Hi Moya,
I hope you and your family are doing well. It's only been a few months since you lost your dad and I remember the feeling so well. Sometimes it seems like only yesterday and yet other times it seems so very long since you've seen him. It's never easy but I hope you are all coping. I'm sure your dad knew how lucky he was when he looked at his children and grandchildren. I am sure he was proud of everything he accomplished which was so much. Keep thinking of all the beautiful memories of your dad and that, along with family and friends will keep you going. Thinking of you all and keeping you in my thoughts and prayers. Take care.

Love,
Adriana

Thanks, Steve:

Yes, and I remember all those dinner parties we had with you in attendence at the house in the early 1990s, just before Dad left and moved to Toronto permanently. I got divorced shortly after. You were just back from Afghanistan, I think.

A lot has happened since those days.

I miss Dad a lot. I know it's crazy but sometimes I try to will him to appear in the middle of the night in the dark. I wouldn?t be afraid. I have so many questions to ask him.

Overall, my grief has been too much for me; I felt as though it would consume me. Then one day a few weeks ago, Louis told me that I would grieve for my father the rest of my life and that it might be better for me and my health if I tried to spread it out a little. For some reason, I felt a small change take place inside of me almost as soon as I heard those words. Now I am not suffering so much. I am thankful for that because I know that Dad wouldn't want me to. Now I just have to find new goals and a new mentor. A lot of my personal educational and professional success can be directly related to me trying to make my father proud. He always loved to hear that I had a new job or a big project with the government. Now I have to find other reasons. That might be difficult.

In the last few years, one of things my father liked to talk about a lot was making sure that I would be okay after he was gone. He even requested and then tried to pressure me into taking out a life insurance policy on his life. I could never oblige him. I didn't want to suddenly become rich with him dead, especially since he always dreamed of winning the lottery. It just didn?t seem right to me. He wanted to be generous, even in death.

One of themes I have noticed in reading the posts here and through my telephone conservations with Dad?s friends is his overwhelming generosity. He really was a very giving person. I can remember popping down to the gallery on my way to visit a friend in hospital or enroute to a birthday party and Dad would say that I should pick something out to take with me or that he had the perfect thing in back for me to take as a gift. The next thing I knew, he was wrapping it up in brown paper. There were so many of those times and I am still surprised when people tell me about what they have hanging on their walls, given to them by my father. They really cherish those pictures. They remember all the details, long since forgotten by me. Another thread of Dad's legacy.

I remember when Dad came home to Waterford Bridge Road for the last time. My mother had already relocated to Ontario and Dad was feeling down in the dumps, partially because he missed everyone being home for Christmas and because our dog Indigo had just died. He was also having trouble with his eyes and had come home just in time for a cornea transplant. I remember calling home to check on him one day. I was working at NRS Select Realty at the time and my boss was John Lawlor, really one of the best brokers in St. John's. He's with ReMax now. I told Dad that John's mom had died unexpectedly and how sad it was, John being so broke up and his father not knowing what to do. By the time I had come home later that day, Dad had dragged himself out of his blues and baked dozens of different types of cookies, a batch of bread, and had a massive turkey with the fixings on the cook for John and his family. He was such an amazing giving person. I only hope I can be as generous as he was.

I miss and love you, Dad!

Hi Moya:

I wasn't able to reply to you sooner because I was wandering around Asia --- mostly India --- for almost four months and Internet connections were irregular, slow and prone to frequent interruptions ---to say nothing of the difficulty of concentrating in the bedlam of an India cybersite. Now I'm back in NY briefly to get ready for a summer in St. John's and have my own computer and hookup. I hope this isn't too late.

To write about Ron, that's tough --- He was bigger than life, always enthusiastic about everything. How do you describe a whirlwind? A benign whirlwind, that is. I met him shortly after my (then) wife Martha and I arrived in St. John's in September 1969. So many years ago. Trying to brighten up the horrible apartment we had found and needing some framing advice I was directed to the Art Gallery and I met your Dad, a fellow expat, far from home who shared so many of my views --- the state of the world, the Vietnam War, the nature of social and economic relationships. We became friends immediately. During that first year Martha and I visited often at your Mt. Scio house. So far from friends and relatives we both felt we had become members of another family, yours. And you were all so welcoming. His own generosity of spirit and patience seemed shared by the entire family and made our own entry to, yes, an alien culture so much easier. And a good thing too; we may have been in shock at what St. John's life was like in those days.

