He was a very quiet man, in crowds anyway, usually leaving the talking to his wife, who is naturally outgoing and chatty. He was also never one to push himself forward, to serve on boards or speak out at meetings. But one on one, if you happened to be sitting next to him at a potluck, or over at his house, he was a great conversationalist, with lots of great stories about the past. He also had a keen sense of humour, and loved a good joke.
I don't suppose anyone outside of his family, friends, and church will ever miss him, or even notice that he is gone since by all measurable standards he lived a very obscure life. He was born and raised on a small island off of the coast of Nova Scotia, the population of which fluctuates between 100 to 200 people, depending on the season, and which is accessible only by a small local ferry. Like many people in the region, he made a living fishing, then eventually moved to the mainland to find work. He always kept the family homestead on the island, though, and he and his wife spent summers there, where he could pursue his two favourite pass times: hunting and gardening. Three years ago, he had to give up going to the island due to his ill health, and it broke his heart.
He and his wife loved having company, and when you visited, she would immediately bustle into the kitchen to put on the kettle and serve up 'way too much food. And you could seldom leave without him insisting you take something with you- some vegetables from his garden, or a deer steak from his last hunting trip. He also loved gospel and country music, and a few times during his final illness, my dad took his guitar when he and Mom visited, and though his memory was failing, he would perk up and sing along with the old songs he knew and loved.
I hadn't seen him in at least six months, and I'm sorry for it now. As I sat at his funeral, I realized just how much I'm going to miss a man I rarely saw anymore, and who more often than not kept himself in the background, quiet and unassuming. And although they certainly don't fit the situation in all respects -being about a woman- the words of William Wordsworth's poem flitted through my mind:
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
- Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!