Barry McGuire

On November 30, 2012June 9, 2020 By AnnIn My Favorite Giants33 Comments

One of the best things about piano service is the fascinating people I meet along the way. Barry McGuire qualifies. I met him when a music store in Wichita sent me to tune his recently purchased piano. Little did I know that chance meeting would develop into a unique and rewarding friendship.

Barry McGuire, retired actor, puppeteer and magician, a native of my home county, and about the age of my father, settled into tiny Elk Falls—for the third time—a couple years ago. Decades earlier, his creative genius spurred an artistic revival in this dying town. Never allergic to hard work, he transformed stone foundations into tiered native flower gardens that brought busloads of tourists to this forgotten place. Through the work of a group of artists, Elk Falls became a thriving haven of creativity. Barry had a theater constructed and entertained tourists with puppet shows and magic acts.

With a restlessness that characterizes him to the present day, he left Elk Falls to return to acting. His credit list includes stages and rave reviews from New York and Florida to Indiana and California. Health issues of his advancing age brought him back to Elk Falls at the urging of his Kansas friends. That is when I met this octogenarian.

I tuned his piano and left, never expecting to see him again. As I headed down the board walk outside his home, I heard him tickle the ivories on the freshly tuned piano. Beautiful, intricate classical music followed me to my car. Actor, magician, puppeteer and accomplished pianist!

A few weeks later, I happened to meet him in the aisle of a grocery store in my hometown. Restless again, he planned a move to Winfield where he would be closer to medical service, mechanics, and stages. By the end of the year, he’d moved into a local apartment complex. The only person in town he knew was the piano tuner. Me.

More than happy to introduce him to Winfield, I gladly referred him to doctors, mechanics and senior services. I accompanied him to college and community drama and music productions, and included him in our family gatherings.

Without a nuclear family of his own, Barry began sending me daily emails. Should a day pass when I didn’t receive a message, I was to check on him. As insurance for his safety and well-being, he issued me a spare key to his apartment.

The months passed. Barry’s difficulties with mobility and hearing loss led him to spend more and more time hermitted away in his apartment. He gave up the piano because it didn’t sound right to his failing ears. But he relished afternoons surrounded by fine classical recordings with his speakers on either side of his easy chair turned to their loudest volume. He read widely, in both English and Spanish, and wished for someone with whom to hone his conversational Spanish skills.

He readily showed scrap books of his stage performances to me. Years of varied productions and rave reviews of his acting prowess filled page after page in several volumes. We updated his Facebook page with copies of his old publicity photos. He loaned me recordings from the Golden Age of television. Fifty years after they premiered on television, I enjoyed episodes of “Gunsmoke,” “Perry Mason,” and “The Real McCoys” in which he was a featured guest star.

Together, on his computer, we traveled to a place in Mexico he longed to visit. From there we headed to Ecuador, to a fancy retirement community high in the mountains.

I brought him produce from my garden and fresh eggs from the hen house. The master gardener graciously accepted my humble vegetables. He even asked for more.

When my red spider lilies sent up flower spikes in September, I brought him one in a pot. The next day, we toured a Lycoris radiata festival in Japan, a field covered with the same dainty red petals.

I lamented the loss of a favorite araucana hen during the summer. The next day he wrote, “Saturday and perhaps as well as can be expected. Sorry to hear about your pet hen. I read that some chickens can live into their teens but average seems to be 5/6 years and maybe up to 10. Longevity may correspond to breeds. Breeds that have been bred for super egg production have short life spans. Also read that those developed as fast growing fryers have really short life spans even should they escape the skillet (none do). Araucanas were developed in Chile and perhaps are more susceptible to heat…dunno. How old was she?”

In October, a cactus I inherited from my father burst into rather rank-smelling blooms. The next day, Barry wrote, “Your plant is a Stephelia also known as Starfish Flower, Toad Plant and, yes!, Carrion Flower. There is a big variety of them with blooms in many different colors. You will find lots of photos of them on internet. Do a search for Dave’s Gardens where several are shown. They are pollinated as you saw by insects (flies, etc). However, the fly, though drawn to it due to the odor, gets no reward for pollinating as there is no nectar. Should the fly lay eggs on the flower the offspring will starve to death.”

Now my restless friend has located an apartment near good friends in California. He leaves Saturday, moving west again, following his dreams into the sunset. Even if we never meet again, I shall always remember this gentle man. His inquisitive mind forever seeks new knowledge. I will never forget how he stops in his labored shuffle, draws himself up a little taller and summons his stage voice to proclaim some tidbit of wisdom, humor, philosophy or (horrors!) theology. And how we laugh.

Though physical ailments limit his ability to enjoy familiar activities, he demonstrates resourcefulness to find new paths of fulfillment. Barry McGuire is a model of perpetual youth. He shows me how to keep your heart young, even as your body wilts around it. May I be as lucky to keep my dreams alive, and be as restless to follow my heart’s bidding! Here’s one Kansan that will miss him very much.