At the and of that year Martha and I split up and I went back to India for three or four years. On my return I found Ron much the same, although now in the art gallery business. My impression was that it suited him: he worked harder than at the Arts and Culture, but he was free of all the University and Governmental politics that he'd found so oppressive and he could shoot the breeze with an odd assortment of visitors, me among them. Lots of long talks about the world, the US, everything. He loved all kinds of people and was at home with everyone --- and made them feel at home with him as well.

Most times I would just drop in. I lived downtown by now and there was no formality required, although sometimes he would phone first or I would. I can hear the unusual timbre of his voice when I'd pick up the phone --- there was no doubt who was calling; he didn't have to say his name and he was always breathless about some new find he wanted to let me in on or some fresh outrage by the authorities close and far away. Sometimes that would be it for a while, other times I would drop down to see him for a more thorough exposure to his latest enthusiasm. It was great.

And then for most of the mid- to late 1980s I was away somewhere or other in the third world. When I returned again someone told me he had gone to Labrador and I lost touch until about ten years ago when you wrote to me overseas asking me for some information and sharing some news of him in Ontario. Then there was another long gap again until I got your most recent message. I was traveling in a remote part of India. It made me sad for a little while to think I won't hear that voice or see that grin again in this life, but then I thought I know that somewhere up there Ron is having a good laugh at some kind of human folly he can look down on --- and soon enough he'll share that laugh with me.

Ron was a good friend, always reliable, always fun to be with and always interesting. Thanks for asking me to contribute this. It's the least I can do.

REGARDS

Hello Moya, I know how you and your loved ones are feeling, I was on that path when my brother's passed away on Easter morning 2004 and never thought how I am going to go through it but I prayed to god for his help and to be strong through this, and I know he's going to help you too. So please keep on praying and god is going to see you and your loved ones through this. I love every thing you and your relatives and friends have wrote, all the pictures. I am honest and do love all of it. god bless.

Guyana

It's an odd day today, I am hard at work and a funny saying came into my head. "A Butcher, A Baker, A Candlestick Maker."

I am not sure why this particular child's verse came to me, but as I sit here and ponder it, I thought immediately of my father. He was a true "Jack of All Trades." When he set his mind to something, there was honestly no stopping him. No one could tell him it couldn't be done, he would find a way to make it happen.

I remember in Junior High School we had a science project to do. I told my father I had to design a bird house and then make it. Not truly a hard project but my father was not an ordinary man, nor was my birdhouse an ordinary bird house.

If the Comfort Inn is considered equal to a normal one hole bird house, then my bird house woud be the Club Med of bird houses. This was literally a bird resort. Sixteen Suites all with their own balconies and room service. He worked very hard with me on the design and function, all levels had a removable tray so the droppings didn't mess up the suites.

I felt so proud the day I brought my bird house to school, some of the kids made fun of me. This was a very large and heavy piece of construction that I had to carry, but my father helped me bring it to school and into the class.

It didn't bother me that the kids made fun, I was very happy with this project, because it was time I got to spend on my own with my father. He had never made a design in his life. He had never made a bird house or drilled holes for one before. But he did it.

Hence, "A Butcher, A Baker, A Candlestick Maker." Whatever he set his mind on, he accomplished. If he told me he was going to do something, I believed him. I think this is why that saying came to my head. Maybe it was my father's way of telling me he was thinking of me too. He would be sad to know the Pope had died, but I am happy to know he is definitely in good company.

Yes, I miss my father very much. He was unique and fundamentally different from anyone else I've ever come across in my life. I learned a lot from him. He was a singularly significant person in my life for so many reasons.

The only thing that I regret is not living in the same city as my father for so long. I can't tell you how much this has cost me. I know I have to accept that people move away to work and make a life and the whole array of other reasons why families get splintered, but I do envy my siblings who had him within a few minutes or a few miles of them for so many years. I hate that I didn't. It is such a complicated thing.

I tried to take the words I spoke to my father every night across the miles and infuse them with all the love I felt for him. I tried to tell him how much I loved him and how much I respected him. I tried to make him laugh and feel good every time I talked to him. He often told me that I had kept him alive for years with my phone calls. I just hope I did make a real difference. I tried to. I wish I had done more. I wish I had couriered him a few gallons of freshly-picked blueberries last fall or wrote him a postcard every day. But I didn't. There's so much I can't talk about now, maybe I never will be able to. I just don't know.

