My favourite memory of Farley Mowat is of the night he chased my four-year-old son around a busy book launch, growling. He did claw-hands and showed his teeth and made a very convincing and fiendish wolf, which I don’t suppose will surprise anyone. He chased and my son screamed, and they were both laughing, too, and I think we were all kind of envious, the adults. Everybody wanted to talk to Farley, but he didn’t care: he had a small boy to delight.
Mowat died last Tuesday at the age of 92. He was a giant of a writer and a dearly funny, friendly man. He loved this country. He wasn’t really a hockey writer and never much of a player, either, opting out as a boy in Saskatoon, as he explained in this passage from Born Naked (1993), his childhood memoir.