In 2000 I went to Toronto and brought my father a computer, a desk, a computer chair, and a printer. Louis and I were working on a website for Gallery Mason and I needed to have Dad online so that he could help with the site. My father had decided to sell some of his artwork on the Internet. I bought him www.gallerymason.com. My son Danny and his friend Shannon left London and went to Toronto with me to set Dad up and teach him about the online world. I have to give my father a lot of credit. He was really interested in the Internet and wanted to become part of that world and to make some money to supplement his income.

But my father had very large fingers and hands. I think of that often. I remember him telling me how they would swell when he hung the Christmas trees at Sheridan Nurseries in later years because he couldn't wear gloves when he did that work and it was so cold. How did I hate him working there -- I know he loved the people and his customers but he worked too hard and I knew it took its toll.

His large fingers made it difficult for him to use the keyboard. He would call Lou and I every night for his "lesson" and we would try and walk him through what he had to do to get online and to his website. My father was thrilled to have the site. I think it made him feel hip and part of the new media. He tried so hard to understand and concentrate. But in the end, he gave up, asking me to handle the inquiries that came along.

Gosh, how I wish I could have those days back again. I am so angry that I won't see him again. I am so angry that I won't talk to him again. I am angry about so many things. Sometimes it is difficult to breathe. I wish I could turn the clock back to when we were all younger and Dad would come home after work and help Mom with supper. No matter where we were, we were expected home for dinner every night at 5:30. The family sat down to the table and ate together. We would discuss what had happened during the day and my brother Dan and him would argue about sports. Danny at one end of the table and my father at the other end.

Almost every night after supper, my father would wash the kitchen floor. The floor was a white tile, with flecks of colour splattered throughout. It got a little dirty after a day of animals, kids, and cooking. Up until the time my father moved out of his last apartment in December 2003, he washed his kitchen floor every day. He kept up the tradition. I often wondered if it helped him to feel as if he was back home with all of us, when we were young and perhaps more loveable towards him and before life made all of us go our separate ways. Maybe he pretended that he was still cooking and baking for us. He was such a great baker. He once made me a batch of soy bread and I loved it. He mixed together a lot of different flours that he had left over, with the soybean being the most prominent. He could never replicate it. I always wished he could have made it one more time for me.

He would cook us breakfast every Christmas morning. We were allowed to have our stockings whenever we woke, but we had to wait to open our gifts until after breakfast. His scrambled eggs were heavenly, his from-scratch tea biscuits with fruit were remarkable. I often tried to duplicate his tea biscuits but never could. Not even once.

On Sunday afternoons, my father would cut up vegetables and soak them in water in preparation for supper, which could be three hours away. He liked to give my Mom a break from the cooking whenever he could. There were always potatoes and carrot and turnip. Whenever I taste raw turnip, I think of Dad and I always will. Lately, we've been lucky enough to get a lot of organic turnip and Louis makes sure to put aside some small pieces for me before he cooks the rest.

My father loved the kitchen no matter where we lived. All of them are etched on my memory. Before he left our last family home for the last time he gave me an old wall hanging that had adorned our kitchens for so many years. Since then, I have divorced, traveled, moved to many different places, raised my beloved son, got educated, made my father proud, and came back home to the Rock. I was never once without this one precious heirloom. It was the first thing I put on the wall and the last one I put into the suitcase. It always made me remember when we were young, at home, full of hope, not fragmented, together, lucky, accepted. The house on the hanging also looks a lot like our home on Mount Scio Road, which was situated on magic holy land; a time of horses, trails, the Hanlons and Oozie Webber.

Here is the hanging:

I miss you, Dad. I hate that you don't call me anymore. What am I ever going to do without you?

Love,
me

Dear Moya

With Sympathy in the loss of your Father.

A father's love is a quiet love...
strong, yet gentle...
forever in the heart.

May the memory of your father and all he meant to you give you strength and courage and bring you comfort, too.

Thinking of you,
Karen

Dear Moya,

His Journey's Just Begun

Don't think of him as gone away -- his journey's just begun, life holds so many facets -- this earth is only one.

Just think of him as resting from the sorrows and the tears in a place of warmth and comfort where there are no days and years.

Think how he must be wishing that we could know today how nothing but our sadness can really pass away.

And think of him as living in the hearts of those he touched ... for nothing loved is ever lost -- and he was loved so much.

Thinking of you and praying for you.

