The following is the the eulogy I delivered at Monk's funeral on 11 Sept., 1989

I am Rod MacDonald, a nephew and great admirer of my uncle Monk. I have always regarded Betty and Monk's home as my second home, a place where we shared so many common interests and great fun.

Monk was also my dear friend. To sit down and think about what to say to you this evening has been a difficult thing to do, but a labour of love. I am honoured to have this opportunity to share with you a few of the hundreds of memories and thoughts I have of monk from the course of my life.

Betty, Gene, Cathy and all of us here tonight have our own personal memories that will stay with us forever. I am fortunate to be able to spend a few short minutes recalling some of my thoughts for you.

Feb. 29, 1916 to Sept. 7, 1989. Seventy-three years of a person's life. I remember about 41 of those years, and many of you remember many more than that.

Yet I want us all to remember the last full day of those seventy-three years-Sept. 6, 1989. A day that began and ended like many others for Monk, doing the things he liked best to do.

In the morning he played golf with his friends. In the evening he and Betty went out for their favourite lobster dinner, laughed and enjoyed the evening tremendously. They went home and watched the Blue Jays game on TV. Monk fell asleep in front of the TV and snored contentedly. A perfect day!

Over his life, monk loved all the sports he could get his hands on. From his earliest teenage years to Sept. 6, 1989 he played basketball, baseball, golf and curling.

He loved the comeraderie of sports. He loved the attention to detail he could make trying to do the little things well, the attempt to achieve personal perfection in a task well done. It didn't matter that it wasn't perfect, he knew it never would be. Nobody has 18 holes in one, nobody scores eight 8-enders, nobody goes 4 for 4 every day.

What there was, all that there was, was the joy of trying to do it better while enjoying the company of his closest friends. This model was one I think we all envy, to see it in ourselves, in our children, indeed in our national athletes and all people everywhere. But Monk never saw himself that way. He was just doing his best at what he liked to do. Only those of us who came to know him saw those wonderful qualities.

You may not know this, but Monk played baseball for 20 years from 1931 to 1950. He played every game but one as a catcher - an amazing feat of longevity and dedication all by itself even without a three year interruption to serve in Canada's Navy, and even without playing on three Ontario Senior championship teams in 1940, '41 and '46.

I remember well Betty taking Gene and me to the games at Oakes Park in the late 1940's, of seeing uncle Monk running, hitting, and catching with that singular number 5 on his back. I remember well the names Rufrano, Worrall, Hardison, and Stevenson (Jack Stevenson was also his best man when Monk and Betty were married), and so on that were uncle Monk's friends. Names I read along with his in the Review every day, Doug Austin writing about what were my own personal boys of summer. This was pretty wonderful stuff for an eight year-old kid.

Later it was curling and golf - that combination of finesse sports that only the patient, graceful, and skillful play well. And staying a great fan of baseball, managing every game in the grandest tradition of a true fan from a seat at the ball park or in front of the TV. I will tell you that when Gene called me last Thursday to break the sad news to me of Monk's passing my first reaction was shock, but my second and almost immediate reaction was anger over the extreme disappointment I was feeling that six more weeks might have seen him able to go to his first world series game. Oh, how I know he would have loved that.

But, perhaps we can imagine that he will still be watching and managing. If an unseen hand conspires to produce a World Series result he would have liked, perhaps we can all believe that Monk is still managing his ball team.

I know I will miss greatly talking baseball and politics and current affairs with monk over a coffee on a Saturday morning, going to spring training in Florida and having him there, seeing a ball game in Toronto with him and having a nice dinner together afterwards and all those lovely times we've had that are so dear to me.

Everyone knew monk. Mail addressed simply Monk, Niagara Falls arrived at 5566 Green Ave. I remember Betty and Monk coming to Chatham, Ont. in1970 to curl with us in a local club bonspiel. Between games a friend came up to ask me if that man's name was Monk because he looked familiar. When I told him it was, the two of them had a great reunion. They had been in the Navy together in 1943 in Calgary of all places. The number of you here tonight attests to his wide range of friends.

Monk was a man's man. He played things, he built things, he fixed things, he did man's things. But he did them with a great deal of grace and in such a self-effacing way that made you understand he did them for the sheer love of doing them and doing them well.

Whenever you drive by the floral clock at the Queenston generating station, think of Monk. He designed and built a great portion of it. Whenever you drive by 5566 Green Ave., think of Monk. He built that house almost single-handedly.

He claimed to be the world's best couch potato, but even at age 73 he would play golf any day, drive to Toronto to see a ball game anytime and keep up a large house and yard as well as anyone several years younger. He was busy, but thought nothing of it.

But a gentle man's man. Monk was gregarious, generous to a fault, with always a good word, and helpful to anyone in need. He and Betty could be discovered putting together a complete Christmas for a needy family. Buy and wrap gifts, everything with no thanks asked or needed. Just the joy of doing it. A man's man with consummate grace and sincere graciousness.

You all know about his delightful sense of humour. He could see the humour in any situation. He laughed about going south to play golf and having a room to himself because no one would share because of his snoring. He laughed about putting a rock on the button when he needed a guard - and vice versa. He knew it wasn't ever perfect and he always found the humour in any situation wherever it was to be found.

He was glad when grand children and great nieces came along because this gave him a new audience for his old jokes. We knew they were coming and enjoyed them all the more for seeing our own children enjoy the delights of our childhood that Monk gave us.

He lived a life full of family and friends. His friends from work like Earl and Dewey that he continued to golf with right up to last week, his friends from curling like Bob Burns, Jim Milne, and Fred Plato, his neighbours like George Rowe, George King, and Spike Green and so many others. More than I can mention in this short time. You all meant so much to him - I know, he told me.

But a gentle man's man with a love of life, a love of friends, a love of animals and all things living. A man I remember with a 5 on his back, who would take a carload of kids to a drive-in, who would drive to Florida and spend Christmas with me, drive to New York to see the longest double header ever at Yankee Stadium with me, see spring training games with me, who would drive to Chatham to curl with me, who would put on the coffee pot and visit at the drop of a hat. A man I will miss, but yet one who is a perfect set of memories for me.

I'm so happy to know that Sept. 6 was such a wonderful day - golf, a scrumptious lobster dinner, a ball game on TV, falling asleep contentedly on the couch. That's what I will keep as a perfect end to my set of perfect memories.

Betty, Gene, Cathy, you must believe that all of us here tonight, and friends that could not be here, offer you our sincerest thoughts in this difficult time. Words fail us - they are not adequate to express our feelings, but we know you know that. You can be certain that Monk is remembered so fondly by all of us, each in our own way, as you do in your own ways.

Thank you for sharing this man with us. And thank you for giving me the honour and opportunity to share just a few of the hundreds of memories I have with you all tonight.

Rod MacDonald - Sept. 11, 1989.

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