I called him my “Scottish dad”. He called me the “black sheep of the family”. It’s hard to imagine my life in Canada without the Thomson clan. The moment my best friend Sue introduced me to her family I was a member of the clan and they a member of mine. Our families, I thought, were linked across time and space like no other. How else can you explain all three children and parents in each family sharing the same birth month? That has to be a statistical anomaly.

I called him Mr. T. After all, Mr. Thomson sounded too formal and Bert just sounded like I was about to do business with him. I remember him partying into the wee hours of the night with all our friends when Sue, Mr. and Mrs. T. hosted my university graduation party in May 1996. That man could drink us all under the table and he wasn’t about to let us forget it.

I called to him yesterday though he lay sleeping. The instruments of hospitalization surrounding him, his eyes half closed, sometimes lucid. But just like the old mischevious fart that he is, every time a good looking woman wandered by, he suddenly perked up and puckered up for a good-bye kiss.

I received a call this morning; my dear friend had passed away peacefully after fighting stubbornly with an extremely aggressive cancer.

He used to yell the following out to me before I left the house on Berteau Ave in St. John’s. Well, Mr. T. here’s right back at you:

“Bert, be good. If you can’t be good (and damn sure you aren’t) don’t name it after me!”

You know he’s wreaking havoc wherever he is, laughing and toasting us.

We all miss you but are glad that you are at peace, and right as rain we’ll be hoisting a few in your honour soon. Truth be told though, despite all the troubles and lessons of life there is only one thing I can proudly say about you.

A life well lived and loved. Robert (Bert) Thomson, 1932-2005.