We are halfway through the infamous year of 2020 and perhaps an update on the life of Barry McGuire is in order. He spent all of a year in sunny southern California, and decided to move back to Kansas, where we had remodeled a small farmhouse near our own. The country life beckoned and he joyfully moved into the cottage, planted more flowers, entertained locals with a few magic illusions, and shared his passion for life, rich in experiences and loyalty to friends. After a year, he headed for another senior apartment, closer to groceries and doctors once again.

Thinking ahead towards the day that he might need nursing care, he put in an application to move to assisted living at the Actors Fund Home in New Jersey. In November of 2018, I was honored to assist in his move across the country east for that adventure, which was over within a few months. Disillusioned by policies of the administration of that facility, Barry decided he’d made a grave error in the move to assisted living. I was honored and delighted to assist him in his return to Kansas in May 2019. And surely now at age 90, his wanderlust satisfied, here he’ll stay among devoted friends until the great checkout.

Holed away against the COVID virus, he appreciates all the kind searches and notes from friends around the world, as well as regular contacts from friends nearby.

A Poem and a Piano

On November 24, 2012December 5, 2012 By AnnIn Music and pianosLeave a comment

The familiar voice on my answering machine began with an apology. The reason, his voice continued, was that his wife had taken ill a year ago. He lost her in March. Now there was no one around to play the piano, but he wanted to keep it tuned in her honor.

I thought of Julia with sadness. She had not been in good health for years, but the last time I was at their home, she shared a bit of happiness with me. She and Ralph had just celebrated sixty years of marriage. Cards from their friends and family decorated a table near the piano. I wished then that I had known about their anniversary, for I would have liked to send a card. Now, once more, I wished that I had known about her last illness. Again, I would have liked to send a card. I called Mr. Dagenais immediately and we scheduled a tuning appointment.

He met me at the door as he had every time I arrived. We exchanged a few pleasantries. I expressed my condolences at his loss and mentioned their 60^th anniversary. Soon I sat down at the piano and began to work. Except for knowing that Julia was not sitting quietly in another part of the house, the service call was just like my previous calls to their home.

When I finished, I asked briefly about his plans for the harpsichord which sat across the room. He thought one of his daughters might be interested in the harpsichord. The children already had pianos. This one was played only when his grown children were home for a visit. He regretted that he had never learned to play a keyboard instrument, but was proud that all three children had received piano lessons.

“It’s never too late to learn,” I suggested with a smile.

“For me, it probably is.”

At that point he handed me a paper he had been holding. “I want to give this to you,” he said. “It’s a poem Julia wrote. You know, she was only six years old when her mother died.”

MY MOTHER’S PIANO (used with permission)

By Julia Dagenais

Huddled beneath that keyboard
I peered out through Corinthian columns—
A priestess surveying with pity
The silent world outside my singing sanctuary.
Above my head sounds ripples and crashed
From her fingers.
Beside me the firm feet pressed a pattern
From the worn-bright brass.
Long after the music stopped
I, a weeping votary,
Washed the cracked and yellowed keys
And polished the rosewood varnish.
Still smooth and shiny in protected places,
It was mostly rough and crazed by time.
Before I could quite name the notes
She summoned with such mastery,
The song was over and a stillness struck
That muffled all melody.
What did I learn then from the flashing hands
And the doomed figure swaying on the claw-foot stool?
That a woman should sing;
That joy should flow in beauty
From her fingers and her feet;
That the rising chord re-echoes
When the hands and lips are stilled.

Six and sixty. The heartbreak of a six-year old girl became sixty years of devotion to her family. Julia’s determination to pass on a love of music through her verse is a tribute to all families, their pianos, and their music. Her words speak of life and death, of joy and sorrow, and of a song that we endeavor to pass on to the next generation. For those of us who dedicate our lives to the service of instruments beloved by others, Julia’s words remind us what it’s all about.

Surrounded by Giants

On this journey through life, a chance meeting with another person occasionally develops into a unique and treasured friendship. Today I honor World War II veteran and fellow writer Tom Junkins.

I met Tom at the first writing event I attended following my return to writing. About the age of my own father, Tom had devoted his waning years to recording his life experiences. He printed books, bound them, and offered them to his family and friends. He threw himself enthusiastically into the writing life.

Together we traveled to monthly meetings. He provided enthusiastic encouragement for my projects. I helped him produce one of his memoir volumes. In a conversational voice, Tom’s memoirs recorded his stories as if he spoke to his grandchildren. When his health declined, he responded with wit and good humor, in the style I came to know as Tom’s unique voice.

He wrote, “On Friday June the third at five in the evening, my right leg went numb. I called 911. They put me in an ambulance and sent me to Via Christi, St. Francis. They landed on me like a bunch of crows on road kill, ran all kinds of scans and tests, and scheduled surgery with a vascular surgeon for Sunday morning to remove a blood clot.”

Our days of writer’s meetings drew to a close with his move to the Veteran’s Home. Tom still wrote daily, even as he struggled with growing physical limitations. What have I learned from this writer? He displayed grace and courage when facing his health issues. In this way he reminded me of my own father.

But more than that, Tom’s dedication to the written word is testament to the vitality we find in books. By writing stories for his family, Tom created a gift they can enjoy forever. As I sit in my office, I am surrounded by books, by journals of my lost parents, and letters from long-gone relatives and friends. They live through their words. Their essence and personality shine into my life. When I read words written by giants of my past, their voices echo in my mind. And I know they are still with me, in words and in spirit.

