Douglas Schofield Scott.
Lawyer. Big Brother. School Trustee. Peace activist. Born Oct. 21, 1926, in Hamilton; died Jan. 29, 2017, in Burlington, Ont., of natural causes; age 90.
When I was 7, my mother asked me if I wanted a big brother. I explained I already had a big brother and she said "no, a big brother from the Big Brother's Association."
Shortly thereafter I was introduced to "Uncle" Doug. We spent our first visit playing chess and our outings continued for the next 40 years.
Growing up, Uncle Doug was there every Monday and Wednesday night. He taught me many of the games that he played as a child in his hometown of Dundas, Ont.
Uncle Doug was an engineer. We were always building things. We constructed dams at his friend Andy's farm (sorry Andy), we built and flew planes (once) and gave my bicycle frequent tune-ups to ensure it was operating at maximum efficiency.
Uncle Doug was a teacher. We had conversations ranging from the deep to the, well, less deep. History, arms treaties, the arts, current events, we discussed it all. We discussed what holds clouds up, and the difference between an em-dash and an en-dash (and how not to confuse them with a hyphen).
He never judged or told me what I "should" do. He just exposed me to many different experiences such as summer camp, choir, the YMCA, food, tennis and the arts. He let me find my own way, and quietly supported me. Later on, Uncle Doug paid for my university education. During summer vacations, I slept on his oh-so-comfortable golden couch and worked at the Y. There were challenging times when I could have gone astray, but I never did – I couldn't disappoint him.
Uncle Doug was not my father. He had no children of his own, but he had his own extended family, as I had mine. Oftentimes, people would assume that Uncle Doug was my father. I would explain that he was my big brother, but since he was 42 years my senior, people became even more confused. In the end, it was just easier to say that he was my uncle.
Uncle Doug had a quirky, dry sense of humour. He organized his music by weather – sunny morning, snowy day, stormy evening. He had a gift for using language that could be charming, intellectual and legal, all at the same time.
Our outings continued as adults, and were never interrupted – even during my fight with cancer. There were plays to be seen, beers to be drunk and discussions of deep import to be had. I read The Globe, the Post, the Star and the Economist (of course) to keep up. When I walked across Spain last summer, I called him every week to see how he was doing, and to give him the latest update on Basque separatism.
On our very last outing, I met Uncle Doug at the hospital, read him an article in French about Donald Trump, and then he informed me it was time to go. I held his hand when he died a few days later.
Doug once told me I'd better make the most of this life because when you die, that's it. So I am. He made a difference.
But maybe, just maybe, there is an afterlife where disarmament treaties work, French is spoken everywhere, and Henninger beer is a way of life.
I look forward to our next game of chess.
Matthew Reid has been Douglas's Little Brother for 40 years.