Ian was born in Leamington, Ontario toward the end of the Baby Boomer generation to Murray, a former Canadian Armed Forces radio operator and WWII veteran, and Velma, the daughter of a local merchant. Together, Murray and Val opened Star Radio, a local electronics store, and Ian grew up working there, completely immersed in both electronics and in small business – and he was amazingly talented at both.
After Murray’s death in 1981, Ian operated Star Radio for more than a decade – and then he continued to work as a sales professional until his death. He understood how things worked: he knew how to build, to disassemble and to repair … and he could sell anything.
Growing up, Ian’s interests included photography and chess – and yes, Star Trek and other television science fiction. He worshipped musician Rick Wakeman; he loved The Lord of the Rings; our first movie date in 1977 was to see Star Wars.
In more pop culture terms, Ian’s work nickname was MacGyver. Even though he liked to think he was Donatello, there was a good mix of Michelangelo in there, too. He collected Marvin the Martian and Pinky and the Brain memorabilia. And after Mork & Mindy debuted in 1978, those of us who already knew him used to say, “That guy who plays Mork, he’s so much like Ian!”
As an adult, Ian really enjoyed the expanded Star Trek universe and annually attended fan conventions. He loved to cook – mostly with a “red meat doesn’t kill you; fuzzy green meat does” attitude. He also really enjoyed gaming online, and World of Warcraft became a major passion. For years, every night, he would say, “I just have to do this one thing, then I swear I’m done.”
Ian was so very smart and funny – and silly. He loved puns (bad ones – and dad jokes, before they were called that.) He was capable, easy-going, and kind. Like so many people, Ian experienced some tragedies in his life, and he struggled with depression, but he was brave.
He loved his family. He was a good friend. He tried hard to be a good man.
Ian’s death in 2012 was unexpected, and he left, bereft, his son, his stepchildren, his nephews, his friends – and me, his wife. We had been a part of each other’s life for 35 years. We had a small, quiet life in the grander scheme of the universe, but it was happy.
At our wedding, we recited Pablo Neruda’s “Love Sonnet XVII”. After Ian’s death, I took comfort in “Love Sonnet XCII”:
“My love, if I die and you don’t–,
My love, if you die and I don’t–,
let’s not give grief an even greater field.
No expanse is greater than where we live.
Dust in the wheat, sand in the deserts,
time, wandering water, the vague wind
swept us on like sailing seeds.
We might not have found one another in time.
This meadow where we find ourselves,
O little infinity! we give it back.
But Love, this love has not ended:
just as it never had a birth, it has
no death; it is like a long river,
only changing lands, and changing lips.”