One week ago, Tom Junkins passed from this life. His words speak now only from pages he wrote. With his passing, he joined those giants of my past whose journals and letters provide sustenance for my future. I humbly repost this blog in his honor. I will long remember his enthusiasm for writing. Here’s to you, Tom. May your adventures continue into the next life.

On November 1, 2012March 10, 2013 By AnnIn My Favorite Giants, Writing1 Comment

The pig and the piano

On October 24, 2012January 27, 2013 By AnnIn Music and pianosLeave a comment

Most piano service calls are pretty routine. Occasionally, though, I do encounter a bit of a bizarre situation.

Not long ago, I was tuning for a new client in a nice new home. The piano was in the basement on a wall next to the laundry room door. Corralled in the laundry room by a child security gate was the family’s pet, Gretel, a miniature pot-belly pig. I tuned away, working through the piano’s mid-section, when all of a sudden, the laundry door swung shut. Bang!

There I was, trying to work around grunts, grumbles and the occasional little squeal, thinking to myself, “Okay. A bit unusual, but I can do this.”

Gretel, oh the other hand, must have been thinking, “Okay. A bit unusual. SHE’S DRIVING ME CRAZY!”

The pig slammed the door shut.

About Passions

On October 24, 2012December 5, 2012 By AnnIn FamilyLeave a comment

My son-in-law’s mother left a touching letter to her children before she died. She included advice and philosophy on achieving happiness.

“What is happiness? It comes from achieving your goals. But remember that no goal in life worth reaching for is achieved without struggle. Setting goals means accepting and learning to deal with anxiety, frustration, disappointment, even failure.

“Here’s my recipe to keep you on the right road:

1) Fight your own battles.

2) Accept your mistakes.

3) Be persistent.

4) Stand on your own feet.

5) Maximize your talents.”

For her children, wise words from a loving mother. Mary Ann Barnaby, my daughter’s mother-in-law, and my grandson’s other grandmother, here’s a pledge to honor your memory and to love those you loved.

I sometimes wonder what advice I would leave for my children. Maybe, “Find your passion and give it your heart. Let the world be a better place because you lived.” Have I been any kind of example for that? What are my passions? I think they would include family, pianos, nature, and writing. On the rare occasion when all these come together in one grand concerto of life, it is pure bliss, a little bit of heaven on earth.

The Creative Life

On October 18, 2012October 28, 2014 By AnnIn Writing1 Comment

I write my life. Since the age of ten when I wrote my first story and was instantly hooked, I have been infected with a mysterious contagion for which there is no cure. Writing stories, poems, novel manuscripts and memoirs has been part of my life ever since. Yet I don’t live to write. I live. And I write. I write my life.

Through young adulthood, curiosity led me to question things. Whether any purposeful meaning existed or not, I asked, “What does this mean? Why am I here? What am I to do with my life?”

The search for answers helped sharpen my powers of observation until nearly everything holds metaphorical parallels to some facet of the human condition. I watch a moose lunge exhausted through shoulder-deep snow and I learn the dangers of choosing an easy path.

I stand in a downpour and hear the rain plummet from heaven in one step of the water cycle. And it spoke to me of cycles in life.

I watch a family of ducks chase madly from one point to another and back again and I see human fads and opinions mirror the whimsical parade of a flock of ducks.

I watch my best friend waste away in a losing battle with cancer and I understand how the growing demands of humanity sap the vitality of our home planet in a similar fashion.

Meadowlarks leap into the wind so they might gain lift and fly away. And I learn I cannot hide from life. I must face my own torrential gale of events if I am ever to find the answers to my questions.

Messages from the universe arrive on the dust of a sun beam and the wings of the wind. As a writer, my task becomes one of interpretation, to paint in words the messages which I hear.

Too restless to be able to handle writing at my desk for hours at a time, I discovered that “The Writing Life” was not for me. Rather, “The Creative Life” seemed a better term. What is a creative life? Just as a blank page begs a poet to fill it with thoughts which will touch a heart, or a computer screen winks with invitation to a novelist, a canvas beckons an artist to paint images that will coax emotion from viewers. A chunk of granite calls a sculptor to release the figure trapped within. An ordinary scene invites a photographer to transform its image into beauty with a camera lens. A composer looks at a blank musical score and hears a new symphony. A plot of land begs management that will develop its natural beauty. An empty house is an opportunity for unique self-expression. And the minutes of each new day invite me to follow my heart and fill those minutes well so that at dusk, I can say, “I wrote my life well today.”

To answer any one of these invitations is to live The Creative Life. By filling empty spaces with an art form of our passions, we bridge the void from the rest of the universe to the human heart. So I write my life. I may take to the Flint Hills of Kansas with my camera strapped to my shoulder.

I may arrange a beautiful melody for the participation and enjoyment of a crowd of people. Or I may fill empty pages with metaphors. What emerges is truth. Or fiction. Or a combination of both. After all, someone may need the message delivered on this dawn’s breeze.

The Bridge

Author: Ann