On March 31, my friend Red died. Many of you probably knew him, or at least passed him on the street.
He proudly identified himself as downtown Victoria’s “knitting panhandler.” There are those who found him to be a nuisance or scary, but those of us who spent time with him found him to be intelligent, thoughtful, funny and loving.
I met Red 10 years ago, in less than favourable circumstances. As he would announce to anyone who saw us together: “She was my probation officer!” As our relationship turned from professional to friendly, we built an undying respect for one another. We would always say we had each other’s back: I could literally trust Red with my life.
He was born Gereald Doumont on July 24, 1960, in Toronto, though he moved to the West Coast many years ago. He had several siblings, including a couple of sisters who apparently live on Vancouver Island, but had lost contact with them all. One of his deepest regrets was that he was unable to attend his mother’s funeral. He credits her with teaching him how to knit, and I credit her for raising a caring man who was a true gentleman.
Red married Linda many years ago, and though they did not live together for any significant period of time, it was clear how much he loved her and their daughter, Ginger. They would visit each other only occasionally, but I don’t think it ever crossed his mind that they should divorce. He loved her, but, as Linda acknowledged, he just needed to be able to live his life on his own terms.
I know Red loved Victoria. He would say he knew everything about the city. Well, he did know a lot about the city core, but beyond those borders was foreign territory. I decided one day to throw him in my car and take him to places he had never seen. We drove to the University of Victoria and Oak Bay, and I showed him “where we keep our rich people,” in the Uplands. His nose was pressed to the side window the whole time.
I always thought Red was the guy in high school everyone wanted to be friends with. He was funny and always ready to do something interesting. He liked to play cards, and was regularly playing mini-golf in Beacon Hill Park or in the hallway of his apartment building. He loved to read and kept up with local events.
He didn’t have much, and really didn’t want much. What he did have he was constantly sharing with others, and I believe he was often taken advantage of.
For the past six years, Red was a regular worker in a therapeutic community garden, Feeding Ourselves and Others, on Blenkinsop Road. He worked as hard as his wiry little body would allow. He was our “expert” bean and pea picker. He was flummoxed by purple carrots, and always interested in taking home green tomatoes to fry. He regularly requested flowers so he could give them to the women employees where he lived.
He counted as one of his gardening friends the retired judge Ernie Quantz. He was proud that Quantz asked him to speak in the courtroom at his retirement ceremony, and Red spoke from the heart, endearing himself to all the “legal beagles” present.
On April 9, I attended his memorial and was not surprised by the significant number of attendees, who came from a wide swath of the city. There were his street family and friends, gardening buddies, retired lawyers, a police officer, community support workers and Ernie Quantz.
There was much love and sadness in the room, and everyone in attendance agreed that in Red the world had lost a true character.
Sharon Bristow is a retired probation officer who worked with B.C. Corrections for 32 years. She lives in Brentwood Bay.