He and my Mom had four kids. He didn't have any big time education, but he supported us all and tried to give us the world. I honestly and totally believe that he tried his very best. He was very accepting of how we decided to live our lives and the work we chose to do. He was so proud of us all. It didn't matter to him how any of us made a living. But then again, my father treated the man who washed his gallery windows just the same as he treated the premier of the province. My father wasn't at all impressed by money or fame. He treated everyone the same. I loved that about him.

On a good day, my father could change the world with his smile. You just can?t say that about everyone.

A picture of my brother Robert and my father?s good friend Amin on the day my father's ashes were interred. Amin was also very very good to my father. He watched over him for many years. We do thank him for that and so much more.

Hi Moya--Thanks for the reply. In reviewing the website, it is clear you are missing him big time. Ron would be proud of me as I now own my own business and I am the father of 3 children--6, 8, and 11 -so don't feel too bad about been born when he was 35. I hope you will look me up if you find yourself in Sin John's and in the mean time we all cherish your Dad's unique energy and perspective. Contact me at any time mobil--709-685-6774. Regards Adrian Coady

The Mason Family

I was not aware of Ron's death until I read the Lives Lived in the Globe. Ron was extremely generous to me as he was to everyone. He gave me a pre great fire photo of St. John's which I still proudly hang in my office. He gave me a number of Ghanian carvings which he lugged back in his duffel bag. I still think of you all when I drive by your gate on Waterford Bridge Road. I have passed along the Globe article to Lida Bell. I know Ron loved life to the fullest and I know you must miss him. Regards, Adrian

Hi, Bob:

I want to thank you for taking the time to write a memorial message for my father. I haven't seen you in a long time but since I chose you to be my son's godfather, I think you realize how I feel about you, no matter how long it's been.

Thanks again,

Moya

Hi, Adrian:

Believe it or not, I had already tracked down your phone number and was going to call you about Dad. He was always grateful to you for everything that you did for him and liked you a great deal.

I would like to thank you for all the kindnesses you showed to my father over the years because it made a big difference in his life.

I am also looking at one of the Ghanian masks that Dad brought back for me as I write this message. Dad always brought us home the best gifts.

Moya

Our father left us eight weeks ago this weekend. If you have been a regular visitor to this website, you will know that his sudden death has not been easy on me or my siblings. On Easter Saturday, my mother Mary and my sister Lisa (and her children, Chantal and Jacob) joined me and my wife and young son at Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Toronto where we presided over the internment of my father's ashes. He now rests peacefully in the cemetery's Garden of Remembrance in a beautiful, green-filled, glass-roofed conservatory. I like to think that our father would have been very happy with his final home.

Prior to arriving at the cemetery we gave my father one last tour of Toronto, stopping at a couple of his old apartments as well as at Sheriden Nurseries (where he worked for about 10 years). The internment service was short and private - like my father had always wanted. We read a number of poems and placed a few special tokens of our love beside his urn. We took many photos as well as video footage during the service, some of which I'm sure will be posted on this website in the days or weeks ahead. The following is an excerpt from one of the poems that was read in honour of my father at the internment:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die."

Also this weekend, Louis and my sister Moya completed and posted on this site a slideshow in tribute to our father which contains 73 pictures of, or by, or relating to our father, set to a song entitled "Sand and Water". It is a special tribute to our father, one that was put together masterfully by Louis and Moya. We all thank them very sincerely for their efforts on this. And we cherish the pictures and music that celebrate our father's life and family at this continuing difficult time. Many of you are also probably aware that we were fortunate to have an article about my father published in the Globe & Mail on Friday (March 25) in the paper's famous Lives Lived section.

So, with the completion of the internment and the video and the publication of the newspaper article, this weekend in some ways marked the climax of a two-month mourning period for our father that began on January 28 when he left us so suddenly in the heart of a very long winter. This weekend I assumed I would find some closure to my father's sudden death. Instead, I realize that my family and I are still struggling to accept his absence and likely miss him more than ever.

It's easier to conceal or control our grief when we are busy making plans for burying or remembering the dead. Now that many of these tasks are completed, we have more time again to dwell on our father's sudden death and to feel saddened or depressed by his absence.

