for rehearsals even though I had always paid for his expenses. I felt bad for him; I had been very aware that my moving west could jeopardize our performances. We had a short run of dates already booked, but I thought I had better make a back-up plan and try to find an alternative duo partner in Los Angeles, the city that I presumed would now be my forever home.
Unfortunately, after months of searching the huge metropolis it proved almost impossible to find a classical guitarist who also sang! I started to learn a few folksy songs, such as Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne” and Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” with a former hippie, James McVay, who lived up in the hills of Topanga Canyon. We enjoyed making music together, but his voice lacked the husky richness of Srdjan’s, and James was not really a classical player. Inspired by my idea of perhaps forming a Peter, Paul and Mary–style trio with Jim, Srdjan agreed to fly out to L.A. and we all became excited hearing how wonderful our three blended voices and guitars sounded together. Peter, Paul and Mary had ceased to be since Mary’s illness, and there was no end of beautiful songs of theirs to arrange. But despite my efforts to find a good U.S. manager or agent to represent us, I failed to make the right connections. I also knew that the logistics of dealing with three schedules and geographical locations were going to prove an insurmountable challenge. Looking back, I realize just how impractical an idea this had been from the start. Our lovely folk trio, just like Alexandre Lagoya’s envisioned guitar quartet of the seventies, died an untimely death.
Finding a good booking agent and duo partner was proving impossible, and I was once again feeling unsettled. I concluded that I needed to find a new home. My inner conflicts about where to live began to gnaw away in both my waking and sleeping hours. The insomnia, which had plagued me for years, grew worse, and my family doctor prescribed the sleeping pill Ativan, to which I inevitably became addicted. After foolishly deciding to quit it cold turkey, sleep eluded me for four days, and I became agitated, weepy, and paranoid, convinced that I was about to lose my mind! I sobbed to my parents that I needed to come home. Something was definitely wrong with me. Only resuming Ativan and gradually reducing the dosage kept me sane and allowed me to wean myself off the drug. My family doctor confessed to me that he too was addicted to this particular sleeping pill, also known as Lorazepam, and had been trying unsuccessfully to quit.
What was I doing battling Los Angeles’ grid lock traffic, paying a fortune in rent, and living so far away from my family? After all my agonizing in Connecticut a year earlier, had I made a huge mistake in returning to this perplexing City of Angels?
10
My Father’s Passing
At around this time, my friend Helen Gurinow, who ran the Canadian consulate in L.A., invited me to the premiere of a new film about Glenn Gould. I had recently been asked to write a book review to be printed on the back cover of The Secret Life of Glenn Gould, by Michael Clarkson, so after immersing myself in Gould’s life for a few days I was keen to see the documentary by Canadian director Peter Raymont.
A specific moment in the film somehow triggered another of my life’s epiphanies. It showed Gould, whose phenomenal performances had conquered adoring crowds in Moscow, driving back alone to Lake Simcoe through the Ontario countryside. It all looked so very familiar to me. If Glenn Gould could tour the world yet still love coming home to Canada, why couldn’t I? That was the exact moment when I understood that I was destined to return home, and tears welled in my eyes. The very next day I composed a heartfelt song called “Home to the Shores of Lake Ontario.”
A month later, Srdjan and I had more concerts booked in Ontario. As usual, we also visited my parents, and I played the song for them. I sensed their approval — their eldest daughter would be returning home after twenty years of living in the U.S.
Although I felt it was time to return home, my plan was not to completely uproot myself from America. Rather rashly, I decided that I would buy a winter retreat in Florida. I could divide my art, clothes, and household goods in two and live the “Canadian snowbird” lifestyle — spending summers at home, close to my family, while still being able to escape the long Toronto winters.
I flew to Palm Beach, where I knew nobody, stayed at the Chesterfield Hotel, and gave myself and a randomly picked realtor three days in which to find the casita (small house) of my dreams. Somehow nothing felt right, and as my time ran out I despaired. Fortunately, at the very last hour of the last day, my future house materialized, thanks to a guided moment when I smiled at a realtor whom I spotted in her office window on Worth Avenue an hour after closing time. She returned my smile, which encouraged me to go in and introduce myself. Miraculously, something had just come on the market that was not yet listed!
It had been the former home of Mary Alice Fortin, a much-admired philanthropist and the mother of actress Stockard Channing and of Lesly Smith, the former mayor of Palm Beach. The fates were kind to me, or perhaps the dear old lady answered my constant prayers. Within a week, the house with its tiled floors, soaring ceilings, Spanish archway, and courtyard of agave plants, geraniums, cacti, bougainvillea, and white statuary was mine.
It was the first house I had ever owned in the U.S., and I knew it would make me feel good to own a small part of America. The special powers that had once helped me buy what I considered to be the most beautiful lakefront house in Toronto were obviously still working!
• • •
In April of 2011 I flew with Srdjan to perform in Hull, Quebec, and then to Cuba for some of Bill Evanov’s Jewel Radio–sponsored concerts in Varadero. My sister, Vivien, tagged along to Cuba, where we celebrated her birthday and had fun strolling around cigar-scented Havana, soaking in the unique atmosphere that I remembered well from my previous concerts there. Well-maintained vintage automobiles in pastel colours still lined the streets, and infectious salsa music hung in the air as ever. The city seemed more crowded with tourists than before, and I knew it would soon be transformed by America’s inevitable influence.
Not only was Cuba different, so, too, was my experience of it. This time there was no international guitar festival to open; no choir of smiling children singing “Guantanamara” to me on the lawn of the national theatre; and no opportunity to spend time in the company of Fidel Castro. On this trip, there was no spending two hours on the couch beside him, no private serenade, no newsworthy kisses on both cheeks from “El Jefe,” and no presidential suite at the old Hotel Nacional as there had been in 1982.
On returning home, I found a letter from Prince Philip. The world had just celebrated the joyful wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, and Prince Philip had written to tell me that, after the exhausting celebrations followed by his own ninetieth birthday and “a mountain of birthday cards,” he and the Queen were looking forward to recuperating in Scotland.
Prince Philip’s letter and his mention of Scotland brought back many memories. I recalled my command performance for him and the Queen in Edinburgh, and my Duke of Edinburgh Awards fundraising dinner performance in Glasgow.
My grandfather William Haig Boyd had traced our family back to Mary, Queen of Scots, through the registry of births and deaths in Somerset House. Perhaps my ancestry explains why I enjoy oatmeal and marmalade!
Prince Philip has often commented on the love that he and the Queen feel for Scotland. I am sure that having a chance to take a break from royal duties, live a more rustic life, and breathe in the fresh air of the Scottish Highlands at Balmoral is one of the secrets to the royal family’s stamina and longevity.
• • •
The happiness I experienced reading Prince Philip’s account of his birthday was soon forgotten. My poor father had not been doing well and underwent surgery for removal of his bladder and prostate, where they had detected cancer. For years he had delighted in creating heavy metal sculptures, but he had paid a high price for his art. The doctors told him that the likely cause of his cancer was all his years of inhaling welding fumes, a known carcinogen due to high levels of such elements as manganese.
My dad, in his cheerful and accepting way, told us how much he enjoyed the wonderful staff at Toronto General Hospital and how he did not miss those body parts whose removal had, in some ways, freed him. But as we know all too well, cancer