John Mills (190-2016)
John Mills, longtime professor of English at Simon Fraser University,
novelist, great wit, and a charter member of the SFU faculty from 1965, died
peacefully at home on Salt Spring Island on Saturday, January 16, 2016, in
his 86th year.
John and I met when we sat at the same table at a church-sponsored
event (a cursillo, so called) in 1983. Somehow he managed to work into the
otherwise very basic conversation some erudite comments about the
meaning of the placement of hands and feet in the effigies of crusader
knights in medieval churches: and from such a moment, we were fast
friends.
`Over the years we traveled together to some great places. It is
regularly said that if your friendship with someone can stand the test of
traveling together, it is a strong one; and this proved to be true. (Here I
refrain from mentioning his habit of tailgating, which drove me nuts.) We
went to England, where we co-led four walking tours to Canterbury along
the route of Chaucer’s pilgrims; John would regale the walkers with tales
from Chaucer, and I would give them my thoughts about the meaning of
pilgrimage. We stayed at some marvelous old hostelries—the Carmelite
friary at Aylesford, for example, which dates from 1249, and others. And
speaking of Aylesford recalls to me a delightful evening there at The Little
Gem, a very tiny pub, and the oldest such in continuous operation in
England (1189). Researching the Canterbury route the first time, we agreed
that if we finished our work in advance of our return tickets, we would spend
the available time in France (Fair stood the wind for France …”—Michael
Drayton). In the event, we had only one free day, and went to France
anyway, spending a glorious 24 hours in Boulogne. Another time, we met at
St-Jean de Luz, on the Atlantic coast of France, and went from there to St
Jean-Pied-de-Port, our starting point for a climb (yes, we were younger then)
over the Pyrenees, to Roncesvalles. It was a magic moment for us at the top
of the pass when we came across the monument to Roland, he of the horn he
blew too late, with only his name and the date--997—on its surface. Once in
Spain, we researched the Camino, hoping to lead another pilgrimage there,
which, alas, never came to be. Pure delight also was a trip we made to the
Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, where we glutted ourselves on five
plays in three days. One of our pleasures was trying to stump each other with
quotations from Shakespeare; he usually won, but I flatter myself that I
proved a worthy opponent.
I mentioned meeting John at a cursillo. Until midlife, John was an
atheist, but came to faith at that time, as many do—an easier transition, as
has often been noted, from atheism to faith than from agnosticism, since
atheism is its own kind of faith. Even so, he continued to espouse a bleak
view of the universe, which I privately connected with his difficult
childhood; but somehow his faith enables him to move past this.
From then on, he was an active Anglican of a liberal kind, and a great
reader of theology. Eventually he followed up on this interest by doing a
master’s degree at the Vancouver School of Theology at UBC. He and I had
uncounted conversations on theology and spirituality, something of which
neither of us ever tired.
He and his wife Elaina, like myself an Anglican cleric, and until her
recent retirement a hospital chaplain in Victoria, have many times in recent
years given me very gracious hospitality at their beautiful house on Salt
Spring. I’ve said to both of them, that once I pass the gate to their property, I
feel myself in the south of France. A particular attraction of the house is the
many glades in the garden, in each of which are found a table and chairs,
where they and their friends would sit and share libations, choosing among
the various possibilities according to the weather. John was also a great
cook, even at one point publishing a hilarious cookbook called Youth,
Father, Curmudgeon, with recipes suitable for male cooks in these particular
phases of life.
I have said to three or four people that I had more fun with John than
with almost anyone else I have ever known. His death, I know, will be felt as
a great loss, not only by Elaina, but by his many friends and admirers. Dear
John, may you rest in peace, and rise in glory.
Donald Grayston
Department of Humanities 1989-2004