Love Dot and Clem

May Your Memories Be a Comfort To You, Moya

Although at such a time as this, your many friends will say that time will ease your sorrow and take your grief away.

What is truer and more comforting is to know, deep in your heart, that in cherished thought and memory loved ones nver really part.

In Deepest Sympathy,
Gerry

RON MASON. We first met in Toronto at Sheridan Nurseries on Yonge Street where he charmed all the customers, and in particular the women.

And how could anyone forget the great stories he told us, his absolute devotion to hard work and determination to achieve the desired objective.

We shared many a cup of tea after his many work assignments at my home and tons of laughs.

An absolutely wonderful man who was always very kind, thoughtful and devoted to whatever he was doing.

He is missed already!

Moya, I am sorry to hear of your father's passing. I really enjoyed reading about him, and your family, in this memorial page you set up. I wish I could have known him, and now because of this, I feel I know you a little. You were always a mystery to me. Your father is an inspiration to me, how to live and to hope to be anywhere as important to my children.

Robert Dafford
Lafayette, Louisiana

To Dear Moya, and all of the Mason family:

I add my voice here and with it, express my sincere condolences, sympathy, and support to all of you.

I understand that words are only able to express so much complexity of emotion, and realize that at times they only remind you of your loss. The finality of death is the total absolute beyond which there are no more second chances, and that it can be difficult to understand or accept. I wish you to know that the intention behind my words is to tell you that I, along with the people behind all of the other voices here, are with you during this time. Please keep us in mind during your moments of silent reflection on Mr. Mason, and we can only hope that our words provide some small amount of comfort to you.

"Make sure you're offline."

Mr. Mason touched our lives in a variety of ways, and we will all miss him. He has had a significant influence on my life during the last 5 years, even though we never actually met. Five to seven days a week, Moya and I centered our schedules around the daily telephone conversation she had with her father. Whether it was organizing dinner reservations, movie tickets, shopping excursions, business tele-conferences across multiple time zones, walking the Signal Hill trail along the ocean or blueberry picking. That daily phone call defined when all other events could take place.

Blueberry Plants Picking Blueberries, Fall 2004

Fort Amherst from the Signal Hill Trail

It was imperative that we were home in time for when the phone would ring. And if at home, that the line was free. If we weren't home, we often found a payphone and made the call. I still have his number in my wallet for such occasions.

If we were out and, for some reason, forgot about the call, the pain in Moya's voice was palpable when she realized. Her guilt was physically tangible when we'd get home later to see the answering machine's red light blinking in the dark. For Moya's perseverance, day after month after year and her unwavering focus on the conversations, I think that she must be given credit for the deed: Moya, you did good! You did make a difference!!

That he could create such a depth of feeling is a strong testament to his character. Yes, maturity is important. It is "knowing what is right". But it is mere rocky ore when compared to the pure, refined gold that is character: "doing what is right". And Mr. Mason's strong character shone through by helping to define Moya's character to act in such a way. They both, in their own ways, "knew AND did what is right".

Remember when we remembered about remembering?

Although I heard only one side of the conversation, I could hear that the topics were often those deceptively simple things that we take for granted, like the weather or the news of the day. It was apparent that the important thing was not, of course, the content of the conversation, but the presence of the conversation. The human yearning for connection, for not feeling alone. Like this connection is important. Comfort during the moments of silence.

Of course, many things were discussed. Moya's exceptional memory must have been a true comfort to him. There were many occasions during our own conversations that she recalled some item or event from childhood, and immediately said, "I need to ask Dad if he remembers ..." or "Remind me to see if Dad knows what happened to ...". And she did, and I did, and he did.

Requiescat in Pace

I learned many things about Mr. Mason during those conversations, and Moya and I often discussed them afterwards, nuances of tone or meaning. But, my strongest memory of Mr. Mason was innocently answering his telephone call on the morning of September 11, 2001. From the sound of pathos in his voice I knew immediately that something was badly wrong. He was able to barely sob out a brief description of events before he had to let me go. For me, the stark reality of the events of that morning are forever associated with him.

I realize that his children, grandchildren and all other family and friends are feeling grief beyond comprehension, but know that our voices are here for you. Now that he "lay down in green pastures and is led beside the still waters" I too send to him the wish "May He Rest in Peace".

Dear Moya,

It seems my last note did not go through.

The day Louis called to let me know about your father I was sorry you and I were not able to talk. I do know how difficult this is for you.

