Memorial

Sunday we held the memorial for Dad.  We planted a Hoopsi Blue Spruce at the pond @ Pala for him.  We also planted one for Maddy.  Many of our cousins were there to help us celebrate his life and mourn his loss.

Jo traveled from Quebec City and Sue fron Tuscon.  Most came from the Toronto area.

Dad's brothers, Jim & Tom, gave a lovely presentation entitled, "The Legend of Doug Juan".  You had to be there.  It was very lovely.

I presented this video.  The songs are "Close Your Eyes", sung by James Taylor and Carole King, and, "Hobo's Lullaby", sung by Arlo Guthrie.

Doug Little was simply a lovely guy - generous and kind - learned and funny. He loved his children unselfconsciously and without condition. If any of us, at the end of our lives can say they have lived like Doug, we have done well.

Every one of us has a problem or two, but when it's time to sum it all up - what matters most?

See above.

He was a gentleman and a gentle man.

Doug Remembered

I hear a voice, a young boy's voice: “Everyday, it’s a-getting’ closer, goin’ faster than a roller coaster. Love like yours will surely come my way, a-hey, a-hey hey.”

It is sweet and clear and unselfconscious.

My sister Addie and I both remember Doug’s voice and those words and to this day neither of us can hear that Buddy Holly song without that memory. For years I sang it to my son at bedtime, every performance a happy memory of my friend -- one happy memory bringing forth another.

When Addie and I were quite young our parents built their own cottage on the lake we shared with the Littles. After having spent a couple of summers staying with them in very close quarters and then a few more at a rented cottage across the bay from them, we had come to consider ourselves part of their wonderful family. Our ultimate move to the other side of the lake was fraught. The idea of losing touch with Doug and Tom was tough to contemplate. But the bonds between our parents were pretty solid and our fears proved to be unfounded.

Sometimes, depending on the weather, you’d hear it before you saw it -- Doug’s flat bottomed sea flea and the unmistakable sound of its motor were always enough to throw us into nutty excitement. By the time he’d driven through the narrows we’d be down at the dock, waiting for him, pacing and jumping around. We weren’t even close to being teenagers, so the thought that this older boy would consider spending time with us felt like a gift from heaven. He’d always smile to see us, and his eyes – well, he had the kindest eyes. And so we’d play great elaborate games of hide and seek, or we’d sing the latest songs from the CHUM chart. We knew that he had his own life, some mysterious business he conducted when he wasn’t with us, and for all we knew, it had been suggested by his (wonderful) mother that he go visit the Prowse kids just to get him out of her way. But whatever the reasons, there he was, the big brother I never had, and probably my sister’s earliest crush. There was always something exotic about him in our minds, his arrival suggesting important events to come.

For as long as we had known them, Doug and Tom always had something going on whether it was a tree house, a fort in the backwoods, a death-defying sea flea or a blue Model A Ford they brought in from somewhere to rebuild. I thought they could do anything. Doug was very proud of these projects and he would show me these things as though he were opening the door to wonders. Doug was always patient and very kind with me. I don’t remember him angry and I don’t remember him pulling rank. I always wondered about that – it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if, as the youngest in his own family standing in the downhill slide of stuff, he had dished out some of it to the next available youngster, the next in line as it were, the little brother. Me. But I don’t remember him doing it.

As the years went on, he would introduce me to new people, never afraid (as I always was) that I was too young to associate with his friends. He once told a group of his pals, who weren’t really doing anything wrong, and not really doing it in my presence, that they could trust me not to rat them out. I can’t begin to describe the feeling.

He would introduce me to new ideas. Without Doug, there would be no Buddy Holly for me to identify with. Without Doug, no Donovan. Without Doug, no Jack Kerouac, no Hermann Hesse, no John Blofeld translation of the I Ching. I may have beat him to James Taylor, though I can’t be sure of that, but both Taylor and Donovan were huge in our awareness – he never considered Donovan to be lightweight, as a lot of people did (and still do, incorrectly). I remember listening to “Mellow Yellow” in the Little’s bunky and thinking for the first time that I might be able to play finger-picking-style guitar like my new hero, Donovan. With this newfound insight I went ahead and learned how. Without Doug’s introduction to Donovan, and Tom’s great generosity in lending me his Goya guitar, there would have been no Rusty Prowse, bespectacled folk singer.

