or in your beard, and let me continue the tale of my quest to find my long-lost friend from Woodstock Avenue.

My account begins in a distant time and place – in a far different world than that of the bucolic West Coast where this tale eventually circles back to. In the early part of 1971, Louise (my ex) and I lived in Prince George where we had moved from Hinton, Alberta in what turned out to be a somewhat desperate and fruitless search for work. Jobs, any jobs, were hard to come by in those days. It was not a good time for us and for many of our flower children friends. The wonder and promise of the 60s had now given over to much darkness and despair. Drugs and alcohol had already claimed many we knew, and a dark cloud hung over the entirety of the so-called Woodstock generation. In Canada, the October Crisis of 1970, saw armed troops in the streets of Montreal as part of the War Measures Act, an unthinkable horror in fair and decent Canada – especially after the joy and optimism of Expo67 and the Summer of Love.

Louise and I had hitchhiked to Montreal in the autumn of 1970. What a wonderful and vibrant city. So much to see and experience. We listened to Baba Ram Das on McGill University radio, and later saw our first Indian guru at a lecture on that same beautiful campus. Our host/friend Cynthia took us to meet the not yet famous folk singer and draft dodger, Jesse Winchester in his home in Old Montreal where he drank apple jack and we all talked about saints and mystical experiences. We strolled on lively Rue de la Montagne and visited the old Expo site where the maple trees had turned scarlet and gold.

We saw no signs of an imminent revolution or impending martial law, other than maybe a little FLQ graffiti. We loved it Montreal, but by the time we reached the Prairies on our way back West, the crackling radio was filled with the news that Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau had declared martial law in Quebec – they were virtually locked down just after we left.

When we arrived back in Hinton, an Alberta winter was at hand and an ominous sense of doom hung in the air along with the smell of snow and gathering cold in the north wind. Just before midnight, we headed out to a party at “Big Lonely”, our infamous hippie house in Entrance, an informal hamlet consisting of a cluster of shacks and small houses on a ranch overlooking the Rockies about seven miles out of town. We took the river road used by logging trucks to speed their massive loads of spruce logs to the local pulp mill. It was very dark along that narrow, gravel road – except for the blinding lights of a pulp truck bearing down on us. The van we were in had a violent joust with that towering monster. The crash left us dangling over a steep embankment above the Athabasca River. Louise’s leg was broken. This meant she wouldn’t be able to work as a hair stylist for a year or more. As for me, there was not much work in a pulp-and-paper town for a long-haired hippie who never finished high school. In short, we were not only unemployed but quite unemployable.

Our friends Ted and Sue and Graham had moved from Hinton to Prince George earlier that year. They heard of our plight and invited us to stay with them until we could find work. This was a very generous offer. It meant that five of us, plus Browndog and his Odd Couple feline companions, were living in a one-bedroom trailer in a rag-tag trailer park on the banks of the Fraser River. It was so cold that winter that we had to chisel ice from the door every morning just to get outside. Then chisel again to get back in. Like I said, times were not good. But not all was lost…

Terry, yet another ex-pat friend of ours from Hinton, told us about a teacher of Transcendental Meditation (TM) who was coming to town and giving a lecture the basement of the Anglican Church. We went. We learned. And the world seemed to come alive again. Our sense of hope for us and the world was restored. Our teacher, David R., told us that Satyanand, a close associate of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the founder of the TM Movement, would be hosting a retreat at Shawnigan Lake on Vancouver Island. “Hey”, we thought, “we’re just freezing our butts here in Prince George anyway, so why don’t we head south to Victoria and meet a holy man from India.” Hippie logic was still at work – even if we weren’t.

