(Tribute to an Everyday Hero)

By John Cairns

OTTAWA, Canada – On society's moral compass, the late Peter John Borys (1933-2010) stood firmly with the forces of right in their constant battle against wrong. And he did it with an unfailing sense of humor.

Originally from Yorkton in Saskatchewan, Peter was the only boy in a family of seven children. None the worse for being outnumbered as a child, he later worked for 35 years in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), notably in three provinces: Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick and Ontario.

For my entire life, whenever I pondered law-and-order, my thoughts always turned to Peter, who also happened to be one of my favorite uncles, a lively and engaging participant at family gatherings. Time and again, I heard him joke about the need to be wary of “bad cats”, his nickname for people who caused trouble. Often he accused me and my cousins of being bad cats too, but he never handcuffed any of us.

In the early-morning of Boxing Day (December 26), 77-year-old Peter died from lung disease. He's survived by a wife, two adult children and four grandchildren.

The most fantastic things about Peter were his positive influence, kindness, humor and reliability. He, together with my Aunt Amy and their two children, Dale (always one of my best friends) and Debora, regularly visited at the PEI family farm where I grew up. Every single time, they enlivened the place, their presence welcome and invigorating.

Peter loved dogs. One of his police dogs, a German shepherd named Fritz, retired and came to live on the farm. I remember Fritz as being intensely loyal and dedicated, always protective of human children. Presumably, Fritz's best traits came directly from Peter, learned at the “master's” hand.

With my mind flooded by such memories, I rode a train into Canada's capital for Peter's funeral at the Rothwell United Church on December 30. Thanks to the train schedule, I reached the church an hour early, the first family member to arrive. Glad for the extra time, I sat in the church and basked in its serenity, remembering Peter and readying to bid farewell to a man of obvious stature.

Soon I noticed that many of my relatives (some of whom I hadn't seen for almost 20 years) and other mourners had arrived. Before long, the church filled nearly to capacity.

A glance at the funeral leaflet reminded me about the details of Peter's police career and his rise through the ranks. It mentioned his favorite hobbies, like golf, curling, gardening and reading, his devotion to family and his post-RCMP career as a custom photo-framer.

Like most funerals, the one for Peter was respectful and dignified. Talented singer Garth Hampson performed three songs with one, “We'll Meet Again”, being especially poignant. Other highlights included participation by the Reverend William McDowell (also my uncle, the most-seasoned and devoted “man of God” I know) and words of remembrance by Kyle Billie (Peter's grandson), Don McConaghy (another uncle) and Allen Burchill (Peter's former colleague, a retired policeman). In the church pews, more than a few tears fell.

Then a hearse carrying Peter's coffin led a procession of cars to the RCMP National Memorial Cemetery (in a massive burial ground also with a section for military veterans). There, mourners strolled to the grave site where Reverend Mike Perreault and my Uncle William led a service of interment.

Aunt Amy cried a little, but held up well on what must have been one of the most emotional occasions of her life. Her marriage to Peter had lasted for 53 years until death intervened.

With the formalities done, the mourners began returning to their cars, seeking safety from the late-December chill. Amy, Dale and Debora lingered a little longer. I saw my aunt speak softly, addressing the coffin and its occupant, soon to descend into the ground. The distance between us prevented me from hearing much, but those words weren't intended for the living anyhow. Just a few fragments reached my ears. “Your family loved you,” I thought I heard her say.

When Peter's wife and children had moved away, a powerful urge gripped me. More than anything, I wanted to step forward and place a hand on the coffin as a gesture of lingering affection and perpetual respect. But would that violate some funeral protocol?

Uncertain, I turned and asked my eminently sensible cousin James McDowell, who stood nearby. “It should be fine,” he assured me. “I've seen people do that before. In fact, I'll go with you.”

Together we approached the coffin and each touched its smooth surface. I spread my fingers wide, trying to maximize the contact. Did I expect to feel a last surge of communication, a parting message from my late uncle? Truly, I don't know. Did such a thing transpire? I'm unsure about that too. What I do know is that I felt an intense satisfaction to have acted on my impulse.

“He was a good uncle,” James said.

Not trusting myself to speak just then, I nodded. Really, he was a lot more than just a good uncle, I thought.

Turning, James and I walked away across snowy turf back to the cemetery's roadway. The coffin and the man's remains inside stayed behind.

Plenty of people will miss Peter. The world could use millions more much like him.

Probably crime isn't much of a problem in the celestial district where Peter's spirit lives now. But I'd wager that since his arrival, any resident “bad cats” must have gone on the run.

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