Though I’m not completely sure this happened, something like it did. The way I remember it, another boring day at the cottage was suddenly made exciting by Doug arriving unannounced to ask my Mom if he could drive me to Kingston to see brother Tom who was spending his summer working as a Redcoat at Fort Henry. Tom was to appear in the famous Sunset Ceremony. Although my love for history and the thrill of seeing Tom all done up as a nineteenth century soldier chasing cannon around a parade ground made the visit to the Fort well worthwhile, my most vivid memory of the journey is of sitting in the passenger seat of Mrs. Little’s Volvo with Doug at the wheel, driving west into the last of the sunset, listening to distant rock and roll on the radio, feeling free, joyful and blessed. That ride is the first memory I have of independence. It’s so long ago now that I don’t remember the specifics of our conversation. I wish I could because my sense is that though generally patient, Doug didn’t suffer fools. I’m sure that it took a certain kind of patience for him to listen to a thirteen-year-old grade nine kid spout his insights, and I’m sure that as I began to step into uncharted territory he was listening very carefully, ready to introduce his guidance. But I’m also sure that I have no memory of his ever attempting to embarrass or belittle me.

These encounters and kindnesses continued for many years. I remember at least one visit to the Royal Ontario Museum and hot dogs at the Honey Dew on Bloor Street afterwards. I remember he took me to a really great performance of “Where’s Charley” at Etobicoke Collegiate just a couple of months before I was to begin my lengthy association with the school, and he was about to end his. Passages had meaning for him. He thought about them, obviously. My sister Addie, whose birthday is in late August, and who often suffered through years with no celebrations other than the ones provided by her family at the cottage, remembers one occasion vividly. Here came Doug, an adult now and steering a different vessel, but one no less unmistakable if you knew what to listen for, tying up to our dock where she had come to meet him. “Happy Birthday, Sweet Sixteen,” he said. She remembers he was the first, and only, person to say those words to her. He had been counting. He was a sweet, sweet guy.

As I grew up we began to lose touch. Doug started a family and we all strove for adult lives. We would see each other every once in a while at Christmas and every so often at the cottage, but we were all different now and moving on. I don’t know too much about his adult life, but I know he loved his children deeply and some of the last communication I had from him showed how much he cared for his grandchildren.

I will always miss him. And I will always hear his voice. I loved it.

I am so grateful that love like his surely came my way.

Russ Prowse

Dougie

This is for you Dougie.

When we were young (and when I say young I mean in our teens), I knew you as Dougie. We met up at the cottage. My parents had a cottage at the other end of the lake from yours and I remember watching you skimming along the headland in your red boat. In fact, I listened for the sound of its motor and looked eagerly to see if your were up at the cottage so we could get together, share poems, talk about the meaning of life and just be there experiencing the potential of it all. I was so excited when I realized you were on the lake. I don't think you ever knew that because we never talked about any feelings between us. They were just there. You were the guy who had that radiant face when you laughed. You had a sarcastic wit that was incomparable. I think you must have been a monk in a past life because you also had that quality about you.
I remember one time in particular when we went out into the middle of the lake in the boat at night and turned the engine off. The sky was pristine and when we looked up there was a northern light show that was more incredible than I have ever seen since. We were both in awe and could not believe the colours swirling around above us in the sky. It was unforgetable.

You are unforgetable Doug. I will always honour you in my heart and in speaking about you with others. I saw you love and look after your children and your wife. We lost touch after you and Marilyn broke up but I always thought about you and wondered how you were. In fact I had just been thinking about trying to get in touch when I heard about your death.
I am so sorry that life was so tough on you. You had a sensitivity that was palpable. I hope that you have found peace.

Many will remember you with love and fondness.

May we all honour your light and your memory.

Love to you Dougie
Nancy

Photo Post

Dad & Sophie, 2007 (I think).

Accommodations around Commanda

Here are some links to accommodations around Commanda, where Dad's memorial is being held.

Pie Bird  - approximately 20 minutes away.  Recommended.
Settler's B&B - approximately 15 minutes away.
Cassamia - approximately 10 minutes away.

We also still have room at the farm (Mom & Michael's home).  Please email me if you would like to stay there.  erinlittle1970@gmail.com

Memorial

Dad's memorial will be help on Sunday, August 28th @ 2 pm.

It will take place at the Commanda Community Centre
4009 Highway 522
Commanda, Ontario.

http://www.commanda.ca/index.htm

There will be a reception immediately following at the same location.

Directions from Toronto:

Take highway 400 north.  When the highway splits between 400 & 11, follow highway 11.  Keep traveling north past Huntsville, Burk's Fall, Sundridge and South River.  Exit at Trout Creek, McFadden Line.  Turn right off the ramp and proceed to the flashing light.  Turn left (west) on highway 522.  Continue for 22 km to Commanda, the Community Centre is on the left.

