disaster. My mother was impressed, yet she later commented, “Liona, she is too perfect to be real.”
How could I have known that I was to be duped into lending money, supposedly to prevent their home eviction, to someone I had treated as a friend? I eventually recognized all the red flags, and my neighbours reported that she’d had associates of hers staying overnight in my house while I was away. The friendship came to a sad end, and I realized that many of the stories she had told me had been fabricated, including that of the Titanic. I, who had trusted her with the keys to my house, felt deceived and used, and this time there would be no clever astrological inventions to recover my considerable losses. Her deception hurt me much more profoundly than the loss of the money. Mother’s instincts, as usual, had been correct. Trying to be generous to someone I naively trusted had once again come back to bite me.
Fortunately, I am quite sociable, and I soon recovered from the awful sense of betrayal I had felt in the pit of my stomach. I was introduced to Skira, a classy and lively lady a decade my senior, who became a loyal and true friend. She had heartbreaking stories to tell about her family’s harrowing escape during the Second World War. The daughter of a Lithuanian baron and baroness, Skira never flaunted her title, even though I had sometimes heard her called “the baroness on the bicycle” in reference to her daily pedalling to the supermarket. Together we attended many cultural events, and I was introduced to the theatre guild, the society doyennes, the local characters and the political movers and shakers.
Another friend, Olivia Newton-John, was building a house in Jupiter Inlet with her new husband, John Easterling, and I watched the place develop from the basic framework into a beautiful yellow house. When I stayed with them a couple of times, Olivia and I shared our latest music, sang some folk songs together, waxed nostalgic about our former lives in California, and went clothes shopping at the local mall. Her happy life would be literally shaken to its foundations, however, when a year later, for reasons unknown her, her contractor blew himself to pieces in her living room, causing much grief for my heartbroken friends.
I too had a bad surprise when I learned that Edgar Kaiser Jr., the billionaire tycoon who had met me in Brasilia in 1977 and pursued me for a while with private jets and jewellery, had bled to death alone in a hotel room in Toronto after bladder surgery. What a tragic end to my songwriter friend, whose lovely gift of a hand-carved cherrywood music stand remains my most treasured possession. Sadly the beautiful love song he once wrote for me and sang accompanied by his guitar must have vanished when he passed away.
I occasionally participated in the glamorous social world that defines Palm Beach. For fun I attended a couple of dinners at the snooty Everglades Club, and a few society balls and concerts at Donald Trump’s magnificent palace, Mar-a-Lago, that had been built in the twenties by heiress and socialite Marjorie Merriweather Post. At the American Cancer Society ball, I ran into David Foster, Rod Stewart, and Rod’s strikingly tall wife, Penny, with whom I danced a couple of numbers. Somehow at Mar-a-Lago I always ended up chatting with “The Donald,” but back then I never would have guessed that a few years later he would somehow get himself elected U.S. president!
I had quite a busy social schedule, but a couple of friends, thinking that I might be lonely living alone, arranged dinner dates with two eligible Palm Beach bachelors. Both asked to see me again but, as the saying goes, “no cigar.” I had more fun taking myself off to performances and lectures at the Kravis Center or Society of the Four Arts, an active cultural centre located a five-minute stroll from my house.
I decided to trade in my gold Lexus for an efficient Kia Rio that fit more comfortably into my garage, and it became the perfect vehicle for errands and local forays across the bridge. I named my little black car “Tamarindo,” after a street in West Palm, and became quite attached to it, feeling no envy toward the matrons and tycoons manipulating their gas-guzzling Cadillacs, Lincoln Continentals, and Rolls-Royces around town.
In the early mornings I often biked along the marina, and in the late evenings I walked alone down to the ocean, passing through the romantic little vias off Worth Avenue that had been designed by architect Addison Mizner in the early 1900s to imitate the courtyards and walkways of Venice, Italy. Even the sounds of their names were enchanting to me: Via Amore, Via Parigi, Via Flora.
Frequently when I was out walking, ideas for songs would come floating into my head. One afternoon I returned from a marina stroll with the waltz-time song “Little Towns” in my head. The song expresses gratitude to all the small towns I have performed in over the course of my career. If it were not for all those towns, and the wonderful people who had given me such memories and bought my recordings over the years, I never would have been able to afford the luxury of a house in Palm Beach. I excitedly recorded a demo of “Little Towns” in Garage Band, a free music program on my Mac.
I felt sure that Canada’s iconic storyteller Stuart McLean would play this song on his national radio show, The Vinyl Cafe on the CBC, but a few years later he and his producer ignored my entire album, in spite of my going to meet them, twice sending them CDs, and having a friendly email exchange encouraging them to introduce my Canada-inspired songs to Stuart’s fans across the country. I know that all those tens of thousands of people who drove so many snowy miles to hear me in the small towns of Canada and America would have truly appreciated this particular song that, with love and gratitude, was dedicated to them. Even though Evanov stations, like Jewel, and Moses Znaimer’s radio stations often play me, it hurt me that time after time our national station, CBC, has ignored rather than welcomed my Canadian content.
In the U.S. my videos are still frequently broadcast on the Classic Arts Showcase, and the New York–based National Guitar Museum, which is dedicated to preserving and promoting the legacy of the guitar, requested a guitar as well as some of my concert memorabilia for their exhibits. I was delighted to hear that they chose my performance of Tárrega’s “Gran Jota de Concierto” as the very first thing visitors get to see on display upon entering the museum. All types of guitars and genres of music — from rock to jazz and world music to classical — are represented in the museum, and I was pleased that they asked me to join their Board of Advisers.
Perhaps artists are taken for granted in their homeland and respected more if they leave, but I had decided to come back to Canada, and I do not regret it.
• • •
Once again, during my Palm Beach winter of 2012, Peter and I were enjoying working long distance as we had when I lived in Connecticut. We realized that a few years earlier our complex musical projects would never have been possible, as they now depended heavily upon the internet and our ability to easily exchange large music files. Thanks to technology, we were able to collaborate in arranging and producing music even though we were separated by thousands of miles.
Another song that came to me in an inspired moment was “Song of the Arctic.” It describes the melting of the ice and the tragic consequences for the environment and animal life. Determined to add a phrase in the Inuktitut language, I made several calls to towns in the Canadian Arctic and finally located an Inuit woman, Jesse Lyall, in Campbell Bay, Nunavut, who was willing to help me. She offered me the phrase I had sought and taught me how to pronounce it.
When I explained that I was calling from Florida, she was speechless. “It’s forty-two degrees below zero here,” she told me. Wow, and I was sitting in shorts in the shade of my patio looking at palm trees!
We exchanged photos, and to my delight she emailed me the quintessential image of an Arctic woman peeking out from the biggest furry parka I had ever seen. Apparently, it was sewn together using furs of muskrat, fox, and wolverine, and lined with silk. My Inuit gal was picture perfect!
The phrase she taught me,“Nunami ingumaktut,” expresses profound sadness for the lands of the Arctic people. To match her expressive words I chose an unexpected harmonic shift followed by a series of minor chords to create a sombre mood. I had faith that Peter would create a haunting orchestration to enhance this section, which began “Arctic silence, Arctic white, Arctic stillness, Arctic night” — simple words, but with the ominous spaces between the notes that Peter added, you could almost feel the Arctic landscape I was trying to depict.
When my pen pal Prince Philip eventually heard