Gordon (Gord) Macdonald

Gordon Macdonald is a hard man to describe, but if I was to take a stab at a single word, it would be "independent".

I was introduced to Gordon Macdonald through Randy Gregory. We knew each other for years, casually, but only started hanging out regularly when I was in high school (even though we went to different high schools).

Gord's never been one to share his emotions. This didn't help much when his father died (when he was 15). That night I remember being over at his place. It was in the middle of winter and there was two feet of snow on the ground. Randy and I were at a loss of words. We were too immature to voice our sentiments—so we did what young boys do. We played football. We needed something physical. Something silent. Something that might involve pain. So we grabbed the football and walked out onto Jones lake, plodding slowly, making steps in the two feet of snow already fallen. The city lights, behind us, polished the slow sinking jewel flakes, angel white against the black night. The knee-high snow slow-motioned us that night, and that's the way its always stuck in my memory. A slow motion silent movie of young men who went mute at death's door. And it worked, our therapy. Then again, we were young.

Over the years, Gord and I have stayed in touch and we've been silently loyal in that respect. About ten years ago Gord had an inkling to start a cranberry farm. (he has so much more patience that me!) He spent years on that paperwork (literally). He secured crown land. And then got the necessary farm equipment (including the machinery to flood at the end of the season). Once or twice a year I get a report from him on how the farm is maturing and the latest stories on his outdoor adventures with wildlife. Last I heard, Ocean Spray had just bought a bunch of property up the road from where he was (validating his research on his choice for location).