Page 64 - 06_July-Aug-2025

Lost Ones
HUMBLE GIANT
Farley Woodland Magee,
August 27, 1951 – October 11, 2024
by BENJAMIN HERTWIG
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 neigh-
bourhood’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, Far-
ley 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 regis-
ter and timbre like Gordon Lightfoot, and his lilting, so-
norous 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 deter-
mined to try and make music to accompany it anyhow.
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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 strug-
gles 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 pop-
ping 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 al-
leys, walkways and sidewalks of Boyle
Street-McCauley a thousand times over,
with a shy smile and kind words for ev-
eryone 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 land-
lords, but he kept searching for the good,
even in the hardest of times. His vulner-
ability was disarming, and the music he
made gave others permission to acknowl-
edge their own pain. There was no arti-
fice with Farley. He was happy to spend
time with you or sing next to you, what-
ever your mood, whatever your scars or
skeletons.
The places Farley lived and made mu-
sic 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. ED.
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].