Dale Edwin Bunce

Once upon a time in the Canadian West, a son born to Gordon Elvin Bunce (WW2 pilot officer, Mobil Oil exploration exec and equal rights proponent) and Mary “Mamie” Hunter Bunce (née McPhee) (arithmetic whiz and mentor of chaos) was proof that one fearless child was quite enough.

Dale's older, surviving cousins, Sandra Paul (née McPhee) and Donna Huger-McPhee (née McPhee), are the semi-siblings of whom he was quietly proud.

In his first months, Dale survived improbable rocks through a windshield and an air launch – harbingers of chaos to come.

Scarlet fever, brought home from a bonspiel, left him needing thick glasses, but he was a born warrior. Before he was 10, Dale was a goose and dog biter (they bit first, no charges laid), a conniving gang leader of a dog-pound Great Escape, and he taught others that hitting him in the head just made him ask why.

But he was also a welcomed summer play-date of a bear family in the woods near the skid shack where he lived that season. If he wasn’t in sight, so long as the dog was absent as well – his mom knew whom to call to get both. On his first day of school, his dog, cat and duck sat patiently at the class window, a co-operative stack of companions destroying school discipline until Dale was sent out to take them home.

Dale's teen years? Feeling a bit unwell and wanting to avoid a test, he reported for time off and improbably saved himself from a ruptured appendix. That not being enough, a tree broke his neck in a boulevard football game. He walked home from the game, his neck bent over; a neighbour who was a nurse was the only one who got excited.

When he walked that off, it was the late 60s/early 70s at James Fowler High School in Calgary, AB. If you know, you know.

Dale signed up with the Canadian Forces at 17. Too smart for his own good, he served in Signals Across Vietnam, Egypt, Cyprus et al (some with British forces). He improbably survived a tank trap that shredded his leg, a nighttime knife attack that gave him the worst paper cut of all time across his belly, a tank mine in the road that spared him as the vehicle rolled down a hill, radiation exposure, detention, promotion, demotion, heroism, amnesia and insistence on adventures – like solo mornings in a Cairo souk alley, where the crazy Canadian boy insistent on drinking real coffee was adopted by the alley families, because he spoke their love language.

Back in civilian life, Dale worked North of the 49th with his father, introduced to it all by scraping ice off an Arctic plane's windshield mid-flight while his dad holding his legs. Then, he went from Iqaluit to California in 2 days, driving from Calgary with a friend in their Shelby Cobra, finally car camping on a beach with noisy neighbours – The Doobie Brothers, who tutored them on surfing and the California scene.

Around that, Dale met a future King as a fellow veteran, sharing tales, but also walked off another improbable broken neck from diving into a pool, a confined explosion, a thrown Thor's hammer to the head, an exploding window’s shrapnel, pericarditis from working hard, and various injuries of bodily wear and tear not listed here.

He took himself out of the gene pool with his life partner of 47 years, Nancy Niles, who joined up after his warranty (mostly) ran out. She gave up doubting his stories after too many witnesses, backing him through the rest of it to the end.

Dale was a lifelong martial artist; hard form Tai Chi, Wing Chun, Judo, with bits scattered in. He was a multi-sports enthusiast player and watcher, calculating odds and being the best unpaid colour commentator the world never knew. He was a natural at Florentine-style sword sport fighting, earning himself a spot among the elite. He was always ready to mentor, informally and as a licensed coach. He especially enjoyed kids with mental disabilities blooming in confidence, not only in Judo, but at home.

Sports were his international language. He was an early adopter (Commodore 64 onward) of online gaming, where he eventually met and ran a fútbol league for a European company. He was a proud, cosmopolitan Canadian, making the Belarusian owners of a military tanks game guffaw as he surgically insulted a Russian player into a banned frenzy for calling Dale an American and not taking it back.

Dale was a descendant of the earliest settlers in the Calgary area. He was an irritatingly smart man, remembering everything and not suffering fools to a fault. He was an autodidact, soaking up knowledge and science, seeing the steps and implications. He was a jack of all trades, master of some. He was a good ol' boy crack shot. He was an inveterate coffee corner Don (Oxford and otherwise), conspiring with his inner circle at all hours of the night. He was a card-counting sharp. He was a pool hustler. He was a political campaign animal, believing in democracy for all, not in punching down.

Dale loved good food, pleasing aunties and grannies of all cultures with his appreciation. He was a snob about coffee. He loved quests, elevating mundane searches into the realm of glory. He loved driving and the adventures on the road that went with it. He loved music and his time with musicians, even as his guitar and loves were laid down.

He was frustrated by his body finally, truly failing his still fiery spirit. There was no walking off the cancer his fortitude had hidden from him for too long.

All of this is to say, Dale was a Story and Storyteller. He took all that he was and spun improbable, rich tales with the attention and actions of the many people in his story troupes, leaving the fireflies of those stories to create stars in their memories. He laughed when improbability worked against his well-laid plans, turned on a dime and built an even greater legend to remember.

In the end, he had many people tangled with him, buoyed by the laughter that came from his stories, his strengths and his flaws. To the ones tangled tightly with him, he was loved.

Now, he's stardust, tangled with the universe and beyond.

If you take a story from Dale Edwin Bunce – a Canadian son of Scottish clans that never let losing wars stop them from creating magnificent tales – let it be this: Improbable never equals impossible.

Be your own story.

Live your own story.

This obituary has been authorized by the family for posting on Foster’s Garden Chapel Funeral Home’s website. As such, it is protected against any reproduction or redistribution without prior consent from the family.