Beryl Cohen has an unusual name, I knew one Meryn and two Meryls but never a Beryl, pronounced like barrel. She’s two years older than me and already an artist when I met her as a teenager. She volunteered at the Winnipeg Folk Festival when she was 18 & 19. One day at the YMHA (Jews weren’t originally allowed to sweat in gymnasiums at the same time as sweating Christians), she heard my attempts at playing Otis Spann on the semi-workable grand piano backstage by the indoor field hockey rink. Later, in an upstairs room filled with different members of the Kuropatwa clan, “Bobby you have to play the folk festival. You have to meet Mitch.” Everyone in Winnipeg knew it was a thing but I had not yet attended and had no idea how one might try opening that door. Beryl was motivated by kindness. Most people came with trouble, including me, but nothing manipulative about her and the infectious certainty. So I made a cassette and knocked on the window of the Winnipeg Folk Festival office. After listening to the first song of three, Mitch hired me on the spot. After that performance experience, decided to apply to the music program at York University. I was accepted and made the move to Toronto. I’ve since realized a lot of musical dreams. I think they might have died had I stayed in Winnipeg but never will know. I wrote her a letter this morning when the first email from a mutual friend said she was in palliative care. I wrote many things and much about admiration I have for her and readiness to help in anyway. A second email came saying actually she died this morning. I’ll put you in a song Beryl. I bet feral will be the first rhyme.