Back in the early 1970s, I landed a civil service job and moved to Ottawa. Being young and idealistic — with little thought to my next meal — when the job was not as promised, I quit.

Fortunately, and much to my parents’ relief, within a few weeks I landed a job as an assistant librarian at Carleton University Library. It was a maternity replacement, which suited me fine, happy to test the waters before I jumped in. And I was back in an environment that I understood and liked.

That was where I met Wayne Sorge. Sorge worked in the “stacks” reshelving books. As I got to know him, I thought it was an odd job for a young man who was obviously bright and well read, if perhaps a touch eccentric. I mean, stacking books? It really didn’t require a lot of brain cells to do that job.

But as I got to know Sorge, I understood his job choice. Sorge’s real love was music. He worked in the library because he liked books and respected learning. He had to put bread on the table; music did not pay the bills. But Sorge’s soul was in his music.

Over the course of the next couple of years, our respective circles of friends grew to include each other. My friends who were budding musicians loved meeting up with Sorge and his friends. Sorge played both acoustic and electric guitar as well as bass and autoharp. In time, Sorge and my friend Alison, who played guitar, struck up a relationship; she took up mandolin.

Weekends were often spent at somebody’s house or at our guitar-playing friend Logan’s farm making music, which could best be described as a combination of country and rock. Alison, Wayne and I would load amps, speakers and instruments into my little Toyota and hit the road. I didn’t have any musical talent to offer but I was a great roadie.

When Alison went to law school in Toronto, Sorge and I decided to move, too. Over time, of course, things changed. Alison and Wayne broke up; I met my husband, Norm, and began my career as a journalist.

My contact with Sorge became less and less frequent and, as often happens, when our daughters were born, our lives revolved around theirs. Sorge and I lost touch.

So, when Norm was exchanging emails with Logan recently, Logan’s reference to Sorge’s death last May from a massive stroke caught us entirely by surprise.

I’ll always remember Sorge as an outstanding musician — his fingers were magical — and a whimsical songwriter. I sewed a lot in those days and I had made Sorge a shirt. In return, he wrote me a song that started out “I love my shirt.” It was funny, touching and never failed to make me feel warm inside. It was pure Sorge.

In those days, because we were all young and on the road to somewhere, I had assumed Sorge was just waiting for his big break, that anyone with his kind of talent would become a professional musician. Seemed straightforward to me.

But I was wrong. Sorge was my introduction to the knowledge that it takes more than talent to get ahead. You need drive and ambition and willingness to take risks. You have to want it.

Sorge, it seemed, had none of those qualities. And most of all, he didn’t want it. He was content to make music with his friends and share the songs that he wrote with them.

Being young and idealistic, I thought that very odd. But it didn’t diminish my affection for Sorge.

Logan and various musicians are making a CD of Sorge’s songs, as Logan says, to make sure Sorge’s songs never die.

It is ironic — and touching — to think that Sorge’s songs will now be heard by a wider audience, that the music that informed his life will inform his death as well.

— TESSA WILMOTT, EDITOR-IN-CHIEF