One of the things I remember is the phone conversations you had with your Dad. Every
night at 7:00 while he was able and I know this meant so much to him.

I can remember calling and Louis reminding me that it was almost 7:00 and that you would be
speaking with your Dad.

I have read all of the wonderful things that you wrote about him and I know that you can be proud of who he was and cherish the wonderful memories that you shared.

With much love, Maggie
Kettle Falls, Washington

Hello my dear Moya,

I am sending you my deepest sympathies over your recent loss.

I am thinking of you at this time and will be sure to call you sometime this week.


All the best in this difficult time,

Much love and support,

Peter Duerr
Ottawa

To The Mason Family
With Sympathy and Friendship

In the midst of your sorrow, may you find peace and hope for all your tomorrows.

Thinking of you at this time of loss.

Love Chris and Linda Fisher and Family

A reporter from "The Telegram" asked me to help her with an article on Dad. Here are the notes I sent to her in answer to specific questions.

1. When did your father come to St. John's and how long was he here?

My father came to St. John's in 1968 and stayed until 1991. The last few years he only came home three or four months of the year because he was working in Toronto.

My father came to St. John's because Peter Bell offered him a job at the Memorial University Art Gallery in the Arts and Culture Centre when they met at Expo '67 in Montreal. Actually that is one of my first persistent memories of my father. I guess accommodations were hard to come by during Expo and the city asked anyone who could to lodge people in their own homes and apartments. We had many people staying with us. I especially remember a very tall woman, who drove a VW bug and did the twist. Every morning I would accompany my father to a bakery on LaSalle Boulevard to buy an assortment of breads for our guests. Dad always made sure I got a sugar cookie to eat on the way home. I remember the cookie was always warm. Strange the things you remember. I was five years old.

Dad came to St. John's by himself, either late in 1967 or early in 1968. My mother doesn't remember for sure. He came without us because the Arts & Culture Centre wanted to try him out for some months before offering him a full-time job and letting him live in a cheap rent house on Mount Scio Road. I loved living in that house, with people like Gerry and Gail Squires (artists), Stewart Montgomerie (artist), Frank LaPointe (artist), Dr. Stephen Keller (MUN), Jacob Kennedy (a great artist of the time), Lord Taylor (president of MUN), Don Wright (artist), Chris Pratt (artist), the very interesting Ron Pumphrey, and many others dropping in through the years. I remember our father taking us to visit the Pratts out at their St. Mary's Bay house and studio. I remember traveling that old Southern Shore highway to Ferryland because Dad had to see Gerry and Gail Squires, who were living in the lighthouse with their daughters. What a place that was to visit as a child. The road was gravel at the time and filled with potholes. I remember when Ron Pumphrey had a famous psychic on his radio show and Dad paid to have all of our fortunes read. He recently sent me the information that was put together for me.

2. When did he work with Peter Bell and was this at the Arts and Culture Centre?

He worked with Peter at the Arts & Culture Centre from 1968 until he left to open his own art gallery and framing shop in 1973. Peter was the curator and my father was the person who framed the art and hung the exhibitions. Dad didn't know anything about framing and perhaps little about art before he started that job. That was really the amazing thing about my father. He was not deterred by anything. He refused to be limited by what he'd been in the past. He believed you could continually remake yourself and that it is never too late to be what you might have been. That was my father. He didn't wax poetic at all. He never once spoke those words. He just acted. So he taught himself to be the best framer in town. Everyone said so. He could look at any picture and almost instantaneously know what colour mat and what sort of moulding it should have. He was the one who would frame the artwork that hung around the university and throughout the Confederation Building as well. He loved working at the gallery and with Peter Bell.

There were four exhibition rooms at the time, two on each floor. Dad would sometimes work all through the night, hanging a new show, to make sure each one was ready for public viewing. Everything he did had the public in mind. The gallery was/is a provincial facility for the people who live here. He always kept that in mind. My father believed that art transmitted some knowledge of truth, and was a form of enlightenment that could make the world a better place. Now there are many people working at the art gallery. Dad had only himself during those days and eventually a part-time helper named Martin White, who later moved to Toronto. They needed several people to replace him when he left. He had more stamina in one hand than most people have in their entire bodies.

