Thank You Barry Gibb

Good Morning,     
        A little boy in my class named David has become quite a fan of 60's music thanks to his subscription to Sirius Radio.  When Davey Jones came to perform at the Turningstone Casino, David and his mother, (a colleague of mine), invited me to go to the concert with them.  Jones had aged well and despite a number of off-color jokes, was quite entertaining as he took us all back to a time when he was a teen idol.  I must say my ears perked up and I felt more of a connection to him when he began to talk about his horses! 

         11 days after the concert, Davey Jones died of a sudden heart attack, (while feeding his horses).  The news was quite shocking to the three of us who had just seen him looking so youthful on stage.  I was sent a number of condolences by friends and colleagues who knew that I had attended the concert so recently.  Although these were thoughtful gestures, I began to feel a bit guilty about receiving them.  Davey Jones was not my idol growing up.  Yes, my siblings and I loved the Monkees' TV show, but I was not hopelessly enamored with Jones.

        This got me thinking about my idol to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for serenading me through some of the roughest spots of my childhood.  I began to feel that I owed him a place in Finding My Way to Moose River Farm and immediately began editing the paragraphs where he belonged. 

Ode, (Owed), to Barry Gibb

My four week camp experience flew by quickly and all too soon it was time to say an emotional good bye to Never, (my assigned camp horse), as well as the other horses. 

Returning home with no riding prospects in sight was depressing.  I had had a taste of caring for a horse and I wanted more.  To make matters worse, I also had to face ninth grade with all of the challenges of an adolescent teenager who struggled to fit in with her peers.  Instead of expressing thanks for this wonderful camp experience I retreated to my room and wept incessantly for the loss of horses yet again.  Alone in my room I pounded my fists and feet on the bed in frustration for my lack of ability to control the circumstances. 

There to console me was the soothing voice of Barry Gibb, oldest brother of the group, the Bee Gees.  Their music from the early and mid seventies, (years before the falsetto voices of Saturday Night Fever), comforted my tortured soul through some of the most difficult periods of my adolescence.  To me, Barry was more than feathery good looks and a flashlight smile. From the small snippets I saw of him on television, I could tell Barry was a gentle giant who spoke well and I hoped that he loved animals too.  He was a consummate musician who wrote his own lyrics, composed the melodies and accompanied the iconic tunes with his own guitar playing.  The unique blend of voices that he and his brothers recorded can only be attributed to their shared DNA. 

After my tears were spent I lay on my bed in a trance.  Barry’s lyrics beckoned to me from the stereo I had recently inherited from Sue, (my sister), now busy packing in the next room for her freshman year at college.  

“So darliiin’…..yooooou run to meeee”.

Or

“In the morning when the moon is at its rest

You will find me at the time I love the best

Watching rainbows play on sunlight,

Pools of water iced from cold nights, in the morning

Tis the morning of my life.
...Please be patient with your life
It's only morning and you've still to live your day.”
from; Morning of My Life by the Bee Gees

Wouldn't have made it through my youth without you, Barry!