![]() He's clever with anecdotes and the single, telling detail that sums up a life in a line. Most people are surprisingly happy to reminisce, though. Here's Hawthorn's first sentence: "Spoony Singh drove a gold Cadillac and preferred a Nehru jacket to a business suit." How could anyone not read on?Īnd here's how he begins an obituary of Jeani Read, a Vancouver journalist: "Rod Stewart greeted her at the door to his hotel room clad only in underwear and a sexy, pop-star pout."Īs an obit writer, Hawthorn dealt with his share of weeping widows and disgruntled family members who wouldn't talk. He's a writer who knows how to entice a reader. Sensing a story, he sleuthed out this colourful character's Vancouver Island history. He came across Spoony's obit and noticed a passing B.C. Hawthorn got that story by scrutinizing the Los Angeles Times. Once, Spoony talked Louis Armstrong into posing beside his waxy faux twin. ![]() He built an amusement park, then opened a wax museum in Hollywood. He had a hankering for cheesy showbiz ventures. Born in India, Spoony built a sawmill in Esquimalt and operated a logging camp near Port Alberni. Hawthorn happened to spot the 32-word death notice that, of course, made no mention of his crimes.Įver hear of Spoony Singh? Me neither. I didn't know he'd died in Victoria in 2006. Jordan paid victims to consume fatal amounts of alcohol. There is one bona fide villain: Gilbert Paul Jordan, a notorious serial killer known as the Boozing Barber. Deadlines is also peopled with lesser-known lights, including scoundrels and eccentrics. The 38 obituaries in Deadlines offer a cross-section of humanity. Di Castri was a fascinating guy - a self-made architect who brought modernism (think flat roofs and glass walls) to ye olde Victoria, where tweedy citizens still genuflect at the altar of mock Tudor-ism. The funeral parlour was designed by the late John Di Castri, whose obit is in Deadlines. The unorthodox venue wasn't entirely a publicist's whimsy. The launch for this, Hawthorn's first book, happened at McCall Brothers Funeral Home. His newspaper obits are so compelling, so beautifully crafted, Harbour Publishing decided to compile them as Deadlines - Obits of Memorable British Columbians. In his novel The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman writes of Arthur, a spectacularly lazy obit writer whose desk is moved from the water cooler because no one can be bothered to talk to him. Writing about dead folk is not considered a prestige gig. Journalists, as a rule, dislike doing obits. "As you know," Hawthorn told me over a coffee, "traditionally in the newsroom, the obit writer is the lowest of the low." Trouble is, obituary writers don't get the respect they deserve. Hawthorn is to the obit what Harvey Lowe was to the yoyo. After I kick the bucket, I want Tom Hawthorn to write my obituary.
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