In the past week, Edmonton lost two giants of men.
The responsible journalistic assignment is to list their incredible contributions to the city, many of which may cause one to, very easily, double over in laughter. And the other task in celebrating anyone is asking people who knew the person to share their thoughts and memories.
But this laptop lieutenant is going off course.
I had the pleasure of knowing John Yardley Jones.
I had the pleasure of knowing Don Clarke.
Both men served tirelessly to make Edmonton the city we are today.
Collectively, their efforts have benefited so many.
Jones: the Liverpool lad born with a paintbrush between his teeth and creativity all around his heart, selling his first cartoon at 14 — settling in Edmonton in 1957 and becoming The Journal’s first editorial cartoonist five years later.
Jones went on to work in Toronto and Montreal, returning to Edmonton in 1981 before retiring in 1993.
Jones had a love for New Sarepta: inspired by U.S. president John Kennedy’s comment “every American soldier should be able to walk 50 miles in less than 20 hours,” so Yardley, in his enthusiastic spirit, organized a walk from Edmonton to New Sarepta, a small town southeast of the provincial capital, lasting 17 hours.
He became a marathon runner when he was 52 and raised funds for the Ronald McDonald House and the Alberta Lung Association, to name a few.
Clarke: the kid who grew up in the Commercial Drive area in Vancouver and became a cop, who moved to Edmonton. This city didn’t adopt him — Clarke adopted it.
He was the GM of Northlands when it launched the Coliseum, swinging open its arena doors for Edmonton to gain international entertainment and, oh yes, become the home of the Edmonton Oilers.
Away from the office and excitement, Clarke deemed volunteering as vital as voting for the city council that you wanted.
The list of organizations he helped is long and impressive — the Variety Club, Wounded Warriors. Uncles at Large, and many others.
His police mantra of always being on duty mightily reflected in his community work.
Whenever there was a need — even bordering crisis mode — Clarke found a way to help, and, ultimately, turn a bad situation into a great legacy.
Both men were world-class storytellers, but always, in every tale, minimizing their efforts … emphasizing other people and what they did.
Selfless.
Jones always ended an interaction with a kiss on the cheek and saying I love you.
Clarke loved to phone me and I will forever remember his station identification when I answered: “Cam? Don Clarke.”
It’s ironic Jones, 92, and Clarke, 91, left us around the holiday season.
In 1989, on a cold snowy winter afternoon, the doorbell rang at my west-end home.
Before opening the door, I could see a towering man standing on my front step trying to juggle a Christmas tree from falling to the ground.
There Clarke was.
“Merry Christmas, Cam,” he said. “I remember you telling me how much you liked a Christmas tree from the bush. I was out west of the city with a few friends and cut a tree down for you.”
In December of 1992, participants had left Hawrelark Park after The Santa’s Shuffle, a Salvation Army fundraising activity.
The cab driver I had booked to go home was late. Jones said he would stay with me — much against my independence.
He insisted in staying.
Good job: the first cab driver refused to take me because of my wheelchair.
It was -31 C. Cellphones were not a common thing. I didn’t have one.
Jones convinced the cab driver to call another cab before leaving us in the howling wind.
He stayed with me for another 20 minutes until the second cab came, giving his traditional, “I love you.”
What a fitting farewell to Yardley Jones and Don Clarke.
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