Oftenwhen Iwasachild, thesounds
of theNewEraChoirperforming
“TheFaceofGlory”wouldbewafting
through thebigoldhousewhere
Igrewup.
I knew every song by heart, although I was
probably a bit vague on the words. “Greg’s
choir,”mymotherwould call them… itwould
be years before I figured out what they were
actually called. I remember the warm nights
at the Summer Schools on Rottnest Island,
packed into a hall with dusty wooden floors
and squeaky plastic chairs, the ceiling fans
turning lazily above us. It was the talent
night, and “Greg’s choir” was the highlight.
I remember asking my mum if I could be in
Greg’s choir; I so loved to sing. “When you are
older,” she toldme.
My first personal interaction with Greg I
believewasatone suchSummerSchool,when
mymumwent andblabbed tohimofmywish
to sing inhis celebratedchoir. Iwasmortified;
this was a deep and dark secret that I didn’t
wantanyonetoknow.Iranandhidsomewhere
in a dark room. Greg came and foundme to
haveachat. I think Iwassix; Idon’t remember.
He calledme “Angel”. In years to comewould
realise that this was a common term he used
to refer to all female persons younger than
himself. But it always sounded special all the
same. “Yes angel, one day you can be in the
choir,” he told me. “My daughter Rachel is
thirteen, and she is in the choir.”When I was
thirteen… Seven years didn’t seem too far
away. In the meantime I enjoyed the annual
uncoordinated frolicof the “Haymaker’s Jig”at
the Summer School’s BushDance nights that
Gregcommanded.
But somehow when I was thirteen, heaven
and earth prevented me from joining Greg’s
choir. Therewas thedifficulty ingoingout on
aschoolnight,andasmymother’sconditioned
gradually declined after being diagnosedwith
Parkinson’s Disease, it was only possible if I
could findmyself a lift with some other soul
whowouldbe travelling to the rehearsals from
my area. Next thing I heard, the choirwas on
hiatusbecauseGreghadmoved toAlbany.And
bythetimehewasback inPerth Iwaswrapped
up in my own music career and gradually
becomingembroiled in the tests thatencircled
my family as my mother’s health declined. It
didn’tmatter, I toldmyself, becauseGreg had
his tribe. The choir bynowwas an institution
and I knew that it would go on and prosper
whetherornot Iwas involved.
Althoughwe knew of each other andwe had
met before, I didn’t really become a part of
Greg’s life until his days were numbered. It
was convenient that we lived a hop, skip and
jump away from his house. Therewould be a
call, perhaps a text message… he had an idea
for a song, by now partly finished, that he
wanted to showme. Could I come over now,
please? Sometimes I laughed tomyself at how
amanwhosemusic and services to theBaha’i
community I had admired for somany years
was now asking for my input. He was always
brimmingwith ideas, always thinkingofwhat
the next project would be, and he seemed
determined to takemealong for the ride.
Ithasbeenablessed journeywalkingwithGreg
over these last few years. Baha’u’llah granted
mywishand I sangwithGreg’schoir.
Love
ShameemTaheri-Lee