Late Last Night So Far Away, I Dreamed Myself A Dream

Doug was the youngest and the cutest in our family (well, our older brother Jim might dispute that). As a young child he would often be complimented for his looks, including his long eyelashes. This must have made an impression. When he was three or four my mom heard a noise and found him crying on the stairs. When she asked him what had happened, he said: "I tripped over my eyelashes.”

From an early age, school was somewhat optional for him. Even in kindergarten, there were times when he would wander around the corner from Mount Pleasant where we lived in North Toronto, onto Wanless, maybe get as far as the Bedford Park schoolyard, about a block away, then just poke around in the dirt, or maybe drift back home. In our house the rules that applied to the first three didn’t necessarily apply to the fourth. Doug, how come you got away with everything! Was it because mom loved you best?

In our spare time we would spend days exploring the Don River Valley in back of what is now the Toronto French School and Glendon campus of York University. A different era, my mom would let us pack a lunch and head down there on our own, even though we were only seven or eight. We usually took sandwiches, but once, we built a fire and put a can of beans in to cook. A few minutes later there was a big “poof” and beans flew everywhere. We may have gone to Cubs, but obviously Akela hadn’t yet awarded us our camping badge, because we were blissfully unaware that it was a good idea to put a hole in the top of the can first before dropping it into the coals. The beans were all we had taken with us, and we were starving by the time we got home.

One summer, our family, all six of us squished into a Pontiac four door sedan, drove to Manitoba for a reunion with my mom’s family. On the way back we went through the States, and Doug and I each got to buy our own baseball uniforms. This was a huge deal because no one we knew had their own baseball uniforms. In our photo album we have a shot of the two of us, big smiles on our faces, ready to take to the field to the cry of “Let’s play ball”. We were pretty sure we looked just like the Toronto Maple Leaf hockey players who came to Wanless Park each summer for a charity softball game, whose autographs we sought and coveted.

That same year, when he was almost seven, Doug left his bike at the school one day, and he and I had to go get it. I am pretty sure it was a Friday and we couldn't leave it over the weekend. The weather was doing strange things, and by the time we got to it the rain had started with a vengeance. We managed to return home, soaking wet, not knowing then that we were experiencing the start of Hurricane Hazel, one of the most destructive weather events in Toronto's history. Afterwards, we went back into the Don to see the results first hand. At every bridge were piles of debris that were higher than the bridge itself, mostly tree trunks and branches but also including cars and even out buildings.

Doug and I did many things together. In our family of four we were “The Boys”. And though he was the younger one he was also my protector. For a period of time I had a predilection for taking things that didn’t necessarily belong to me, mostly from my older brother Jim. This always caught up with me, usually very quickly, and I had to face the music, sung from a hymnal that came in the form of a stick, wielded on my bare behind, in the basement, by my father, who told me the spankings hurt him more than they hurt me, a concept I still don’t grasp. Doug would sit on the basement stairs, crying and begging my dad not to do it. Doug, if I didn’t express my gratitude before, I am doing that now. It may have been a futile gesture, and my rear end was always sore afterwards, but be assured I will never forget.

One day, we were walking down Wanless towards Yonge Street, to go to Willer’s Cigar Store to buy firecrackers. We had used ours up, along with our friend Rick Mundell, who lived three doors down on Mount Pleasant. At the bottom of Wanless was a fire station, and wouldn’t you know it, up the street came a fire truck. We loved fire trucks. Forgetting why we were headed the other way, we decided to follow it. That did not prove difficult because it ended up at Rick’s house. You see, while Doug and I tossed our fire crackers into Rick’s back yard, Rick threw his onto the roof of his house, which in those days had wooden shingles. I think we found watching the fire guys hack through Rick’s roof a lot more interesting than his mom did. Recently Rick Mundell got a mention in a book called Shaky, about another of his friends, some guy who moved into the area after we departed for Etobicoke, a guy by the name of Neil Young. "I've seen the needle and the damage done, a little part of it in every one ...."

In the winters, we would descend into the unfinished basement of our house on Mount Pleasant, where we would follow our brother Jim’s lead and fire tennis balls against the concrete block, often with one of us in goal. Hence began our respective hockey careers. I don’t know this for a fact, but I assume that because of his mental acuity, at some point he must have observed that it was better to be the shooter than the shootee. Hence, he went on to play the wing in rep hockey with the likes of Ken Dryden, while I never quite realized that having pucks fired at your head, sans mask, was actually a lifestyle choice. A few years ago Doug told me: "I've shot on Dryden, and I've shot on you, and you were harder to score on!" I never questioned your powers of observation, Doug, not even once.

