Ron Wallace, our mayor for life, was one of my favourite people. His sometimes vacant look and rolling of his eyes masked an intellect far superior to that of many of his peers. Ron was more than our mayor, our MLA and our optometrist, he was a friend.

I recall a fall morning in 1983, driving to work and listening to the local news. One of the lead stories of the morning was the previous evening’s debate over how much the city should pay a fundraiser to collect upwards of $25,000 for Ethopia, a country where millions were starving.

“No one should make money on that kind of grief, “ I shouted, scaring my dozing wife half to death. When we reached the Daily News, I went to my office and dialed the number for Ron  Wallace’s Bloomingdale Terrace home. Ron picked up the phone on the first ring.

With that, I embarked on my rant about the wrong-headedness of paying someone to raise money for starving people.

Ron agreed that it would be ideal to recruit a volunteer for the job, but wondered aloud as to who would take on such a challenge. Without thinking it through, I blurted out that I would.

“Wonderful, Al, we can announce it as part of the Halifax Explosion week, a way of giving back to the world, “ he suggested.

At that point, I had to approach my employers, and ask for a month’s leave of absence (with pay) to raise the $25,000.They agreed, provided I checked in at the office first thing every morning and wrote my column before moving on to City Hall. In a long story made short, without even one corporate donation, the Ethiopia campaign managed to raise $120,000 without a single penny being allocated to administration costs.

This scenario represented a vintage Ron Wallace project, utilizing the talents of the citizens of a city he deeply loved, and a population who loved him back.

One of my sidekicks in my youth was Howard Dill. Howard, a very bright student, was in my class in school. In those days, we all wore our favorite hockey team’s jerseys. Most of the room was red (Montreal) or blue (Toronto) save for two lone souls, Howard, who wore the colours of the Boston Bruins, and your scribbler, who was decked out in a New York Rangers sweater.

Howard, best known for his giant pumpkins, was a collector extraordinaire.. In those days, sending in a label from Beehive Corn Syrup would get you a black and white photo of an NHL player. I think Howard lobbied half of Hants County to save their labels, because those pictures laid the foundation for Howard’s remarkable sports memorabilia collection.

Like so many of his day, Howard dropped out of school when he was 16, and went to work on the family farm. The lack of a formal education did not impede this brilliant mind, as he developed the world-famous pumpkin seeds, and went on to carve out an international reputation.

The death of Fred Mounce, another “ Windsor boy,” a term he often used when introducing me, was shocking to say the least. Fred and his wife Anna, although a couple of years older than me, were friends from my hometown. In a small town, everyone grows up together. Simply put; we don’t forget our roots.

Whatever success I enjoyed during my media career,  I owe the credit for it to two people; Laurie Daly and Fred Mounce. Mr. Daly, also a director with the Halifax Herald, owned the Dartmouth Free Press, and hired me as their sports editor. Later, Fred took over the ownership and promoted me to editor.

His only advice, “You can take me to the steps of the court house but don’t take me inside.”  We came close a couple of times, but never faced a judge.

Fred was an incredible friend and boss. Never once did he pick up the telephone and question what appeared on the front page of the paper. He allowed his editorial staff complete freedom, and while our headlines tended somewhat more toward the sensational than the Halifax Chronicle-Herald, we never betrayed his trust.

The first Christmas I was editor, Fred took me out to the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron for a bite of food and a drink. The year, I believe,  was 1976 and when we finished our meal and were about to make our way home, he passed me an envelope, “A small Christmas gift.”

That “small gift” turned out to be a cheque for $500, a lot of money in 1976 for someone with a wife and four young children.

“In many traditions, “ the Dallas paper continues, three is associated with a quest for perfection or completion. In the world of sports, certain trinities are the paragon of achievement: the triple play in baseball; the Triple Crown in horse racing; hockey's hat trick (three goals in a game). “

For me, this application of the Rule of Three is saddening and bothersome. No one wants to lose one friend, let alone three, in such a short period of time. I will truly miss all three of these remarkable souls.

(Al Hollingsworth is a retired journalist and broadcater)