As the youngest child (by many years) of Ron and Mary - the so-called "accidental son" - I did not know my father when he was young and healthy. Unfortunately, most of my immediate memories of my father are from the last few years after he had suffered a broken neck in an accidental fall. He was never the same after that and began a slow and steady decline.

So I find it fascinating to read so much about my father's earlier, healthier and more enriching years. I'm surprised to see so many old photos of my father and the rest of my family, for the very first time. But as I learn more about who my Dad was, I realize I miss him more as a result. I now know that I'll never meet the young Ron Mason who was famous for his relentless energy and unrivalled skill on the dance floor. I know I'll never meet the art gallery owner who charmed artists and premiers alike in the 1970s. I know I'll never meet the determined father who brought his wife and kids on a magical driving tour of the United States in the summer of 1971 - a trip that will be cherished forever by my brother and sisters for its museum visits and roadside coleman stove meals. Fortunately, however, I did meet and remember the middle-aged father who took the time to teach his youngest son how to play a solid game of chess. I also remember the aging man who, despite a number of eye operations, could still teach his son a thing or two about playing snooker.

And seeing so many pictures of my family from so many years ago makes me realize that I'll never know or remember my mother as a beautiful young woman with flaming red hair and funky green glasses and a mischievious smile. Neither will I ever know my brother and sisters when they were so young and care-free as they appear in the family photos of thirty years ago.

So in saying goodbye to my Dad and, in the process, learning so much more about him, I am left with regret for having never known his younger, kinder, happier, healthier self. And in a way, I guess I'm now mourning for my whole family, for my father, for my mother, for my aging siblings, for my own spent youth and for perhaps an earlier simpler life that, in the end, is maybe more of an ideal than a memory.

I only recently heard from Robbie Burt that your father had died. I was away for so many years off and on that it was difficult for me to find out everything I needed to know as it happened. I am so sorry for you and the family. Your parents were so close that it must be hard for your mother to fill such a big void left with his passing.

The one thing I do know is that I have spoken of your family to most every one who ever really mattered to me at all over the years. Knowing you and the rest of the Hanlons made a big difference in my life. I know you understand. I've told Lou all about our "swamp" coats, the orange tent days and nights, Bart Connors singing us Hot Rod Lincoln until he was hoarse, Duchess, sun rises, Left Pond, lunches, skating at the Stadium and on Carter's Pond until all hours, walking the trails, smoking cigarettes, the hanging tree, when I drove the mini bike into your mother's flower garden, and how your father loved to listen to Charlie Pride. How your mother would bring home all those wonderful children from the Exxon House so that they could taste family life for a weekend here and there. Going to the Regatta with you and Betty. Betty's beautiful poetry. And so much more. Your parents were always so kind. The kindest people I ever met. They were also godparents to my brother Robert by proxy.

I have often told Lou that your father stands out as a pivotal person in my life. I'm not so sure why. There was so much love in your house, with bunches more to give to all who happened by. That's what I remember the most. Church on Sundays and toast with Cheez Whiz. And that big old stove in the kitchen that could warm you through to your soul. I remember almost everything; all of it is etched on my memory.

Levon was my brother's best friend. Danny was there when he died. They fished together. I think a part of my brother died with him. They had such a history.

I hung out with Levon for years and loved him, too. Everyone did. You couldn't help it. Hanging out at his house was one of the best parts of my life. Levon was funny. He was sweet. Mary must miss him constantly. I remember your Chris and I am glad to know that he is friends with John. John, Mary, and Levon lived with Dan and his family when they first moved west.

We are very glad you liked the slideshow. It was a lot of work putting it together but somehow I believe Dad knows it was a gift to him. A celebration of his great and eventful life.

I do remember when we almost went over the embankment and into the creek. Years later I remember meeting whoever it was that jumped into that car and saved us. Now I have forgotten him. Sometimes I forget that dad is dead, like this morning when I woke up realizing it was Easter Sunday and wondering who would call to say Happy Easter to me. I thought Dad might call until I remembered he won't be phoning me ever again.

To view a slideshow created to honor the memory of Mr. Mason, Please visit the Memorial Slideshow page.

Just a note on the slideshow (see below).

Louis and I used every picture of Dad that we had access to. His sister Kim is sending me every picture she has of Dad in her collection in a few weeks to digitize for the family. I am very grateful to her and excited at the prospect of seeing them. At that time, we will put together another slideshow.

