William J. (Bill) Kurmey
Computer brainiac, librarian, uncle, friend. Born on March 7, 1940, in Hedley, B.C.; died on Nov. 15, 2015, in Edmonton, of cancer, aged 75
He would saunter into my office in the afternoon (morning for him), wearing a scruffy tuque and a down-filled jacket, feathers leaking from a hole next to the pocket. Galoshes. Long white beard. Extinguished pipe. First stop coffee, hot or cold, the blacker the better.
Bill was my technical specialist, available on contract whenever I needed him. His job was to convert my customers' electronic records from one system to another, the more complicated, the better, in his view. He would set up the transfer process, tend it all night, then leave his report on my desk, words and numbers scrawled in his spidery cursive. At the time, my firm was the largest library and information management consulting company in Western Canada. Bill and I trusted each other absolutely; I in his ability to manipulate intricate records, he in my ability to land sufficiently interesting projects.
We were both outliers within the structured library profession. With my lowly college diploma in library technology and a B.Sc. in physical geography, I was in awe of Bill's knowledge, grateful for his respect and support. He, the bearded epitome of computer technology, had in 1979 been appointed dean of the University of Alberta's Faculty of Library and Information Studies, despite his incomplete doctorate.
Bill had earned his B.Sc. in chemistry from the University of British Columbia, then a master's degree in library science from the University of Chicago (and taught ballroom dancing to cover tuition fees at both schools). He became intrigued by computers – number-crunching behemoths with less power than today's cellphones, housed in environmentally controlled rooms, their data stored on punch cards.
IBM hired him as a junior information specialist, then as a research assistant and consultant; his doctoral-thesis attempts to create a linguistic translation program were thwarted by the day's technology. By 1967, he was at the University of Toronto, teaching computer programming to library school students, before anyone had created mainframe or minicomputer software for libraries (and long before PCs or Macs). He became a personal mentor for the lucky few who understood his Socratic teaching method.
Bill bought Atari's first video game machine (Pong) in 1972; identified weaknesses in Microsoft's operating systems; and test hacked (under contract) into high-level security systems.
He was also the youngest in a Ukrainian family, caregiver for his widowed mother, generous supporter for his siblings and their children. After his nephews outgrew the Brio train sets he'd given them, he built them computers. He was a partier extraordinaire at conferences, a witty participant at student beer bashes and single-malt Scotch tastings. Bill wrote innumerable reference letters. In the summer, he escaped academia by panning for gold in the Yukon, measuring distances in stops needed to fill his pipe, always vague about his locations and his findings.
Last spring, 15 years after I had closed my business, Bill and I had lunch together. I hesitated to ask about his pallor. He died in the fall, a week after entering palliative care, leaving behind a houseful of computers and memories shared among family and friends.
Jean Crozier is Bill's friend.