John Adams.
Prairie boy. Family man. Gentle soul. Friend. Born April 20, 1926, in Wilkie, Sask.; died Feb. 6, 2017, in Cambridge, Ont., of natural causes; aged 90.
To appreciate John Adams fully requires knowing two things. First, he was from small-town Saskatchewan: Wilkie (population 1,300) is 150 kilometres west of Saskatoon, and, according to the first settlers' description, beneath the "bright clear sky of a prairie so wide only the heavens could frame it." Second, he was the fourth of 16 (yes) children whose parents, a sister used to joke, named the last of their sons John before realizing they already had one.
The family was anything but well off, although love and laughter were rarely in short supply. In school, John was a good enough sprinter to compete for his school even though he couldn't afford proper running shoes. Ironically, the army later turned him down, claiming he was flat-footed.
After school, with job prospects bleak in Saskatchewan, he and a cousin headed east, settling on Cambridge, Ont., after learning that factories there were hiring. As well as employment, the city gave him Thelma, a charismatic complement to his more reserved nature. They had a son and daughter, and life was good – until cancer struck, claiming Thelma at just 46.
Being alone was difficult for John. Then, while grocery shopping one day, he bumped into Betty. Their carts collided, he apologized and promptly asked the widowed mother of three to go out.
They married and worked hard to turn two families – his Sharon and Paul plus her Greg, Robbie and Cathy – into one. Every milestone or major holiday called for a gathering, with John and Betty as hosts and sole cooks. Even those bearing beverages would find their bottles returned to the back seat when it came time to leave.
As children of the Depression, the couple spent little money on themselves, but were remarkably generous. Christmas was like being in the audience of Oprah Winfrey's talk show – everyone went home with a big-ticket item. Often the same item. Oh, the lucky sales clerk when John asked about a TV and then said, "I'll take five."
After John left the factory, he became a school custodian and, upon retiring, was nearly reduced to tears by teacher's tributes and student drawings in his honour. Not that retirement brought much of a slowdown. He and Betty hiked, curled, canoed, square danced, played cards and travelled the world.
Still, their dedication to family never wavered. As well as attending every gathering, they were notorious for dropping in unannounced. Wilkie people don't phone; they just jump in the car and knock on your door.
When they moved into assisted living and Betty's dementia worsened, the family marvelled at John's kindness, holding her hand and never complaining. But when she died, he began to run out of steam. John celebrated his 90th birthday and then Christmas, but seemed tired, more quiet. Then, one morning after breakfast, he asked the nurses something he hadn't in a long time: "Where is Betty?"
Back in his room, he closed his eyes, drifted off and then was gone. No drama, no fanfare – a gentle passing for a gentle man.
Tom Scanlan is John's son-in-law.
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