The interesting thing about this slideshow is that besides the photographs of Dad, I tried to use only pictures that Dad actually took himself. When you see the swans on the Avon River, the Beacon Herald in Stratford, houses, museum shots of artwork, sculpture, armour, horses, Expo, us, know that my father was the person who took those pictures. The world through my father's eyes. A story from his point of view. His life in pictures. His favourite things.

Every smile on our little faces is a reflection of the love we were feeling for him when those photographs were taken. It was Dad we were looking at when we smirked, gazed, posed, laughed, were goofy, serious. He loved us and loved to take pictures of us.

I included one of my sister Lisa, brother Danny, and myself with some of the Mount Scio Road hill kids; Oozie Webber is sitting cross-legged in front. Dad would often take a bunch of us down to the waterfront to see the boats or to fish for Connor fish down in Portugal Cove or Flat Rock. My father was crushed when Oozie drowned. It was one of the only times I ever saw him cry. He spoke of him often, all through the years and even very recently. Maybe they will meet again.

I miss you, Dad. Very very very very very very very very much.

Dear Mason Family,

I would like to offer my condolences to the family and tell you that I greatly loved watching the slideshow.

Thank you

Hi Moya,
I know Easter celebrations are very difficult for your family this year. It's been 4 years now without Dad and it's still very hard but believe me, family, friends and precious memories will help you through. I love the slide show yourself and Louis put on the site. What a special way to remember your dad. Today I happened to think about the first time I saw him. He ran into Halliday's store for a second and he forgot to put the car in park. All Betty and I saw was the car rolling back with you children in it! I am sure you remember that! It's so strange how we think of Oozie Webber when we think of Mt. Scio Rd. I noticed while reading a previous message that you spoke of Levon Moore. Levon's step-son John Baker and Chris (my oldest son) have been best friends since kindergarten. John told Chris that Levon and your brother Danny were very good friends. He was such a good person. Mary and I used to be neighbours. What a small world hey? Well, you take very good care and try to keep thinking of all the cherished memories of your dad.

Love,
Adriana

Hi Moya,

I have just read Rob's excellent "LIVES LIVED", article in the Globe and Mail. Please accept my sincere condolences to you and the rest of the extended Mason Family.

Cheers to Ron.

Bob

As tommorrow brings us closer to Easter Celebrations, it also brings forth our father's interrment at Mount Pleasant Cemetary. It seems fitting that we celebrate the memories of our father on such a memorable week end.

I include a poem I came across, it is not mine but someone else's writing who must know how we feel this day and the day our father passed away. I think of my father often these days and regret lost opportunities to have spent time with him. We all live in such a rushed world that sometimes we forget the most important things - Family & Friends. Make time for them, for as life has showed us many and time again, you may not get a second chance.


Family Chain

We little knew that morning,
God was going to call your name,
In life we loved you dearly,
In death we do the same.

It broke our hearts to lose you,
You did not go alone.
For part of us went with you
The day God called you home.
You left us beautiful memories,
Your love is still our guide,
And though we cannot see you,
You are always at our side.

Our family chain is broken,
and nothing seems the same,
But as God calls us one by one,
The chain will link again.

Happy Easter to everyone and God Bless!

Thank you very much, Rosemary. It is so great to hear from you. Yes indeed, those were magical days. I don't think either of us is romanticizing at all. We had so many close good friends and excellent stomping grounds.

Lots of our friends came to the house but not many of them stayed to dinner. I suppose most of them lived close by and went on home. You were the exception, living all the way out on the Kenmount Road. Dad liked when you ate with us. He liked talking to you. I remember that clearly. Do you remember the time you cooked spaghetti for the family? My father wasn't raised eating pasta and I remember telling you that we didn't really ever get a chance to eat it. You said that nobody had eaten spaghetti until they ate yours. You decided to cook! And cook you did. We all loved it, including Dad! From then on, we were allowed to have it from time to time.

You are right. The house was great and fostered lots of imagination and mystery. Anything was possible back in those days. My brother Dan had that large octagon fish tank and Levon would come up to get advice about oscar fish. He had a huge one of his own. I wish I could remember its name. Life hadn't started to batter us down yet and we still had everyone living. Steve O'Keefe had that most handsome smile and Levon his devilish grin. I never really got over seeing Steve in that casket. I remember Sharon and I went to Caul's together for the wake. And Levon. You know better than most how the world cried the day he died.

