The Guitar Sang Him To The Stars
When Max’s wife asked me to lead her husband of 35 years Celebration of Life at their family farm I was elated. Yes! Yes, I thought this is exactly how it is supposed to happen!!! This farm was alive in itself with each barn board having been held, hoisted and a prideful shelter to generations of livestock, farm equipment and cold beer on a hot summer’s day. If a soul could be seen, this farm allowed you to see Max’s.
Max was the youngest of 5 boys who all shared the story of him ruining Christmas as they were whisked off to the hospital that snow filled morning. Dad, Max Sr., now a brilliant 90 years young still wearing his Levi’s held up by a faded leather belt permanently crimped by a twine cutting knife nestled in its charcoal case, smiled warmly as he remembered his name sake nearly making his appearance in the old Ford. Ford, a name that would have been bestowed upon baby Max should he not “hurry the hell up” as a heavily panting Dee bellowed knowing that number 5 was arriving faster than what speedometer promised to arrive at Grace Hospital.
Max might have been the youngest but he was by far not the meekest. By 2 years old he was on skates pushing milk cartons around the family ice rink nestled to the side of the paddock which conveniently served as not only a coat rack when the boys worked up a sweat but it was the brakes for our “Max on the move.”
The bush behind the barn called to the boys often. It was the classroom of life. Max had wilderness in his blood choosing to camp out under the stars for as long as the seasons allowed. He would often say he was going to serenade the critters which meant his guitar was strapped to his back as he headed for his favourite oak stump stage supporting his foot stompin’ bluesy country talents. He was beautiful beneath the stars ~ Just ask Linda. At 17, she too was seduced by the energy of nature with that same bush being her exhale retreat. Her quarter horse Pebbles insisted on discovering a new trail one early May evening just after dinner. Soon she heard the faint sounds of a guitar and a voice that melted her in minutes. It took less than minutes for the two to fall in love, Linda reminisced from her tear drenched lips.
Sharing the same birthday, they wed on Christmas day 1984 to make the perfect trifecta. The reception, yes, it was in the barn with strolls into the magic forest that glistened with a snow that seemed to have silver within it’s umbrella sized flakes. Max and Linda built a home next door sharing the property with his parents and keeping that same ice rink going for their three boys that arrived within the first 5 years of their marriage. They were a family of nature and music. The two concepts were synonymous. Max taught all of his sons to play the guitar however they never lost sight of the music that echoed within the pervasive sounds of life emanating from the forest that remained witness to this family’s journey.
It was within his heaven of the forest that Max’s giant heart fell quiet long before anyone was ever ready to say goodbye. At 55 years old he was beaming with life, adventure and love. Max left a hole…. impossible to fill. Linda was lost on how to say goodbye. How does one allow the man that is within the trees, the grass and the weathered wood leave? Every celebration has always been imprinted on this land. His life is was visible everywhere.
And so it happened that the celebration of Max’s life filled every blade of grass, echoed through the trees and penetrated the pores of the soil, the knots in the barnboard and the souls of his family. At his home with his energy layered like soft cotton within the air, we celebrated the journey that this unforgettable man lived. And the guitar……. Max’s guitar was the poetry whose very strings sang his gentle spirit to the stars above.
Celebrations of Life Taking Place Where Life Was Lived.
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