Owen

OWEN JAY ROSS, 1954-2000

I remember when Owen raced out the front door to get a kid who had bullied me back when we lived on Pannahill Road.

I remember how excited Owen got when he talked about coaching little-league baseball. That was his greatest pleasure.

I remember, at his funeral, all these kids showing up wearing baseball uniforms. The rabbi had never seen anything like that before.

I remember Owen disappearing for as much as a year at a time, but we were always back to being family when he showed up again.

I remember Owen always saying "Out" in response to "Where are you going?"

I remember Owen lurching towards me, dragging his feet along the carpet in the den, his finger held out as he threatened to give me a shock on the nose.

I remember watching wrestling with Owen and Grandpa: the Fabulous Kangaroos, the Love Brothers, Crybaby Cannon, Haystack Calhoun, Lord Athol Layton, Dewey Robertson (my favourite), and the Sheik and Abdulla Farouk. When the Sheik appeared on the screen, Grandpa would spit.

I remember Owen and I betting pennies on the horse races — the trots and the flats — and checking the results in the Star every day. Later, Owen owned a horse, but it didn't do real well at the track.

I remember Owen making himself a salami sandwich at midnight and how much care he took in the slicing.

I remember that Owen did not smoke and did not drink and did not ever try drugs.

I remember getting lost at the synagogue and wandering home on the day of Owen's bar mitzvah.

I remember, when our mom died, Owen hugging me, a rare occurrence when we were adults.

I remember Owen giving me a mug with a picture of his race horse on it, perhaps the only gift from him I still have. Today I will drink my morning tea from it.

Miss you, Owen.

xo