I knew even then while so young that I was blessed to hang around with those guys and the rest of you. We really were like one big family. I've had a lot of hard times since those days. Divorce, single parenthood, other problems weighed heavily on me but thinking of those days helped me through some of the toughest times. I knew and still know that there are people out there who I grew up with that would cross the tundra for me, if need be. If I asked. I know that you are one of them, Rosemary.

I saw Chris and Linda Fisher a short time after Dad died and I had a meltdown right in the middle of Canadian Tire. I couldn't stop crying and hanging on to Chris. As soon as I saw him I remembered all the work he did with my father, carting wheel barrels of soil around the garden and digging holes in the various garden beds. At the time, Chris was using the garage to fix his car and in exchange, helped Dad from time to time.

Before moving there, we lived on Mount Scio Road on a six acre piece of land, with most of it forest. I would love to have a picture of that house. It later burned down. Maybe someone out there has one to send me. I often think of that house, too. We are going to go into those woods come the spring and put together a small shrine for my father with some memory pieces. A place to visit while we are hiking up on the trails, which we love to do. I am thinking of creating a collage of all the photos I can find of my father and putting them under plexiglass to keep them safe from the elements. I'll hang it on a tree somewhere back of where Dad's greenhouse once stood, near his blackberry and raspberry canes. Perhaps I will find some peace of mind there. Perhaps I will begin to understand why everything happened just the way it did and accept what is now.

Thanks so much, Rosemary, for helping me to remember.

Dearest Moya:

I recently found out about your marvellous tribute website from Danny, and thought I would write to offer my condolences to yourself as well as all of your family on the passing of your wonderful father. Also, I thought I'd take a few moments to share some fond memories. In my heart your dad will always be "Mr. Mason". That is because he commanded such a great deal of respect from not only myself, but many others who passed through the various doors of your magnificent house on Waterford Bridge Road back in the mid 70's to early 80's. I guess I first visited there (meeting you in the process) in 1976. I seem to remember you wrote a poem in a book and gave it to me. I will always remember the magical aura of that house, especially your room with those big doors/windows opening onto those gardens -- I thought them spectacular -- alive with enough greenery to make a fairy glade blush! Perhaps I'm only romanticizing my youth, but I don't think so! I would have been accompanied by Levon (with Danny of course) and various other teenage vagabonds (none of whom lived as far away as I did it seemed). A crowd of us teens always hung at Levon's house (his parents were away a lot!) but there was one other house in the area where teens also congregated quite a bit and were welcomed even though the parents WERE home. That was the Mason house! How that house fascinated me -- it was so big with so many rooms, windows, doors, staircases it seemed, leading to many places! Walls covered in art, fish tanks in various corners bubbling peacefully, closets and cupboards and nooks and crannys everywhere!

But just as fascinating as the house were the "parents" who ran the household, your beautiful Mom with her long, flowing red hair and of course, your fascinating Dad - Mr. Mason! How we hung on his every word, should we be lucky enough that he speak with us! He knew about art, and history, and (tropical) fish, and travel and so many other subjects we knew NOTHING about. And boy, could he cook! I remember how we all thought he was so cool (our word for sophisticated?). I believe he was still at the Arts & Culture Centre at the time, and shortly thereafter opened Gallery Mason. He knew so many educated and important people -- we were convinced he had connections! I remember him having a deep impact on Levon, who would, were he still here, also mourn his passing deeply. I cannot remember there ever being a raised eyebrow or patronizing manner directed toward those of us who could be found wandering through his house at various times. We were always made to feel welcome. Time was taken to discern any interests that one or more might have, and then more time was taken to perhaps help foster those interests in some small way. Ideas were generated and horizons expanded. And baking was consumed!

At seventeen I was just spreading my wings having never been allowed to leave my neighborhood before that year; and when I think of the many doorsteps I might have tread upon in those days, I often think of yours -- which was more of a threshhold through to many other worlds in ways that I can probably never truly express -- largely due to your interesting, intelligent, understanding Dad! Therefore, I share in my small way your sorrow at his passing. Moya, I read your words about how you never received that hug (at age 12 I believe) you waited until many years later. I too came from a family where there was much love, laughter and togetherness, without a great deal of physical or verbal expression. However, throughout the years I have come to understand that an outsider looking in can oftentimes see subtle gestures, glances, half smiles or gleams in the eye that are missed by the ones searching for them most! As a parent you know that the love one has for one's children is so deep as to be unfathomable. Though expressed in many ways, it is a constant -- unshakable! Always remember and treasure the time and effort your Dad put into making sure you spent time together as a family -- because those family memories are sure to be the glue that holds your heart together through many trying times. The memories of a life shared together are the very substance of the cake, whereas sweet words and gestures, though beautiful, are still only the frosting! (Perhaps your Dad would have appreciated the baking analogy!)

