Farley Magee’s footprints are all over Boyle Street-McCauley. If you listen carefully on a quiet day, you might still hear his voice in the wind. Coffee, books and crosswords were three of his abiding loves. On good days, he spent time with each of them, often at the same time. You might find him sitting on any of the neighbourhood’s numerous park benches, sometimes in conversation, sometimes silent. He sat under the wide canopies of old elm trees, enjoying the shade, listening to the birds, breathing in the softness of the world.
As his middle name — Woodland — suggests, Farley cared deeply about nature. The way humans have harmed, and continue to harm, mother earth grieved him deeply. He had a long list of questions he one day hoped to ask God, and he made music with the angels — whatever you conceive them to be. He possessed a register and timbre like Gordon Lightfoot, and his lilting, sonorous voice came straight from the folk tradition. You could find him making music at the Bissell Centre, at the downtown library, with friends, at the annual Outdoor Way of the Cross. He finger-picked with the delicacy of someone who has experienced great pain but was determined to try and make music to accompany it anyhow.
Farley was afraid of dogs, having once been bitten. He hadn’t touched one in nearly 20 years, until near the end of his life, when he met Bru, our gentle rescue, who shared a quiet, healing bond that made up for years of canine separation with every kiss. But Farley never fully recovered from the early death of his child. Some days you could see the pain of that memory sitting on his shoulders, as the child herself once might have. He wasn’t ashamed to talk about his struggles with mental health. When he was feeling unwell, he would seek company in conversation, sometimes knocking on the doors of friends late in the day or popping by my bookstore after hours to see if anyone wanted to share a coffee.
His weather-beaten hat and satchel gave the impression of a man who wandered the world, as did the guitar strapped to his back. He criss-crossed the alleys, walkways and sidewalks of Boyle Street-McCauley a thousand times over, with a shy smile and kind words for everyone he encountered. The birds, the sun and the moon were his friends too.
Farley’s housing situation was rough. He had to deal with neglected buildings, bug infestations, evictions and bad landlords, but he kept searching for the good, even in the hardest of times. His vulnerability was disarming, and the music he made gave others permission to acknowledge their own pain. There was no artifice with Farley. He was happy to spend time with you or sing next to you, whatever your mood, whatever your scars or skeletons.
The places Farley lived and made music in were humble. He spent no time in grand buildings or great cathedrals, but the songs and the conversations he started were themselves the cathedrals — lofty, spacious, life-giving, grounded, pointing to something beyond himself and impossible to fully articulate, though he never stopped trying.
Lost Ones is a new series honouring local legends and unsung heroes who’ve recently passed. To recommend someone whose story deserves memorializing, email [email protected].
This article appears in the July/August 2025 issue of Edify
