A Son of Scotland

Donald Denovan

December 4, 1931 - August 21, 2015

 

 

 

 

If ever there was a gentle soul who walked this earth, it was Don.  Never a harsh word, never a raised voice, never a complaint, always at the service of those around him. He renovated kitchens, painted fences, built bird houses, and planted beautiful gardens.  He made sure to plant  plenty of chives, because he knew we loved them. 

Don was a huge part of our lives for 38 years.  Although his relationship to the family was never formalized, he gently integrated into our little clan and became loving companion to Karl's Mom Ursula, and father and grand-father to all of us.  Even after he was confined to assisted living, he remained faithful to his 7:00 pm call to check on how everyone was doing, and to whisper "I love you".

 

He was born in Dundee, in bonnie Scotland, but made his home in Canada.  He was a carpenter by trade who took great pride in his work.  After a fall from a ladder that injured his ankle, he curbed his long working hours and worked as a school caretaker.  Don loved to golf.  He wore checkered socks and cap, headed to the course, and played a round with his mates.  Whenever we'd see a little twinkle in those bright blue eyes, we knew he was up to a wee bit of mischief.  He loved to comb his beautiful mane of pure white hair, wear his best vest and tie, splash on some cologne, and go dancing on a Saturday night.  He was a wonderful dancer.

He never forgot his ancestral roots.  He reminded us often that golf was a game invented in the Highlands of his home.  He would speak of haggis and kilts and bagpipes.  But he preferred a wee beer to a Scotch malt. His own circle of family and friends were scattered in Scotland, Boston, Toronto and Edmonton.  It warmed his heart to see his beloved sister and niece once again just a few short weeks ago.

He was at his most magnificent when he'd stand with his shoulders squared, thicken his Scottish brogue, and recite Robert Burns at length.  He could make us sigh or cry just by the lilt and cadence of his voice.  He should have been on stage.

Fare Thee Well, Brave Heart.  Ye shall be missed.

 

"When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er,

A time that surely shall come,

In Heav'n itself I'll ask no more,

Than just a Highland welcome."

 

~  Robert Burns