A Road Trip to Boyce Johnson’s Funeral

When Bonnie Wyora heard that Boyce Johnson had passed away, we were in Sicamous, B.C. She suggested that we take a road trip to the funeral. I have been waiting a long time to go through the Slocan Valley so we decided to take a few days and travel south through our forested province and then drive over to Alberta.

As busy lives go, our much anticipated plans were shortened, and the longer trip was compressed into a ride through the Roger’s Pass which is never a disappointment since the Slocan Valley is still there for next time. At the top of the pass and in the midst of billowing smoke over distant mountains we still managed to see the exquisite beauty of the avalanche slides, the tumbling waterfalls, and the purple fireweed blossoms along the road. A helicopter was flying to the summit, landing and then lifting again. We watched this for a while. At this point, Bonnie was taking a selfie, stepped backwards into a hole, did a graceful fall and shoulder roll and got back up on her feet.

 But she let me drive for a few hours after that and we went off in search of Advil, a suggestion from Catherine after we called her for medical advice.

I asked Bonnie why she wanted to make this trip.

She said that Boyce was her first childhood experience with a person with a disability. Now she works identifying disabilities with young children, but Boyce remains that first model that comes to her mind.

When Bonnie was telling me this, into my mind popped another moment that I had with Boyce upon which I have reflected often. His family was at the cabin on the Shuswap lake. People were water skiing. He wanted to take a try.

This was in the distant past when it was popular to begin the ski by sitting on the dock and letting the boat pull you off. Boyce was outfitted up with a life jacket, the skis were on his feet, his hands were holding the rope, and he shouted, “Hit it”.

In that split second before the boat put on the power, he jumped off the dock and into the water.

That was his first try. As the addage goes when falling off a horse, he got back on and tried again.

“Hit it”.

And off he jumped into the water before the power of the boat could get to the handle he was holding.

I don’t know why the driver of the boat gave him another chance, but he did. I can still see Boyce for the third time, on the dock, his skis on again, the life jacket straigtened, and the handle of the rope in his hand.

He was now more practiced at jumping into the water than holding onto the rope and the third time was not lucky for him.

The fear factor had Boyce into the water again, now shivering from the cold.

I don’t think my story has a point. Still, in my life, when I have wanted to contemplate desire and courage the image of Boyce on the dock comes to my mind.

I am writing this post because Rebecca said that she wanted to read about Boyce’ funeral.

Here it comes: Ramona had called Dr. Ken Hicken and asked him to play a medley of Boyce’s favourite tunes at the funeral. She gave him 40 titles. Ken told the congregation that if he had done 40 titles the time that would have taken would have resulted in a concert and not a funeral. So he abbreviated the list to 6 titles.

Of them, I can only remember “I’m Trying to be Like Jesus”, Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree” “76 Trombones” and “Climb Every Mountain”.

You may not know Ken Hicken, Rebecca. I was first acquainted with him when I was in the Department of Music at the University of Alberta in the late ‘50’s . Ken was a couple of years ahead of me, from southern Alberta, and his desire was to be a professional musician. One day I sat in church listening to him play prelude music and thought the music sounded familiar, although I couldn’t tell what Bach chorale he was playing. After the meeting, I went up to ask him about the music and he laughed. “Most people aren’t really listening to the prelude music,” he said.

“Well, I am.”

“Fine,” he laughed. “That was the popular and secular tune Harry Belafonte sings: ‘Shrimp Boats are A-Comin’. I put the tune in the base and played some religious sounding chords in the right hand, for fun.”

Now I am only telling you this because of our previous email discussion where you said you had as a model in Ottawa, a woman who had a certain measure of ‘disobedience’ at the centre of her soul.

I am sure Ken is such a person.

Fast forward to an older Ken Hicken, now playing a medley at Boyce’s funeral. Ken had gone on to get his PhD and has taught in the music department at the University of Lethbridge. He said a few words to us before he went to the organ. He announced he had entitled his medley “Rejoice with Boyce”.

Then Ken went to the organ and began to do now as he did then, threw in some musical tropes to mix people up, changed rhythms and sounds, used the pedals and then different registers of the organs. At one point I might have heard the sound of an organ grinder in one of the songs.

When he began the last tune, “Climb Every Mountain”, I knew my job was to remain focused on watching Ken’s method. He pulled out all of the organ stops, and sent the volume soaring.

Keeping myself focused on Ken’s method is what kept me from throwing myself on the pew and sobbing at the last song: “Climb every mountain / Ford every stream / Follow every rainbow / 'Till your dream”. I don’t know if it is better to let the tears flow down my cheeks, or to choke them back so that they wash down the inside of my guts.

I know how to do both.

Arta