Take very good care Moya, and God bless all of you and yours.

Your friend always,

Rosemary Nelson

Our father's ashes will be interred at Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Toronto at 11am on Saturday, March 26 in the beautiful conservatory in the cemetery's Garden of Remembrance. The service will be for family only. Flowers in honour of our father may be sent directly to Mount Pleasant for Saturday morning. In addition, contributions in memory of our father may be made to the Toronto Trees and Parks Foundation (www.torontoparksandtrees.org). As he was a gifted gardener and landscaper, we could think of no better way of honouring our father than by having his friends and family invest in the parks and other public green spaces of the city that he called home for over 15 years.

Late last night the phone rang. I just knew it wasn't going to be good news. My very good friends Pam and Steve Coulstring called. We went to grad school together in London at the University of Western Ontario.

They asked how I was doing and then told me that Steve's Mom was found dead in her home. She was found in the bathroom, her bed turned down waiting for her to rest for the night. She lived alone and had a great garden. Betty was a very kind person. She was a savvy business woman and could see clear through a foggy day. I liked her a lot. I had visited her in Woodstock and she was at all the many parties I attended during my years in London. Betty Coulstring had a calmness that was enviable and a quietness that was sacred.

She was cremated just like Dad and will be interred the very same day: March 26 and just a few hours away. Strange.

I know she will be incredibly missed by all who knew her.

Pam and Steve and I recently lost one of our school chums, Ken Wilmott. He was a reference librarian at the University of Windsor Law Library and died suddenly when a drunk driver hit him on January 2, 2005. Ken was brilliant, had four kids, and was a very good friend of ours. It was such a shock. We didn't know that a few weeks later that I would lose Dad and now that Steve would lose his Mom. We will miss them all terribly.

45 Minutes on a Friday Morning

At dawn when the phone rings, too early for good news, I wake slowly, losing precious seconds not knowing this time would be different. I am the accidental son, who arrives too late for words or whys, who watches in silence in a curtained room, my father's witness, as strangers try to save him, me waiting for a sign that he'll be okay, watching the clock and him, growing older quickly a year for every second of his struggle and finally, too much time has passed, the hour is too late for second chances and somewhere a last breath is lost among the tangle of tubes, but no last words to mark the passing of this man,

just me, the accidental son a late arrival in his life and too late today, to witness any life, to record any sound, to feel any touch, now standing in the corner as machines are turned off as doctors scatter, as blood dries, as a realization dawns, I am a father but have not a father, and finally, an invitation to visit death and my father caught in its grasp, a few private seconds, and I shut his eyes and kiss his head and say goodbye knowing there will be more goodbyes but no more second chances. Robert F.K. Mason February 2005

It has been 7 weeks now since my father has passed away. Recently I began pouring over photo albums ? reliving memories from our past. I realized my father was something of a historian. He loved history and enjoyed visiting places that had its place in history. When we went on vacations we did the typical tourist attractions but my father believed every vacation should include a little bit of study. He wanted us to be aware of events and the people that caused them; he wanted us to understand that the world was a very large and complicated place. Many of our vacations included visits to massive cemeteries where thousands of headstones told of very young service men and women who had died for their country and indeed for the survival of the world. We visited many art galleries and museums whose exhibits gave us a snap shot into the past and we learned young that ?monsters did live in our world? and they had names like Napoleon and Hitler.

I remember one vacation in particular where we visited this huge shipyard where many military ships were docked. The last thing my mom told us was to make sure we had everything we needed because the parking lot was very big and it was a long walk to where we were going. There were many military personnel and they probably thought it was unusual that two parents would cart their four kids around to a shipyard but my parents didn?t think it was strange they were just interested in the history and adventures of the floating cities. Somehow my parents arranged for a tour of one of these ships, I am not sure if it was my father?s great salesmanship or my mother?s beautiful smile and long legs but we got to go on board. It was summer and the ships floors were made of metal and I realized in about 5 seconds that I had forgotten my shoes.



