In the stillness of a summer morning, on June 10th, Ron slipped gently from this world in Vernon, as if answering some ancient call that echoes only at the edge of time. His passing was peaceful, unhurried—like the final ember of a long-burning fire settling into ash.

He first arrived into this world on October 30, 1942, beneath the soft autumn skies of Oakland, California, born to parents who had carried their dreams across oceans—his mother from Italy, his father from Russia. From them, he inherited the layered hush of two old worlds, stitched together by diaspora and memory. His childhood unfolded in a circle of kin—many aunts, uncles, and cousins—who brought color and mischief and a grounding sense of belonging.

It was among the granite spires and pine-scented trails of the Sierra Nevada that Ron first touched the sacred thread of wilderness, a whispering presence that would later draw him northward, eventually guiding his footsteps to the mossy silence of Cortes Island.

Ron pursued the study of human care, earning a master’s degree in Social Work at the University of Washington. But his hunger for direct service drew him further still—into the clinical immediacy of medicine, training and practicing as a physician’s assistant in both the urban hum of Seattle and the austere majesty of Alaska.

With Marsha—his beloved and now departed partner in both family and frontier—Ron settled on Cortes in the 1980s, carrying with them their birth son Joseph and Jacob and Kim, children adopted from Korea. Later, the circle widened to embrace Abiot and Belete, brothers from Ethiopia, whose laughter and presence further rooted the family in a life shaped by love more than lineage.

They lived close to the land—tending garden rows, raising chickens and ducks, and honouring the ancestral rhythm of the hunt. While Marsha shaped young minds at Linnaea School, Ron became a father in the deepest sense—steadfast, present, and quietly brave. And when the island cried out in medical need—when no physician was present—it was Ron who stepped forward. With steady hands and deep resolve, he even coaxed a newborn back into life’s embrace.

He founded the Cortes Clinic—an act not of ego, but of deep service—and served it faithfully for many years, offering care with a humility that earned him a quiet place in the island’s story.

Ron was a man of many constellations. He carved wood as if coaxing the grain into story. He built boats and homes as others compose poems. He read the heavens, followed stars, listened to CBC like a monk attending sacred scripture. Later, he ventured into the digital realms—drawn to YouTube's vault of sailing adventures, culinary wanderings, and far-flung lands, tasting life with his mind long after his body began to slow.

His humour was dry as driftwood, his wit seasoned like the sea air, and his stories could lift the corners of a heavy day.

In 2007, he met Judy in Vernon and brought her back with him to Cortes, where they crafted years of shared laughter and reflection among the evergreens and tidal rhythms. But in 2023, the tide turned once more, and they returned to Vernon, drawn by proximity to family, to doctors, to the quiet sanctuaries of elder care.

Ron leaves behind a constellation of those who loved him—children, grandchildren, a great-grandchild, and countless friends whose lives bear the imprint of his care, his counsel, and his presence.

His ashes will return to Cortes on August 6th, around 3 pm, to be scattered at the cemetery in Mansons. It is fitting. Ashes to the earth, to the trees, to the whispering wind that once carried him here. All who wish to stand in remembrance, in gratitude, are welcome.