The cottage was a summer adventure, and we would go with the explicit intent of not using soap from July 1 until it was time to head home for the Ex. And we succeeded, a feat that perhaps meant more to us than those around us. We were always building things. We sawed and hammered together a little shelter in behind the cottage the first summer we were on the lake. Then it was a cabin on our rowboat, the reason for which now escapes me. Then a tree house. At some point we decided it would be a good idea to sleep over in the tree house, despite my mother’s admonitions to the contrary. I can’t remember for sure, but I think Doug was smart enough to retreat to the warmth and safety of the cottage pretty early on, while I spent the night wide awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the maples as they swayed in the breeze.

The cottage was also the scene of other defining moments. One year I invited some of my high school friends up, and we decided it would be a good idea to throw Doug in the lake. He protested. But we succeeded. Years later, my maiden aunt Mabel, Bubba to us, who was looking after us that weekend, attributed Doug’s subsequent trials and tribulations to that single event. Sorry Dougie, I had no idea.

When Doug was fourteen we were headed for the Coe Hill Fair, near the cottage, when I “failed to negotiate a turn” and put the car in the ditch. My head went through the windshield. Doug broke his ankle. He was ticked after that because I got all the attention with my stitches, yet was walking around in a couple of weeks, while he had to use crutches and get a ride to school for way longer. Sorry again, Dougie boy, but you didn’t end up walking with a limp, while I still have all these scars. Although some say they make me look ruggedly handsome. Who? I forget now, but somebody did.

My favourite memory of Doug in high school occurred in his last year. Although a member of the gifted program, his academic record was spotty. In those days, your post high school options depended on one set of exams you wrote in June of Grade 13, so the pressure was on and everyone knew it. As those warm early summer days arrived, Doug began spending a lot of time in his room, and my mother was so happy that he finally seemed to be applying himself. "Isn't it wonderful seeing him work so hard", she would say. Home from university, I happened to open his door unexpectedly one day, and there he was, sitting at his desk, devoid of books, flipping an eraser against the wall. Just remember Dougie, when you are tallying up, that I didn’t tell mom.

After high school we would still hang out. We watched movies like Bonnie and Clyde, and would pretend we were brothers Clyde and Buck, repeating parts of the dialogue like the punch line to Buck's joke: “Whatever you do, don’t sell that cow” or Michael J. Pollard’s famous response as C.W. Moss, when he was asked what was wrong with the car - “dirt”. Doug liked Little Big Man, the book and the movie, especially the Chief Dan George character, and would weave comments like: “You plenty shmart man Schmidt” or "My heart shoars like a hawk" into any conversation.

He loved music, and we would sometimes see concerts together. James Taylor was at the top of the list, a passion he passed on to his daughters by singing to them at night: “Late last night so far away, I dreamed myself a dream, I dreamed I was so all alone ...” Our friend Russ Prowse, The Boys' informally adopted younger brother, fed these fires with his guitar playing and interest in music.

For a while Doug lived in my parents’ basement, reading about Zen according to Alan Watts and swinging in a hanging chair. He was way out in front with his esoteric interests, especially East Asian Studies, and a little bit rubbed off on me. When he left, I moved back in, taking over those cool digs. Doug, I did invite a few ladies down to see your decorating style firsthand. I hope that’s OK. They seemed to be impressed.

After that he got married, and we saw less of each other as time went on. But there were still funny things that happened. When my Aunt Mabel, the infamous Bubba with her theory of why Doug was different from the rest of us, died, she was cremated in Toronto. Doug’s job was to pick up her ashes and bring them to my house in Oshawa, which he did, carrying her on the subway and then the GO Train in a Head athletic bag. I am not sure if he got that bag especially for the occasion or not, what with the name and all. I'd like to think so. Then he, my son Tim and I went to the cottage, planning to go on to Beachburg where Bubba would be buried with her parents. While at the cottage I thought it would be a good idea for Doug to learn how to wakeboard. He protested, then finally agreed. He had been a good athlete, and I was sure he would get it right away. That didn’t happen and after a number of tries, he ended up hurting his back. The pain was so bad he had to stay at the cottage, while Tim and I headed over with Bub into the Valley. En route, Tim took his driver’s exam in Bancroft, with Bub still happily ensconced in the Head athletic bag in the back. He passed. I am guessing the examiner knew intuitively that if Tim wasn't successful, she would have to explain herself to Bub. We did finally get Bub to Beachburg and her resting place. And afterwards we agreed that this was indeed Bub’s last but most excellent adventure. But Doug always held missing the trip, and that bad back which lasted for years, against me. I apologize for calling you wimpy, man.

