A treasure lost

It was a particularly cool and crisp walk to work this morning. So clear the stars seem to pierce brilliant holes in the large inky fabric draped overhead. The patterns so clear and compelling one could not help but to pause and take it all in—if for but a moment.

Zeke and Sneezy at Osterhout Henry Hall in a 2007 photograph.

It is these moments I am reminded of just how brief is our window upon this rich pageant and just how quickly the wondrous parade passes us by.

I am so grateful I got know David (Zeke) Mazurek. He could always bring a smile. Whether it was his music, his jokes or the ever present twinkle in his eye.

I don’t know if it was a skill he honed from decades on a stage or if he was ushered from the womb with an ability to bring joy to a room. All I know is that when I was listening to Zeke, I was happy. And I don’t take these moments for granted anymore.

Zeke was an acquired stage name. He was born David Mazurek and remained David to his family and friends. I knew him by both names—though I suspect that much of the distinction between the stage performer and his private persona had been stripped way years ago.

He was many things in his professional life—a musician, performer, promoter, and ticket collector if need be. He was carefree about much in life—but not about his craft. He refused to perform in bars. He felt his performances required an attentive audience—even if just a handful in a church basement—rather than indifferent patrons in a smoky saloon.

He seemed his happiest when playing alongside friends including Sneezy Waters, Janet Kellough, Tom Leighton, Suzanne Pasternak, Judy Fraser, Bill Ostrander, Jeanette Arsenault, Lenni Stewart and a host of other County performers.

But, as was superbly evident last summer, Zeke’s incredible talent reached far beyond the County. Some of the biggest and brightest stars of Canadian music—Sylvia Tyson, Prairie Oyster, Cindy Church, Mary Lynn Hammond and many others—made their way to Picton last August to pay tribute to their friend and colleague.

If he had ever been captivated by the excesses and indulgences of the life of a performer, he had long ago left them behind. David loved life—not the tangible stuff, but rather the parts of life one senses—touch, sound, sights, memories. Most Wednesdays he could be found at the dump in Wellington. He spent countless hours poking through the things people had thrown away. Often he would return to the village to show me his discoveries. Invariably he would pull out a wrinkled and tattered photograph— sometimes a recognizable landscape but more often than not a discarded family photo rendered expendable—the names and stories likely forgotten and now just clutter. He couldn’t understand how someone could let such things go. To David these were treasures. He would not allow them to be buried amidst the decaying food and broken furniture.

So together we would stand on the street and try to imagine who this discarded family was staring back at us from the faded photograph, where they lived and the circumstances that led them to be tossed in the dustbin.

Perhaps inevitably he, along with Janet Kellough, transformed these expeditions into a story and musical entitled Tales From the Wellington Dump—performed, I believe, just once at the barn at Fields on West Lake.

Now he is the one looking out from the photograph. Soon enough we will be gone too. Our stories will blend together and the impressions we’ve made will drift away amid the stars. Perhaps these images will endure to be gazed upon curiously by our grandchildren’s grandchildren many years from now.

I am certain they will still see the joy in David’s eyes.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca