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  • Writer's pictureClarke Wallace


He was someone you could rely on. You’ve got a problem:

He’d say, “How can I help.” That was George. Dependable.

Likeable. Someone who seemed easy to take advantage of.

Don’t dare try it.

I met him on a film shoot some years ago. You’d find him

mostly in print ads. He was tall with that unspoken charm a

camera easily picks up.

I discovered he had come with his family from Slovakia to farm here.

He went back to Europe only to return to the Holland Marsh north of Toronto.

With its rich soil.

He was mostly into still shots, for ads and went on from there to work in TV


I gave it a whirl when a woman looked me over at party. “You could be

“a model,” she said. “You don’t have to be handsome.”

Drop a suit on George and you’d think it had been strictly made for him.

When it would have been truly off the rack.

Writer’s comment: He and I became friends along with our families.

His wife, Lydia, was originally from Eastern Europe, a genuine person in her

own right. She also knew how to handle him. As Rosanne does me.

George died several days ago. A shock! A sobering one. There are those

you don’t even think of dying. Tough on their daughter, Anna.

And their grandchildren: David, Anthony and Johnathon. Many are gone. Like his wife, Lydia, who

predeceased him. She was his rock. His safe place.

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