John Allan Cameron Kilt by Cancer at Age 67

Sheena was struck aghast at lunch today scanning through the usual news headlines when she saw this: John Allan Cameron. Dead.

I grew up with the shadow of John Allan in the house. His family lived near my grandparents' farm in Cape Breton. *THAT* side of the island, where everybody not only knows your name, but like, has it. Where second counsins breed. Where aunties get married and never have to change their name.

As a little girl Sheena remembers her father in a seething rage shaking his fist at the TV, telling us to turn that guy off. "Why is dad so mad", we'd ask mom later on. And then she'd tell the story.

The story of two Cape Breton lads. One a farmer and logger. Who went up Cape Mabou to cut hardwood after grade 8. The other one went to school, had talent, and a calling. Both with an eye on the same girl. The farmer was a bit younger, but tall and green eyed and gorgeous. Wavy red hair and a devastating Elvis smile. The farmer had enough of the egg-head encroachment on his territory and did what had to be done. He beat the snot out of the guy.

The farmer was Sheena's Dad. And the guy on TV was John Allan. Dad won the fight, but could never sit through "Lord of the Dance" ever again.

R.I.P John Allan Cameron. Never knew you, but you were part of my family. From the unplugged TV to the changed radio station. To the records that only came out at 2am during the kitchen parties transplanted to the Prairies. I still hear the spoons in my head.