We had like zero money so, naturally, we hitchhiked to Victoria and packed our worldly possessions, such as they were, to follow us by train. Leaving Prince George, it was -20 F with deep ugly brown snow frozen in piles along the streets and roads. In Williams Lake, however, the snow was long gone, and dust was blowing. The cowboys cruising by in pick up trucks were shockingly friendly. We even got a few peace signs flashed at us. “What!?” We took these salutes as mighty good omens as hitchhiking hippies were far more used to having beer bottles tossed at them when intruding into cattle country. By the time we reached Victoria the apple and cherry blossoms were in full glory and there were daffodils and crocuses growing wild in Beacon Hill Park. We dropped into that meditation retreat in Shawnigan Lake and met hundreds of meditators from all over Canada and the US. Flowers and smiles filled the hall. After Prince George and all that we had been through over the previous winter this was like heaven for us. [Please be patient a little while longer, Garney enters the story very soon now.]

A short time after our arrival in the fabled and gabled Garden City, we connected with Louise’s friend Cathy M., who told us she was soon moving back to Edmonton. Her room, Apt 3A, 1122 Woodstock Ave, was coming up for rent. “Were we interested?” We were!  (The first month’s rent was reimbursement monies from CNR who trashed our record player and two boxes of other meagre belongings while en route.) Our tiny room was the former library replete with stained glass windows, a crumbling brick fireplace and dark wooden beams. A little glass-roofed alcove jutted out of the south wall and this served as our kitchen. It was sunny and bright. A venerable apple tree was in bloom outside our kitchen window. Paradise. We loved it. How could we not?

One by one, we started to meet the intriguing cast of characters who lived in the house. Derek Dashwood, the debonair landlord. Susan, the beautiful, long-haired artist, on the second floor. The couple that lived downstairs who had numerous furtive visitors coming and going all day and all night long. The old blind man, knocking on a 100 years-old, who lived beside us and never left his room. He would talk to himself, mostly it was unintelligible, but I remember one timeless message we heard as clear as day: “Dying is as easy as being born”. I ponder that statement often, particularly when someone close to me crosses over.

During the time we lived in the house on Woodstock Avenue our little room became a bit of a wayside station. Mystic travellers like Denis D. and David L. would unexpectedly turn up on our doorstep (we had no telephone). They were like wandering shamans – who, Gandalf-like, would and come and go on unknown adventures to far off corners of the earth and cosmos. They left their stories in their wake, lingering in the air for years. Some visitors even came to live with us during important times in their lives. We met Sherry when we were all enrolled in high school courses at Camosun College. A couple of days later she said she was moving in with us and, to our stunned surprise, she did. Somehow, we made room for her until she decided to join a troupe of crazies riding horseback across Canada. Soon after she left Marianne moved in for a spell. How we managed I still don’t know. What I do know is that those people that came through that house remain some of the most important people in my life, even those, like Garney, whom I sometimes didn’t reconnect with for decades afterwards.

And what then about this man Garney, that mysterious fellow who lived in the third-floor garret? At first, he was elusive and seldom seen by us. Furtive even. Sure, there were a few brief sightings of him, a Strider-type figure earnestly loping through the garden while off to destinations unknown. He was tall and slim and walked with distinctive, long and purposeful steps. For weeks, everyone we knew in the Woodstock house kept asking us expectantly. “Have you met Garney yet? No? Oh, you must meet Garney. Don’t worry. You’re going to love him. He’s just a bit of a hermit, but you’ll see him around sooner or later.” And, eventually, we did. And we became instant friends.

As we got to know him, it was clear that Garney lived up to his billing as the mystery man of Woodstock Avenue. Bit of a recluse, to be sure. He did some handyman work for the landlord, so we heard him long before we met him as he was constantly sawing, hammering and sanding while doing renovations. He also played the guitar (not well, according to him) so we often heard him strumming it in the evening hours. Atypical of most carpenters, he occasionally wore an ascot tie. I know, I know, totally incongruous considering the times and his occupation, but this flourish of silk totally suited him, especially with his longish hair tossed back rakishly. Garney certainly cut a rather dashing figure. Way cool!