He was also the one who helped build the famous aquarium that was placed outside the exhibition rooms on the third floor. He thought that it would attract children and bring more patrons into the shows. He was right. The tank was massive and I know that after it was built it was my father who researched what types of fish and plants would work best in it. They went for the exotics and the Gaze Seed shop supplied them. I remember Dad cleaning that tank and continually adding plants to it. He had never kept fish before this time but he and my mother began breeding them in tanks at our house to keep a ready supply of certain types for the art gallery tank. I wish I could see a picture of the tank again.

Lord Stephen Taylor of Harlow was the president of the university during that time and a very close friend of my father's. As a family, we were often invited to Mount Scio House for dinner, where Lord Taylor lived with his family. The Taylors were extremely gracious people and I remember them giving us an Etch-a-Sketch, something that was quite a magical toy, especially if you had never seen one before. He was my father's champion, getting him better pay and more of a budget to work with.

After Lord Taylor went back to Britain, Premier Frank Moores and his wife Janice lived at Mount Scio House. Janice became fast friends with my father and a very regular customer. She is now a Senator. I remember my father speaking of her in the last couple of years with such fond affection.

Dad worked really hard at the gallery. I remember visiting him there a lot. He would let us go to the kitchen of the Act Three Restaurant (the best restaurant there ever was in this town and located on the main floor of the Arts & Culture Centre) to order ice cream sundaes after school. We ate a lot at that restaurant. I know my parents loved going there and taking us to all the good shows playing at the theatre. My father always made sure we had one of those private boxes that overlook the stage. It was quite a magical place. I remember pretending that the Centre was our house because we had the run of the place so often, with a big library of our own. Not that surprising that years later I got my Master in Library and Information Science.

3. When did your father start his own art gallery and how long was it in operation?

My father started his own gallery late in 1973. Its first location was Water Street West, at the foot of Patrick Street. The rooms were spacious and great for displaying the art. During those days, we would carry work by Ken Danby, David Blackwood, Gerry Squires, Sid Butt, Jean Claude Roy, Jacob Kennedy, Frank LaPointe, Manfred Buchheit, Scott Goudie, Stewart Montgomerie, Heidi Oberheide, Reginald Shepherd, Ben Hansen photographs, and a series of old Newfoundland photographs, which formed one of the major backbones of his business. The other was framing. Frequent customers were James Baird, Leo and Mary Barry, Ed Roberts, Noel Hutton, Fred Brokenshire, Geoff Levitz, John Allen, the Ottenheimers, and many other well-known people from town. My father always had good English biscuits and tea and coffee for his many visitors. Tourists also were frequent customers, asking my father to crate and ship their purchases to locations around the world. Sometimes my father would rent out a banquet room at the Holiday Inn for an exhibition. I was the one that took the money and worked the Chargex credit card machine. I remember the night of the big Sid Butt exhibition, when every single painting sold in less than twenty minutes. He could have sold one hundred more.

I remember Johnny Mac Kninck, an artist and draft dodger from Michigan appearing at the gallery one day. Dad began to buy some of his art and invited him to eat and shower at our house. He left when President Carter pardoned the Vietnam War draft dodgers.

People who worked with my father at his gallery: me; some of my friends; Judy Allen, daughter of John Allen; Peter Kearsey (now a lawyer); Ernie Kearsey, who later went on to work for many years at the Arts & Culture Art Gallery, and one of his best friends, Peter Dawson. Peter Dawson was from England and worked at the museum downtown. He also cut mats for my father in his spare time, especially intricate ovals and rounds. Peter and Dad had a very good time working together.

It was during this time that John Nolan, host of "Store Loft," a local television showed that aired on Sundays, would have Dad on as a guest. Dad appeared a number of times, showing some of the old photographs and explaining their history. In those days, there weren't any VCRs. I wonder how I could get copies of those shows now. I remember watching them and the set having fishnets hung all around. He was also a frequent guest on "Coffee Break," the Shirley Newhook show, which I think was on CBC.

One of Dad's favourite people was Ben Hansen, who was just beginning to sell his great photographs at that time. I know that my father would often hire Sylvia Cullum to hand colour some of Ben's photographs. One of the things I had wanted to buy my father was the book that Ben has recently published with Jean Claude Roy. I know he would have enjoyed it very much.

I am not sure when it happened, but Dad moved the store from Water Street to a building next to the War Memorial on Duckworth Street. It was since taken down and a new building for a law firm was put in its place.

