WILLIAM WALLACE (BUD) ALLEN

It is with regret that we announce Bud’s prepaid one-way flight departed October 1, 2011, at 1:05 am. Bud was born on September 8, 1929, at Trail, B.C., where he spent most of his years playing, working and raising his family. He was an avid hockey player and a knowledgeable outdoorsman who enjoyed hunting, fishing and camping and who always had a few stories to tell of his adventures. He was employed for 43 years by Cominco as a technician. Upon his retirement he moved to acreage at Cascade/ Christina Lake where he continued to enjoy the outdoors. He gave generously of his time and resources to many groups and organizations. Bud’s departure will definitely be felt by family, friends, and countless others.

Bud is predeceased by his father Thomas F. Allen, stepfather Joe Nicholson, mother Minnie Houston Allen Nicholson and son Michael Richard Robinson. Bud is lovingly survived by his wife of 38 years, Frances Robinson Allen; his sister, Jane Nicholson; daughters: Karen (Tim) Feltis of Niagara Falls, Angela (Joseph) Robinson of Masset and JoAnna Allen of Kamloops; and sons: David (Constance) Robinson of Charlottetown, Stewart (Karen) Robinson of Edmonton, Michael (Tracy) Allen of White Rock and Nathan (Katie) Robinson; grandchildren: Jonathan, David, Filippo, Crystal, Eleanor, Linden, Amber, Stewart Jr., Amberley, Andrea and Chloe; great-grandchildren: Trevor, Tyler, Nathan and Aiden; best friend/’brother’ Jack (Lula) Reed of Tsawwassen; numerous nieces and nephews and their families; special friends, Rilla and Keith Story of Nanaimo and Cathy and Rod Korolek of Grand Forks; and many, many friends.

A celebration of Bud’s life will take place on Thursday, October 6, 2011, from 2:00-4:30 p.m., at Christina Lake Community Hall. In lieu of flowers a donation in Bud’s name may be made to the Heart & Stroke Foundation, Canadian Lung Association, Canuck Place, the Wildlife Foundation or a charity of one’s choice.

It isn’t death that hurts

That quiet slipping out

Of sunshine from an old loved room,

It’s afterwards.

The way you turn to share

The first blue violets

Or silver pussy willows on the trail,

And find yourself alone,

Or in the silence of an autumn night,

With frogs a-piping from the pool,

And cowbells lilting sleepily,

You turn and turn.

And every street you take has memory marks,

The break in the walk that was going to be mended—

It isn’t death that hurts,

That gentle blowing out of

Life’s brave flame

Too calm and kind to hurt,

It’s afterwards.

(Edith Baldwin)


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