Garney, Louise and I somehow scratched out a bit of a living for ourselves. Garney was getting the odd job doing carpentry. Louise started doing a little work again as a hair stylist. Me? Still quite unemployable – except for a few handyman projects with Garney; one day working at Van Isle Molding; a few gardening gigs; and, most impressively, a four-hour stint in the laundry room at the prestigious Empress Hotel. (While I showed great promise as a hotelier, according to the Head Housekeeper, I was, nevertheless ceremoniously fired by her boss when, lined up at attention during morning staff inspection, she discovered my pony tail secretively tucked behind my shirt collar. She totally freaked. “Leave. Out. Out! Get out! Leave now and I won’t tell anyone.” I left. I’m still wondering what the hell she meant though. “Tell who? Tell them what?” Never did get paid either. Empress Hotel are you listening? Still time to do the right thing by me.)

During this period of hope and struggles, I looked up to Garney as kind of an older, wiser brother more experienced in the ways of the world and matters of the soul. I was especially impressed with his collection of weird and wonderful books reflecting his rather wide-ranging tastes – in philosophy, architecture, the environment and spirituality. There were also a lot of books on psychology from his stint working at a care facility for people with mental health issues. At the time, I believe he struggled with the meaning of it all and this varied library offered him some outlets for his always inquiring mind. He was perhaps much more suited to the bohemian life of a romance-era poet rather than that of a carpenter or tinker, but such were the unenlightened times we lived in, that poetry seldom paid the rent. (Although, admittedly, handy-man jobs in Victoria paid roughly the same.)

Garney was somewhat of a wounded soul and he did not hide that deeply rooted sadness well, but he also did not impose his feelings on others. Perhaps because of his constant soul searching and natural humility, he became known to many as being both conscientious and caring. Compassionate is the word that springs to mind. Above all, he was seen by most of us as that rarest of all human beings – a good listener.

There were many besides me who sought Garney’s advice and sage counsel. You would go to his room and be ritually served tea while sitting cross-legged on the floor. Incense cones from Victoria’s Chinatown would be burned in a large oyster shell, thick inky smoke spiralling towards the ceiling. There was not much in the form of creature comforts. Very Zen. No furniture, unless, of course, you included the stacks of books, his guitar case and a futon on the floor behind a beaded curtain. Ok, that’s not entirely true, there was another piece of décor that I just about forgot. Until it was put back to its original use, a green wooden door was laid across a couple of sawhorses to serve as a table and pantry of sorts. No, no. It was not used for dining. Heaven forbid those kind of bourgeois formalities in Garney’s place. That door was simply placed there out of sheer Buddhist compassion, to allow the house’s considerable rodent population to hone their rappelling skills before triumphantly dining on his rice and lentils. Looking about Garney’s “pad”, I think we can confidently declare that there was no sign yet of his legendary decorating or design skills.

Rambling conversations with Garney could continue late into the night, sometimes accompanied by his guitar playing. The sounds from these sessions filtered down through the floors of the old house. Soft and gentle music and conversation, much like the man. He would often pull out his three divining coins and let the I Ching assist with his own self reflection as well as with his informal counselling sessions. This ancient oracle came to serve him well on at least one notable occasion. Seemingly out of the blue, he was given a book by an author he did not know. On the back cover was a photo of a rather beguiling woman. Inexplicably, he asked the I Ching if he would marry this woman. The oracle answered definitively: “Yes!” Years later he would, in fact, marry Zoë. Serendipity already at play in their world…

As for Louise and me, we were officially married in August of 1971, just across Cook Street in Beacon Hill Park. We led a small procession from Woodstock Avenue to the wedding site near a small pond under some graceful weeping willow trees. The colourful parade included the Catholic priest (who had to obtain special permission to perform an outdoor wedding, although he still wasn’t allowed to wear his white clerical collar). My niece Margo proudly carried a purple “god’s eye”, hoisted festively on a long grey stick I brought south with us from Prince George. (*In case you missed – or have somehow forgotten – the sixties, god’s eyes are a type of traditional geometric weaving from South America that we hippies co-opted as kind of like a freak flag, along with our long hair, colourful kites and Tibetan prayer flags.) And yes, I still have the stick, although the god’s eye itself has long since unravelled and merged into another cosmic plane of existence.)

