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Winnipeg Free Press

Elton John, Bread, black coffee and thou

Opinion I can still see us sprawled out on our bedroom's shag carpet, mesmerized by the record label going round and round. We had one of those portable suitcase record players and there would be albums spread out on the floor. Don't Shoot Me I'm Only the Piano Player. Me age seven, you 17. Elderberry Wine. Blues for Baby and Me. Daniel. Pam Frampton photo This rose in columnist Pam Frampton's garden was planted in memory of her sister, Barbie. They named you Barbara Ann after the famous Canadian figure skater, but a love of the limelight didn't come with the name. You were shy. Reserved. The opposite of your other sisters in many ways. You had dad's looks and Mom's brown eyes. You loved Ringo, Robin Gibb, Bernie Taupin. You never fell for the frontman. We pored over the liner notes that came with Don't Shoot Me; loved the pictures of Elton and Bernie walking together. I fantasized about them coming to our small town in outport Newfoundland, but I knew it wouldn't happen. They would've had a hard time finding us. There weren't even street names then. We were in the yellow house on the hill, across from Ern Warren's store. I loved your quiet passion for music, and I was so glad you shared that side of you with me. You weren't a fangirl, just someone who knew what she liked. You didn't gush about it or collect Tiger Beat posters. We shared a twin bed. Not long before Don't Shoot Me was released, I was the bed-wetter who would wake in the night and leave you behind in the damp spot to go and climb in between our parents. You never complained. You'd just get up in the dark — not wanting to wake our other two sisters in their twin bed — fumble for your glasses and get a clean towel to lay in the space where I had been. The sheets would be changed in the morning. I often think of how you came into the world in the midst of tragedy, Barbie. Born breech in the terrible dark days after our grandfather's schooner was reported overdue. Then wreckage was found. Mom said they had to break your little arm to get you out. She brought you home with your arm in a sling and the whole family under a dark cloud of shock and grief. When you grew up and had a family of your own, I would go and spend the night with you sometimes; your husband away working and you on your own with a small child. I loved hearing your quiet voice, your measured cadence so much like our Dad's. I missed you then, much as I did those years you were away at university. Those weekends when you would come home; the nights we would whisper after dark in our little bed, and I would beg you to tell me every single detail about university classes, dining hall cuisine and residence life. You took your coffee black then — the heights of sophistication to my 10-year-old self. Soon, I was doing the same. As we grew up, we grew apart. You lived much the way our parents had, with daily life revolving around the church and the table. Bake sales and turkey teas. Cherry cake at Christmas. Making bread and berry-picking and hanging clothes on the line in the salt air. You loved simple pleasures and God and your family. When your cancer came back and you ran out of options, the world turned upside down. I took a day off work and my husband and I filled a box with provisions and drove out to see you — a rotisserie chicken, dark chocolate brownies, muffins, a bottle of wine, a bouquet of flowers, a frozen beef roast, crackers, cheese, a salad. I don't know what I was thinking but I wanted to feed you, as if you would magically regain your appetite and your health. I thought of the lyrics to the song by Bread that you always loved: 'I would give anything I own I'd give up my life, my heart, my home I would give everything I own Just to have you back again.' I told you that was how I felt. 'I know,' you said. But there was nothing to be done. When you died five years ago, I closed your brown eyes. It was the last thing I could do for you. On the anniversary of your passing, my husband and I found that Bread song on YouTube and played it in your honour. And then I sat alone and played another song we loved all those years ago. 'And it's all over now Don't you worry no more Weekday Mornings A quick glance at the news for the upcoming day. Gonna go west to the sea The Greyhound is swaying And the radio is playing Some blues for baby and me.' Pam Frampton lives in St. John's. Email pamelajframpton@ | X: @Pam_Frampton | Bluesky: @ Pam Frampton Pam Frampton is a columnist for the Free Press. She has worked in print media since 1990 and has been offering up her opinions for more than 20 years. Read more about Pam. Pam's columns are built on facts, but offer her personal views through arguments and analysis. Every column Pam produces is reviewed by an editing team before it is posted online or published in print — part of the Free Press's tradition, since 1872, of producing reliable independent journalism. 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