I couldn?t go on the ship and see the planes or helicopters and I was upset. (As upset that a 5 year old gets). My parents were angry because they had warned us not to forget anything but I never wore shoes so I didn?t think I needed them. My dad, eyes blazing, ran all the way back to the van and all the way back to where we were waiting for him. God Bless them, they didn?t say a word. I will always remember that day because my mom had these huge green sunglasses on and she looked so beautiful and my father had the stamina to run a long way and together they procured a visit on one of the largest floating objects in the world.

We were very lucky as children growing up. Our parents took us everywhere. They never left us behind with babysitters. From this experience we also take our own children everywhere and expose them gently to the world we live in. Our parents taught us to meet obstacles head on, not to get discouraged when some one says no. We find another way because that is what my father always did. He found a way.

He loved St. Patrick?s Day; he loved a good mug of beer. And I know we all miss seeing him drink one.

Missing you still ? Your daughter ? Lisa (and yes I am still the shoeless wonder)

Dear Moya:

Sharing your sorrow and hoping it will comfort you to know that many hearts are reaching out to you and your family in sympathy and love.

Our deepest sympathies. We think of you often and miss you very much. We hope that you are well. There are never enough hours in a day. We will give you another call soon.

Love Pam, Stephen, Alex, and Bish
XOXOXOXO
London

My father loved St. Patrick's Day. When we were young, he often gave us chocolate mint patties to mark the day. We always had a big celebratory meal.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Dad, wherever you are.
Love you.

Dad also lived at 129 Ballantyne Avenue, Stratford. Here is a picture of the house. I added an arrow on the map below.

Thanks, Maggie. I did find what you said helpful and comforting. I'd love to hear more from you and others who visit here. Different perspectives help to bring understanding and acceptance.

I haven't been able to bring myself to look at the pictures of my father's urn. Louis is keeping them safe for me. Dad's memorial service is coming soon. I know he wanted to be cremated but I find this hard to take, very hard. I'm not exactly sure why.

While I was living in Louisiana, my father sent me a couple of snapshots. Included were a few he took when he visited Stratford, Ontario. He used to live in Stratford a long time ago. It was a place he loved, where he had been happy as a boy. He told me that he decided to go back and see what he could find of those days. Perhaps searching for himself, retracing his history on those tree-lined streets of Avon swans and theatre-goers. An imprint of his life captured there and kept safe in comfortable rooms, etched on wet pavement and in empty streets, and heard as quiet footsteps whispering in back alleys and along green banks of maple trees. A lifetime of good memories waiting for Dad to remember them, left hostage for years to time.



The date on the pictures reads 1993. I was surprised to learn his visit was so long ago. He told me that he knocked on the door of his boyhood home and asked if he could look around for old-time sake. He wanted to see his old bedroom, where he had plastered sports pennants and baseball cards on the walls. Dad ended up touring the house and remembering his parents. I believe he loved his mother and was afraid of his father, but I can't be sure. Dad was invited to stay the day and have supper with the family. He bought wine as his contribution, and I'm sure he toasted his younger self and drank to a hopeful future. He was happy to have the opportunity to go back in time, glad he had decided to make that trek. I'm glad he had the courage. Not everyone knows what it is to write a life. I think my father did his best to live a purposeful one. He snatched all the moments he could to learn to become himself. At the end, I think he was pretty proud of himself and his accomplishments. He had every reason to be. I told him that almost every day.

No map to help us find the tranquil flat lands, clearings calm, fields without mean fences. Rolling down the other side of life our compass is the sureness of ourselves. Time may make us rugged, ragged round the edges, but know and understand that love is still the safest place to land. -- Excerpt from Rod McKuen's A Safe Place to Land

Dad lived on the corner of William Street and Lakeside Drive.

Dear Moya,

While reading your latest thoughts concerning your father and the moments before his death, I remembered something I heard that may bring you some peace.

At a funeral service in Lake Arthur, a priest likened dying to someone going on a cruise.

Those of us who are still on this side are on the dock waving farewell and shouting Bon
Voyage as the ship sails away...

As the cruise ship arrives at the destination there is a crowd of people (those who have
gone before) waiting with open arms and shouts of joy.

I found this to be so comforting as I went through these last years with Michael, Mom, Dad, Aunt Dee, Nanan, Linda and then John.

May you find comfort in this thought.

My love to you and Louis.

Maggie