It must be declared that Garney kind of stole the show the weekend of the wedding. Not that I’m bitter or resentful or anything, but I do tend to fester long and often on such injustices. You see, soon after we exchanged vows, Louise and I were, against our many protestations, trundled off to Vancouver by her parents for a bit of an enforced honeymoon. Total drag. We, quite naturally, wanted to stay for the party! Afterall wasn’t that a big motivator for the whole marriage thing in the first place? While we were gloomily exiled to Vancouver, the revelries carried on without us. Stories are still being told of the good times we missed – many of those stories included Garney, of course. Legend has it that he royally entertained our wedding guests, especially when they all gathered around a bonfire on the beach just below the cliffs along Dallas Road. My brother Jerry and others still remind me decades later of how wonderful that party was and how wonderful Garney played the guitar that night. OK, OK, I’ll admit it,

I’m still bitter and grumpy that I missed that bloody party.

Apparently, all that weekend, my two sisters, Sharon and Joan, along with many of the other women in our wedding entourage, flirted outrageously with the handsome but ever elusive Garney. They all had a crush on this mysterious and somewhat aloof bohemian gentleman who lived in an actual garret. Scandalously, my mother was one of those most smitten! Up until her passing a few years back, she would periodically ask, with a twinkle in her eye, “Now, whatever happened to that handsome man who played the guitar? You know, the one at the wedding?” Well, the woeful truth be told, as of the end of 1972, I didn’t have a clue what had happened to my old friend, the handsome hermit of Woodstock Avenue. Lost trail….

Later, in 1972, Louise was working regularly again, and I got a real job working night shift as a mail sorter at the Victoria Post Office. With a few dollars finally in hand, we moved out of the house on Woodstock Avenue and into a waterfront cottage on a large acreage fittingly called Perelandra, on Lawrence Road east of Brentwood Bay on the Saanich Peninsula. We lived there blissfully under the massive fir and cedar trees, with India, our rescue dog and a flock of six very bossy chickens that came as part of our rental package. The ultimate West Coast experience. We had it made. Then…. Then… Then we moved back to Alberta (What were we thinking?!).

Louise and I pursued many adventures together, both spiritual and worldly, but eventually our paths diverged and, sadly, we divorced. We simply lost track of Garney along the way. Over the years, however, I would make many futile attempts to track him down. Partly because I dearly missed my old buddy – and partly because of my sisters and mother’s decades long obsession with him. Occasionally I would get a tantalizing clue as to his comings and goings, such as, “I think he moved to Mayne Island.” Or, “I heard he joined a Zen monastery.” Stuff like that. Nothing panned out. The trail went stone cold. Even when the Internet eventually became available for online sleuthing, I could find no trace of him.

Skip ahead to 2019. I once again attempted to track down Garney. This time, I searched the Internet for Derek, our former friend/landlord, only to discover Derek’s obituary. Big shock. Tragically I had waited just a little too long to look him up, for Derek had died just three months before my search. With his passing, I had now lost the last realistic hope I had of finally finding Garney. I left a note on Derek’s condolences page hoping someone from the Woodstock house might see it and contact me. Again nothing. I was left with a deep sense of loss and longing for both people who were once so important to me, but now, it appeared, I was destined to never see again.