I remember a fisherman from Quidi Vidi Village coming in with negatives for old photographs. He had found them while taking down a fish house or flake. Dad added these to his growing collection of old photographs that were so well-loved. I know that Mrs. Bidgood of Bidgoods had a very large collection and hung many in her store. Jack Martin, who worked with Ben Hansen at the university in photographic services would develop the negatives for Dad in sepia tones.

4. How many years altogether was your dad in Newfoundland and did he ever come back to visit?

He lived here for twenty-two years, coming back to visit in 1995 for the last time. He was planning on moving back here a couple of years ago, but he had a terrible fall and broke his neck. It was too difficult for him to make such a big move after that. He really loved Newfoundland. He would always say that it was God's Country, and that being here on a nice day was the best one could ask for. He found the people here kind and gentle. He loved berry picking and gardening. He loved taking carloads of kids from Mount Scio Road down to Flat Rock or Portugal Cove to fish for connors. He took us on many Sunday drives to places like the harbour to see the White Fleet, and brought us home lots of treats, such as kaleidoscopes, books, and yogourt, which could only be found at the old Tic Toc Deli in the Torbay Road Mall at the time. He would ask us to watch particular important movies and then want us to write essays on how they made us feel and what messages were hidden inside. I guess what I liked most about my father was that he was accepting of people. He treated everyone the same: rich, poor, young, old. He taught us the value of a handshake and the importance of a smile. He taught us not to judge people by their appearance. It would be a different world if everyone was like him.

Dear Lisa and family, may God's love comfort you during this time of loss. May God fulfill His promise of everlasting peace and rest. May his memory be everlasting. In time may your happy memories of him bring a warm and comforting smile to your lives. May God grant you many and healthy years to remember him and establish your own legacy.
With all my love and prayers,
Soula Pezoulas & family

Moya - I am so sorry to hear of your dad's passing. Beams to you and yours. Don't forget to take care of yourself. Be well!

Moya, I'm so sorry for your loss. I too have lost my father, and I feel deeply for you.

Dear Moya,

Thinking of you at this time of loss.



I was very sad to hear of your dad's passing away. There are no words to describe the loss of a warm and generous father. Daughters spend the rest of their lives looking for a reflection of their wonderful dads in every man they meet. Eventually, if we are lucky, we meet the right man who has just a sparkle of dad in him, just enough for him to be the right one. I hope you see a little of your dad every day of your life. Know that I am thinking of you during this sad time.

Your friend always,
Geri

Tenderly may time heal your sorrow. Gently may friends ease your pain. Softly may peace replace heartache.

With deepest sympathy for your loss.

So softly death succeeded life in him. He did but dream of heaven and he was there.

A sincere friend,
Jack Vincer
M. Francis Kelly Ltd.
St. John's, NL

Thinking of you and your family Moya. May your many happy memories of your Dad sustain you through this difficult time. It's hard to lose someone suddenly, without the time to adjust or say goodbye in all the ways you would wish to.

My deepest condolences to you, Lisa, and your family as you grieve the loss of your dear father and as you celebrate his beautiful life. I feel I am on sacred ground here where you linger and share your thoughts and feelings about a man who has left his deep marks within each one of you. His spirit lingers in every word you have written, in every thought and memory you have left. It's important to dwell here frequently together and to pour out your many feelings. You are part of the legacy he left behind - it's you who must pick up the thread and continue weaving your story.

May this always be the place where you find solace!

To The Mason family:

Wishing you comfort and solace in knowing love grows on.

We were extremely saddened to learn of your father's passing. He certainly was a very likeable and colourful man, and we can understand that he will be missed by his family and friends.

Our sincere condolences,
John and Kay Scott
St. John's, NL

Moya,

I am so sorry to hear of your father's passing. Your words about him below are wonderful. He sounds like a special person.

Dona

Dear Lisa,

We love you, miss you and our thoughts are with you. Ron will think of all you gave him. Our deepest thoughts.

Laurie and Maurice

To The Mason Family
I am saddened to hear the news of your father's passing. I remember the days at the gallery when Moya and I were "working". I think that we were more of a hinderance than a help. I also remember the great times I had at your house. Everytime I drive past and see the empty lot it breaks my heart. I really loved that house and the great times we had there.
I just want to let you know my heart goes out to each and every one of you.
Gloria Young
St. John's NL

I plan to write a lot about my father on this site. This is my first installment.

My father lived 27,921 days. That was his life. He was almost 35 when I was born. A few weeks ago when Johnny Carson died, I remember feeling sad and saying, "But he was 79. He had all those years." But it is so different when you realize how fast the years can go by; it is so different when it is someone as loved as your father and you know that his life wasn't near long enough.

