Gift of innocence

When Foster Bailey died a few weeks ago, I felt a double tinge of sadness.

Tinge number one was of course because Foster himself had died. I never got to know him, but when we passed each other on the street—as we did quite frequently— he seemed to say, hello in the most upbeat way, as if to say, “I can’t wait to get to know you better.” He was, as they say, developmentally challenged and could present a headache when it came to respecting personal boundaries or appreciating the trouble to which he was putting others. But when he died, he was fondly remembered.

Tinge number two was the person Foster reminded me of—David. David was brought up by parents who prized success, and his stammer and weight caused them such embarrassment that he stayed in his room and ate meals alone. He grew up socially awkward, labeled an embarassment. And then David discovered bluegrass music. First he listened to it on the radio, then he bought a mandolin. The mandolin was his ticket to social acceptance. He played with the Mountain City Ramblers in Montreal, and then with the Back 40 Band in Ottawa. And he played it so well that the king of bluegrass, Bill Monroe, once let David play his mandolin. And the funny thing was, when he was on stage, David sang without his trademark stutter, and could engage in repartee on par with the best of them.

David was a simple person.

For instance, his social antenna were sometimes way down. I remember taking him to the National Arts Centre to hear Kate and Anna McGarrigle, whom he had known in Montreal. He spent an enjoyable evening indulging in friendly heckles and singing harmony at the top of his voice, happily oblivious to the increasingly firm ‘shushes’ from the neighbouring rows. I also remember taking him to a breakfast buffet meal. He sat in the restaurant trying unsuccessfully to catch the waitress’s eye, finally exclaiming in a loud voice “can’t a guy get any toast around here”, until it was gently pointed out that this was a serve-yourself affair and the toaster was right behind him. We were invited to play at a church service, and David was so anxious to do well that he tuned and plucked his instrument throughout the sermon, unaware that a sermon was ostensibly something you listened to intently.

And yet, David did not have a single mean bone in his body. He lived off an allowance from a trust fund. He bought lottery tickets every week, hoping that he would win a million dollars. With his winnings, he would buy a new Honda CRV and then donate the rest to find a cure for Parkinson’s Disease. Every time he came to visit us, he would bring an apple pie; until our freezer got so full of them we told him he needn’t bother bringing anything.

He could be a pain in the neck, of course. “Have I told you about my prostate operation…” he would begin, signalling a massive stampede for the exits; because nothing, not even an affirmative response, would stop him telling you again.

David was crossing Bank Street in Ottawa, on his way to his janitorial job at the Ottawa Folklore Centre, when he was broadsided by cars coming from two different directions. He spent the last two years of his life in the St. Vincent Chronic Care Hospital. He was recovering slowly but surely when he died quite suddenly.

His accident and his death prompted an outpouring of genuine sadness. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. He wouldn’t have known what an ulterior motive was if it stepped up and tapped him on the shoulder. The Ottawa Valley Bluegrass Music Association instituted an annual concert and award in his honour. His family was genuinely shocked to find out how broad his influence was and how large his circle of friends had become. I feel I was privileged to have known him and played with him.

When I think of David, I acknowledge the burden he must have presented to those entrusted with his care—especially after his accident. The same burden was no doubt borne by others with respect to Foster. But I give thanks for the wonderful gift of innocence that they brought those around them. Calculation and cleverness come across as guile and cynicism when stood next to them. Far from being a constraint, simplicity can be a positive force. I know it has moved me.

David Simmonds’s writing is also available at www.grubstreet.ca.