“Then”, as they say in the old detective movies, “I got a break!” I just happened to pick up a copy of Aqua, a magazine featuring arts, literature and island life catering to those of us inhabiting the blessed Gulf Islands. As my wife Karin reminded me later, “I never saw you reading that magazine before. Why did you even pick it up?” Well, the truth be told, I don’t know why. It was the Christmas 2019 edition with a pile of colourful books decorating the cover. Quite a lovely cover really, but nothing there that immediately commanded my attention. There was a small mention of a Santa Ship. Perhaps that attracted me, as I have a long-time fascination with that wonderful West Coast Christmas tradition. There was something else about, “Season of Light.” I liked the sounds of that, but, again nothing obvious that lured me to venture further into those pages.

I casually flipped through the magazine, then, on page 11, there was an article by Cherie Thiessen about her fellow Pender Island writer, entitled “Zoë Landale, Writer Makes Magic Happen”. Well, as is well known, I am a sucker for stories of any kind, but especially for stories about magic, so I started to read… Much fun! There was mention part way through the article about an upcoming reading Zoë was doing of her latest book, Jorrie and the Skyhorse, at Talisman Books on Pender. And, then, “Hhhhmmm?”, how interesting. Sharing the venue with Zoë was yet another Pender Island literary figure, my dear friend Joy Thierry Llewellyn (author of Camino Maggie, Teen Rebel Series). How cool. I hadn’t seen Joy in a few years. Now it appears she too is living on Pender, just a short hop on the ferry from Salt Spring Island where Karin and I now live. “Perhaps”, I mused, “we should venture over for the reading?”

Then, “OMG”! A few lines later, there was a passing mention of Zoë’s “forever partner”, Garnet Coburn. Surely, this could only be the long-lost “Garney” Coburn. I checked with Joy and sure enough, this was indeed my old buddy, one and the same, and him being practically a neighbour! Zoe’s Magic Just Happened! Magic, or synchronicity, or serendipity, or some such cosmic force, was in the air. I emailed Garney and Zoë and received replies from them both. I was thrilled! After 50 years I finally had concrete evidence that my long-lost friend from Woodstock Avenue existed – in real life. He wasn’t simply a semi-mythical figure conjured up in my old hippie dippy fantasy world.

Karin and I went to the reading on Pender. Long before the ferry docked at Otter Bay, I sensed this was going to be a wonderful adventure. As every resident and visitor knows, this is a truly incredible island that attracts and breeds some very colourful and creative characters. As befitting a pilgrimage or a quest, there were lots of those fascinating folks to gawk at, speculate about and pondered upon later. Behind the ubiquitous grey beards, purple scarfs, plaid shirts, fleece vests, and amongst the baby carriages, kayaks and bicycles there were undoubtedly many fine stories to be gleaned. Oh yeah, speaking of characters, one of the locals I ran into at Jo’s Place, was Bonita, another wayward historian/writer friend who, as it turns out, had recently moved to Paradise, aka, Pender. I heard her before seeing her as her distinctive voice and delightful laughter carried over the din of the popular cafe. A gush of stories instantly ensued, but soon it was time to go next door to Talisman Books and Gallery, where two talented Pender Island writers would be sharing their own tales of wonder and magic and spiritual quests. And! Let’s not forget. Now, I was to finally see Garney again.

First, I had to recognize him though. I only had a couple of photos to help identify him in the gathering crowd, and most the guys were of roughly the same vintage as Garney and myself and costumed much the same as well. One of the photos was taken at the wedding back in ‘71. Another small pic was a more recent photo from his B&B listing, but this was more of a thumb smudge than something generated from facial recognition software. I resorted to trying to spot him from memory and my considerable powers of surmise and deduction, but it was Karin who scored the first sighting. Drats!

There he was – in real life – kind of slouched against the entrance to the reading room. Classic Garney pose. Arms akimbo, holding court with his Pender Island cronies as they scrunched past him and into the gallery. Sure enough. This could only be the Garney, of legend, albeit a Garney a full half century after I last saw him. He was absent his trademark shlock of blond hair, but otherwise he seemed to have weathered the two hundred seasons very well.