In more recent years we watched from a distance as he moved to Sprucedale, near Huntsville, to help his daughter Madeleine overcome cancer, ultimately to no avail. We admired his courage. Dougie, sorry that took so much out of you. There is no one who doesn’t wish they could have done more. Especially me.

Many moons ago, when Doug’s marriage ended, he came and stayed with me for a while. When he left, there was a little handwritten note on the table that started. “I’ll be thankin’ ya now”.

No, Doug, I’ll be thanking YOU now!

Your Bigger Brother

Maddy, Me & Dad

This is the three of us at Jen's wedding.

Little Dot Doug

I remember when we began getting email addresses when we were working for the government and Doug's was 'Little.Doug' and so we often referred to him as Little Dot Doug . Well, I did anyway.

While I haven't seen Dougie for quite some time I have nothing but affection for him.

The Major League baseball record for most homeruns in one game by one team is ten and that record is held by the Toronto Blue Jays. Doug and I were together at Exhibition Stadium for that game. God it was Cold!

I love the picture of Doug that is on this blog. He looks so COOL.

Just last week Sandy McMillan, Rick Ringer and I were trying to get in touch with Doug to set up a reunion among the four of us. I guess Doug really didn't want to go. (I am sure that Doug would laugh at that)

I miss his calm. I miss his voice. I miss his intellect. I miss watching him smoke a cigarette(s).

He should have eaten his vegetables! (I don't think I ever saw him eat a single one. Meat and potatoes was it)

Well, I may add more later. He has been in my heart for days now. The world feels like a poorer place today.

g

In Memory of Doug Little & Bob Banfield

Men with a certain vision,
Who thought outside the lines
Read books that only Buddha would enjoy
Many friends across the map of human kind
They did not think in lineal paths but saw the world in many dimensions.
So, if Heaven does emit a sirens call for those we feel too young to go
Be happy that the company they keep is filled with love and family
We on earth with miss them and our hearts will be touched by a familiar phrase,
Say he would have had a good laugh at that.
Remember all the time we have with them, the smile, odd phrase and quirke word
As requested we will all try to pay it forward with acts of kindness the rest of our lives.

Sue Banfield
Tucson, AZ

We have many memories of Uncle Doug, but this one is the strongest and fondest to the four Little girls. Our mother is Norwegian and as such we celebrated our Christmas on Christmas eve...yes, we got to open our presents too! Santa even came early to surprise us. We would all get ready for church dressed in our special Christmas dresses and head out to the 7pm service. We were most concerned that Santa would be able to find our house, get into the house, know what time we had left for church, and what time we would be back! We were assured by our parents that he would know, he is magical. Mom was most concerned as she was often hosting many extended family members and was fussing to make sure that dinner was prepared, table was set and drinks were ready to go. Once church was over we were desperate to get going, but mom and dad would love to chat, and chat, and chat. Finally, we would make our way home and as we pulled into the driveway our excitement could not be contained. For many years Uncle Doug was waiting for us in the driveway as he was locked out of the house. We told mom and dad that they had talked too long and had kept him waiting. Once that door was opened I imagine you could not only feel our excitement but hear it too...Santa had indeed arrived! The four Little girls would like to thank our magical Uncle Doug for waiting on the driveway. With love, Karen, Ingrid, Britta, and Lara

Acknowledging Erin and Marilyn

In the Little family there were four children: Jim, Diane and The Boys (aka Tom and Doug). As the older half of The Boys, I will have more to say about my younger (and shorter but definitely smarter) brother in the days to come.

Until then, I want to acknowledge Doug's daughter Erin for her unwavering support and concern for her dad. She was always there for him. The same applies to Marilyn, Erin's mom and Doug's former wife, who did far more than we could have expected to ensure his days were as good as they could be. And behind Marilyn, also helping, were Michael Hardy, Marilyn's husband, and their son Andrew.

The Little family, and through them the Dunkin clan, says thanks to you all.

Dear Dad

I miss you.

Thank you for being a great daddy.

• For singing me lullabies and making up adventure stories.
• For making me laugh with your Grover routine.
• For taking me skiing.
• For reading and editing my essays.
• For teaching me to be skeptical and think critically.
• Most of all, for your unwavering love.

I hope you have found peace where ever you are now.

Forever, Erin

Here's my lullaby for you, dad.