Each year has only 365 days. How many days do we just try to get through? Waiting for summer, waiting for spring, waiting for something remarkable to happen to us?

Life is a very strange thing. It doesn't come with a handbook or instructions; most of us muddle through with no direction whatsoever, trying the best we can. I believe my father did the best he could with the tools he had. He was larger than life to me. He was thankfully eccentric. He bought me a long green coat at Ayre's and didn't laugh at me for being a hippie and wearing a poncho. He loved my long red hair. He thought I was brilliant. He was the only one who ever asked about my work. No one loved me better than him and no one ever will. He was everything to me. He is so very missed. It is true that I often sided with my father when things came up, but that was only because I understood him so very well. Face it, in life, so few people ever really "get you" and can relate to who you really are inside. I got my father and accepted him. It wasn't that difficult because he was so charming, charismatic, and interesting. He did a lot with his life. I know he touched so many people because he wasn't ordinary. He was complex. He was memorable. We had a long history together. He understood me. Didn't judge me. He got me. He was my biggest fan.

A few months before he died, I bought him a fountain because he loved colour and the sound of running water. I thought it would make him feel better. He could look at it and imagine he was in a different place. Some place he would rather be. Maybe at home with all of us kids when we were young. When life was easier and less mixed up. I thought he might hear the cascading water running over the rocks and think of the ocean off Newfoundland. He loved Newfoundland. He called it God's country. But by my calculations, he only spent about 23 years here. That scares me so much when I think of it. How could it be that when I think of my father I think of him here in St. John's, when statistically, he spent much of his life elsewhere?

I talked to Dad almost every night for so many years, years that went by so fast, too fast. We loved to talk about the old days and I helped him to remember things that had happened in the past. Things he might not have thought about in a very long time. I hope that it made a difference. I'm not sure why but I remember a lot when it comes to my father. I spent a lot of time with him at the gallery watching him interact with people. It was an interesting exercise in humanity. I learned how to talk to people by listening to my father. He was not deterred by anything. He refused to be limited by what he'd been in the past. He believed you could continually remake yourself and that it is never too late to be what you might have been. That was my father.

I didn't expect him to die. It would never cross my mind. Never. I can't accept it, not yet. If I were to tell the truth and say what was in my heart and soul, I would scream that I never will accept that he is gone. He was fundamentally unique. He didn't believe in using roads much traveled. He built his own because he was fearless.

Come wander with me, she said,
Into regions yet untrod;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God.
- Longfellow

The soul is dyed the color of its thoughts. Think only on those things that are in line with your principles and can bear the light of day. The content of your character is your choice. Day by day, what you do is who you become. Your integrity is your destiny - it is the light that guides your way.
- Heraclitus

Ron worked with us from 1989 to 1999 and developed a huge following of customers who would call to see if he was in before doing their shopping. He was ever willing to share his plant knowledge, his grasp of world affairs, art, sense of humour, and common sense. Possessed of abundant energy and stamina, he provided a role model of a strong work ethic to all our young employees. His ability to relate to people from all walks of life and background with warmth and patience made him much in demand around here. He put a smile on everyone's face. He saw the bigger picture. He has been much missed since he left.

Toronto, Ontario

To Moya, Louis, Daniel and family.

Your father is the paternal link in a chain which stretches back through time immemorial, he is the lens through which your family's place in history comes into focus. You too are his lens, his means of shining his light into the future. He is also your anchor, where you moor yourself to ride out the storms of life. Even though he is gone, his memory will still keep you on a true course. It is our nature that time withers even the strongest chains and anchors, and it is important that we stop to acknowledge the loss of one, but it is more important to celebrate the light which was shone our way. May he indeed find peace.

St. John's, NL

Hello Moya,

I remember Ron fondly. He was always there to assist us at Sheridan. Helped us to pick out our family Christmas tree, gave recommendations about the garden, and came to see the exact spot to plant a specific variety of plant. He was always jovial and pleasant and always had a smile. My condolences from our family to yours.

Toronto, Ontario

It has been over a week now since my father passed away and as I sit here in Ottawa and close my eyes the memories of my father go through my mind. He was a work horse of a man and never gave up, not even as he was fighting for his life at the end. He never tired and never gave up, we are very much alike my father and I.