“Garney?” “Wayne”? Identities formally confirmed, we immediately started prattling on, catching up on the highlights and lowlights of the past five decades. We soon suffered withering glances and stern hushes from the distinguished and very reverential literati assembled for the reading. Seems they were rather more eager to hear Zoë and Joy than a couple of old coots earnestly babbling away about carpentry, books, islands, stuff that happened yesterday and stuff that may or may not have happened 50 years ago. Old friends. New friends. Pender vs. Salt Spring. The grand and crazy mystery of it all. So much fun. It was so totally worth the scorching looks, bad vibes and occasional thrown objects that we endured during that otherwise sacred hour.

The following morning, we continued our fevered gibbering as he took me on his favorite walk through the forest accompanied by Kira, Garney and Zoë’s faithful canine companion. Garney told me of the houses he had built. We talked politics, environment, religion, more about the joys of island life, lost trails of other friends we once knew. Wives and family. Death and dying. Dogs. You know, the usual Garney stuff.

I told him how I had searched for him for 50 years and was clearly puzzled by this revelation, saying, “Geez, I was kind of an asshole back then, why’d you even bother.” I was dumbfounded by his statement, and replied, “What you talking about, Man? Everybody loved you. My sisters loved you. Hell, even my mother loved you! If you were really an asshole why would I have bothered to track you down. Its not like you still owed me 10 bucks, or something.” But, in all seriousness, I now sincerely believe he needed to hear that he was not only remembered but admired as the kind and wonderful person he truly was. Yes, he needed to know that.

Garney shared with me his love for his daughter, Jocelyn and her husband, Alberto, and his grand daughter, Leila. Very moving heartfelt words. Very tender. There were also special moments when he talked specifically about Zoë. Several times, he kind of whispered, “She saved my life”. One of those times, as if I had not fully absorbed the gravity of his words, he looked me in the eye and repeated, “No, really. She saved my life!” I think he was saying that as much to himself as he was sharing that intimacy with me. He was obviously touching something deep inside himself when he spoke. This too was also something that needed to be said out loud. I was simply there to bear witness. In hindsight, this was clearly a message that Zoë would soon need to hear, and I dutifully passed that message on to her, both here in writing and in person.

Before Karin and I left Pender the next day we briefly visited Garney and Zoë in their home. We marvelled at the artfully crafted house Garney had designed and built. This inspired dwelling was aptly described by another learned friend as “a fusion of meditative Asian influences with classic West Coast design”. Exactly. We also admired Zoë’s aromatherapy creations, a passion she and I share. I think there is something of the alchemist as well as the sorceress in her and I greatly envied her storehouse of exotic potions and fragrant elixirs. So much more to talk about. We all vowed to meet again soon. We passed on an invitation for them to visit us on Salt Spring and they invited us to stay in their guest cottage upon our return to Pender. How could we not stay in touch? Of course, we would.

A few short weeks passed where I tried to absorb all the memories, feelings and thoughts that had been recently stirred up by that visit to Pender. Then Zoë sent a note asking if the invitation still stood for them to stay with us on Cranberry Road. She was coming to Salt Spring to do a reading and workshop at the Salt Spring library. They came over. I got to hear Zoë read again. She was glowing. Inspired. The Salt Springers loved her, probably wanting to claim her as their own. Garney listened devotedly arms again crossed across his chest, as if embracing himself, or Zoë, or the moment. The next morning, he and I had another long coffee together. We jabbered. And then we jabbered some more. And we jabbered and jabbered till our jabbers were sore.

A couple of times Garney abruptly interrupted the conversation mid-stream to tell me something he thought was crucial that I hear about myself. In the end, and despite the odds, he thought I had turned out all right. He sincerely wanted me to know that. Garney was particularly amazed that I had gone from being his carpentry-challenged, philosophical and literary sidekick to obtain a graduate degree and become a history professor, even though I had never finished high school. A bit embarrassed to be caught in his spotlight, I tried to shrug off the compliment, by saying I only went to university because I sucked as a carpenter. He wouldn’t let me joke it away. “You need to hear this,” he firmly insisted. And, it’s true, I did. Thanks, again, Garney.

