Shelagh’s obituary ran on Feb. 14, 2012 — Valentine’s Day.
It was the 19th of 56 in the Star that day, buried in three pages of surviving relatives, cancer diagnoses, funeral logistics. Lloyd David Smith’s family requested “in lieu of flowers, please perform an act of kindness in Lloyd’s memory.”
George Everest Munro, a World War II veteran who died at 88, adhered to the Roald Dahl motto, “a little nonsense now and then is cherished by the wisest of men.”
Ronald Schewata lived 26 years without ever speaking a single word, “but did he ever know how to love.” These men’s lives held precious lessons.
But 55-year-old Shelagh’s death notice stopped me.
“Our world is a smaller place today without our Shelagh,” it began. “Our rock, our good deed doer, our tradition keeper, our moral compass.” It stated she was the “loving aunt and mother” to a list of names, without differentiating among them. And it mentioned she was a “special friend” to two people — one a man, the other a woman. The secrets tucked here were intriguing. I called Shelagh’s sister Heather Cullimore with a request. Would she let the Star come to her funeral and ask the people gathered there about her life?
If every life is a jigsaw puzzle of memories, relationships, achievements and tragedies, could we put together the disparate pieces after that person was gone?
Cullimore agreed instantly. “Boy, did you pick the right person,” she said of her younger sister. Shelagh, it turns out, was an avid Star reader, diligently poring over — and clipping — articles in every section daily before dashing through the crossword. Newspapers ran in her blood: her great-great grandfather, Joseph T. Clark, was editor-in-chief at the Star. Shelagh also loved the spotlight. The night before her death, a CP24 crew interviewed her briefly on the street about the Everywoman reaction to Whitney Houston’s death, which thrilled her. She was texting friends about it just before she died.
“Shelagh would have thought this was stupid perfect,” Cullimore said of the Star’s proposal.
So I arrived at the Mount Pleasant Cemetery visitation centre four days after Shelagh collapsed on her bed from a sudden brain aneurysm — while getting changed for an appointment to choose flowers for the wedding of her niece Jessica. A team of Star reporters placed letters on all 186 chairs of the lofty sanctuary, explaining our intention to paint one life fully, using the brushstrokes of the people who knew her. We asked for names and telephone numbers, and over the next two weeks, 14 reporters interviewed more than 130 of the 240 people who spilled out of the room. We set up a video camera in a quiet spot and taped 10 volunteers talking about Shelagh’s life and their reflections during her funeral.