He is gone now and I have just made a realization. My sister Moya and her husband Louis developed this online memorial. I thought it was a little odd in the beginning because I could not see what they did. How important it is for people to have a place to express their loss and sadness. A place to share memories and stories, a place to connect with the people who shared this man's life and our own. This web site, more than anything else has made me see how many lives my father touched and how people will miss him.

I miss him. I have had a hard time articulating to my friends how his loss has made me feel. I know in time I will feel better. But I will never feel the same because he is gone and he will never come back. I will just have to trust in my faith that we will meet again. I have periods of extreme sadness and then every now and again I will smile when I think of something funny he once said. I am starting to think that at these times he is watching over me and helping me with my grief.

Many thanks to my sister Moya and Louis for this outlet. Many thanks for all the people who have left messages and prayers for our family. And God Bless my father, he knew he was loved by his children and I am sure he will watch over us.

Wherever a beautiful soul has been, there is a trail of beautiful memories. May you find peace and comfort in warm memories of your loved one.

I just wanted you all to know that you and your dad are in my thoughts.

Love Shannon
London, Ontario

With Sympathy

Mary and family,

No one can fully understand how you are feeling but may the pain of your loss be softened with the knowledge that there are many who care about you. They will be there for you in the days ahead. With caring sympathy. Our thoughts and prayers are with you.

Frances and Yvon
Ottawa, Ontario

The news of your father's death is the saddest I have received in many years, and my thoughts go out to all of you. I haven't seen Ron for a great many years, but he is not a person one forgets. He is the sort of person around whom novels are written. He had a broad, capacious battery of virtues rarely found in one individual. In the years we worked together I never once experienced anger in him (and I'm not an easy person to work with!). He was no angel, but he would probably put most of them to shame. Undoubtedly his contribution to the art gallery made its remarkable progress possible. Though our interests and skills were different, with little money plus a tolerant secretary, Ron and I worked much as a team.

The gallery was under construction when I met Ron at Expo 67 in Montreal, and I was on the look-out for an assistant to take charge of the workroom. Ron, according to his work-sheet , was a carpenter at the Canadian Pavilion Art Gallery, where I was doing a three-week stint as 'visiting curator' there, and I took an interest in him. I had no means of determining his skill as a carpenter, his job-description as a 'carpenter' was enough for me. In fact, as I learned all too late (thank heaven!), he was not a carpenter at all, and was probably little more than a handy-man. Even I was a better joiner than he was! But he had more attributes. Indeed! At Expo a covert operation functioned to make the most popular and significant pavilions available to VIPs. The Czech Pavilion, for example, could not otherwise have been visited by important people whose visit was short on account of the extensive line-up of people waiting to get in. And it was very important that important people should see the best of Expo. A handful of otherwise employed staff, exploited the situation to let wealthy people in through the back door. And Ron was one of them. And, at that time of course, there were many senators, judges and other VIPs, who, but for Ron, would never have seen Expo at its best. It was an eminently intelligent service, though quite unofficial, for which those involved presumably were well rewarded. But, during my few weeks there, it got out of hand and the authorities clamped down, stopping it overnight.

This was an embarrassment for Ron who was expecting an old judge and his wife to arrive. I happened to be in the office when these two actually arrived and called in to find Ron. Ron appeared and, hiding myself behind a large account book which by chance happened to be there, I listened to what transpired. Ron, with his proverbial presence of mind, said (as I remember it) "I've been looking through our correspondence, and it occurred to me that, with all your experience, you would not want to see what everyone else has seen, that you'd rather see the pavilions less well visited, which few people think to see. . . . " So Ron took then around Africa and the much ignored pavilions of small countries. I was in the office again a few days later when the judge and his wife were leaving and came to say good-bye to Ron. They were very happy, and very grateful to him for organising their tour. Ron came in and they shook hands most affectionately. They thanked Ron profusely (and certainly profitably!). A more grateful couple I never saw!

Ron, as he later proved in Newfoundland, was a skilled, but sincere, diplomat. And 'on Rock' he showed compassion and generosity to everyone. Newfoundland was certainly the better for his presence. I don't think he would ever forgive himself if he felt he had 'cheated' or hurt anyone. I think I am a better person for having known him; and though I haven't seen him for years, I will miss him just not being here. To all of you, his children, grand-children, daughters and sons-in-law, I send love and sympathy in your considerable loss.

Peter Bell. Kyle of Lochalsh, Scotland.