I also had the opportunity of telling Garney how impressed I was with how his life had turned out and how I thought that he and Zoë had truly created something wonderful and magical together. Characteristically modest, he hemmed and hawed, squirming a bit as I turned the spotlight back onto him. I repeated how much it meant for me to see him again and how wonderful a person I thought he was. It was a warm, heartfelt connection we had that day. So long in coming, but oh so special. One of his gifts was that I have now also come to know Zoë, a very wise woman who is fond of saying: “Magic is where you find it, on the water, in the garden, in a book.” In other words,all around Zoë and Garney on their many charmed Pender Island. 

Just before we last parted ways on Salt Spring, I took a few photos of Garney, likely some of the last ones ever taken of him. He grumbled when I pressed him to have a few shots taken outside my garden gates. “I hate getting my picture taken”, he muttered, mostly to himself, but also making sure I noted his displeasure. I ignored his reluctance and persisted with the photo shoot. I absolutely had to have a few shots to prove to my friends and family that Garney, the enigmatic lost man of Woodstock Avenue fame, existed, and I, against all odds, had bagged a photo of him to prove it. I kind of felt like Sir Edmund Hillary and Tensing Norquay would have felt if they had taken a selfie with a grinning Yeti upon their historic first ascent of Mount Everest. In the first couple of pics Garney’s mutterings were quite evident behind his forced smile. In the last photo, however, he is absolutely beaming. The light was shining through his somewhat crusty façade. Beatific. Priceless.

A couple of weeks after their visit to Salt Spring, Karin and I received an ominous phone message from Zoë. She said she had sad news. I called her back. It was, indeed, sad news. Her beloved Garney, my old buddy, had passed away suddenly. He died while walking his beloved dog, Kira, on that same forest path where he and I had so recently walked together. The trail that he strode along so comfortably and joyfully – with his good ear cranked in my direction – while we shared memories, dreams, thoughts and feelings, along with a few grumbles and snorts about the state of the world and American politics in particular. I will forever remember that walk through the green forests of Pender Island. One of the wonderful parting gifts he gave me.

I am eternally grateful to have re-connected with Garney when I did, even if our re-connection, so long in coming, consisted of only three conversations stretched over a few short but fateful weeks. I cherish the fact that Garney and I had those few hours to share those precious things that clearly needed to be said aloud before he left us. My quest for my old friend had been fulfilled. As the Aqua magazine article stated so prophetically, “Zoë Makes Magic Happen!” Yes, indeed; she does. My heartfelt gratitude and great blessings to my dear friends Zoë and Garney! Thanks for the magic….

Love & Peace…

Postscript 1: The magic continued at Garney’s Celebration of Life at the Anglican Church on Pender, with Zoë’s brother, Geoffrey Simmins, gently piloting the service through its waves of joy and grief and humour. Taken together, it was a moving tribute to a humble and well-loved man, deserving of the many, many accolades he received. One of the many wonderful personal connections I made that day with Garney’s many friends was with Cherie, the author of the fortuitous article on Zoë that had finally brought Garney and I together. She couldn’t wait to introduce me to her husband, David. He told me that only a few days before Garney’s passing, he too had a very meaningful conversation with him. During this last visit, Garney told him how Cherie’s article on Zoë had inadvertently reconnected him with an old friend, namely, me. We all delighted in this wonderful tale of Serendipity with all its many twists and turns and continuing connections.

Postscript 2: On the morning of the Celebration of Life for Garney, Christopher Bower, of conversationworks.ca, did a  video interview with me, at the Pender Island Saturday Market, where I recounted part of the story written about here. The link is: https://vimeo.com/389807087