John Philip Goguen

After a brave battle with cancer, it is with great sadness that we announce the passing of John Philip Goguen, age 76, of Halifax on June 5, at home.

Born on August 13, 1948, and raised in Halifax, John was a graduate of Saint Mary’s University, where he earned his Bachelor of Arts and Education. He taught at Saint Catherine’s School, where he had been a student, for several years before moving to Saint Agnes Jr High, where he remained until his retirement. He was well-respected by his colleagues and former students, many of whom stayed in contact with him after he retired.

John was a lacrosse goaltender for the N.S. lacrosse team during the 1969 Canada Summer Games. He was a lifelong supporter of the lacrosse community. He played and coached hockey. He was also a dedicated cyclist for over 50 years, only stopping shortly before his cancer diagnosis.

John’s love for music was a big part of who he was. He always took great pleasure in introducing a new song or artist to a friend or relative and enjoyed quiet moments playing his guitar and composing original songs.

John was known for his quick wit and always had a clever quip for every occasion. His humour and positive attitude carried him through his illness, as they had through his entire life.

He is survived by his wife of 46 years, Donna (nee Pyke), and their sons, Marc (Allison), Joel (Becky), and Jon. John loved and cherished his family, always so proud of his ‘boys’. He also leaves behind his two grandsons, Augie and Beau, as well as his sisters, Linda (Michael) Ward of Kelowna and Anita (Barry) Fraser of Brookside and several nieces and nephews. He was predeceased by his parents, Clarence and Laura Goguen, and his older sister, Jeanne Crane.

Visitation will be held Thursday, June 26th, 6-8pm at Cruikshank's Halifax Funeral Home, 2666 Windsor St. Halifax.

Reflections written by his son, Marc:

I will miss him a lot and I will miss him often, though I know that he gave us everything he had.

He has given generously his wisdom, his passions, his time, and his life. Though he is gone, he will remain on my mind, and I will think of him.

I will think of him as a young man with shaggy dark hair, the eccentric type that stands between the goal posts, a mass of heavy rubber hurling toward him in the form of hockey puck or lacrosse ball.

I will think of him as a giant on the mountain top throwing us, his young children, toward the earth in a game of ‘floor is lava’ or swinging us, cocooned in a bath towel, singing an old song from Looney Tunes.

I will think of him as an iron man, if Cal Ripken Jr. were a junior high science teacher, duty bound, day by day, month by month, year by year, up at the crack of dawn, gone by the time we awoke.

I will think of him napping on the couch before dinner, rejuvenating himself so he could drive us through bad weather on the way to minor hockey.

I will think of him in a wooden rocking chair, ‘good for his back’ he would say, strumming his guitar, working on a song with no conclusion, finger picking a melody, humming under his breath.

I will think of how he saw the world, through the prism of comedy, every circumstance an opportunity to make a joke.

I will think of the slow grin that would creep across his face, that glint in his eyes as the wheels turned, an irreverent, sometimes inappropriate comment delivered reliably from the side of his mouth.

I will think of him as a tee-to-taler, who could tell you nothing about wine but COULD tell you about the best years for bugs bunny cartoons. ‘Ah yes,’ he would say reading the title screen before the cartoon started, ‘this is a 1953. A good year.’

I will think of him as a DJ, extolling the virtues of an ever-expanding record collection, never satisfied with lingering in the past, always in search of fresh sounds: folk and country, reggae, rock, and new wave.

I will think of the song ‘Just Like Heaven’ by the Cure in regular rotation alongside Bob Dylan, Sade, Bob Marley, CCR, Tom Waits and the Gypsy Kings amongst many others, providing the all-important soundtrack to our household.

I will think of him in his basement ‘workshop’ as I lay on my belly spying on him from above through the central ventilation grate. He’d work amongst the scent of oil and sawdust, most of the time tinkering with a bicycle.

I will think of his whistle, two pinkies in the corners of his mouth projecting, I swear to God, two city blocks, the signal for us to head home for dinner.

I will think of him on a Saturday night, ‘Hockey Night in Canada’, cheering on the Habs or yelling at them through the screen depending on the score. ‘Shhh! Quiet! Don Cherry’s on!’ he would say during intermission, before turning up the external amplification system that sat above the TV. He would tap it twice in anticipation of a static shock, turning the volume knob slightly before being taken aback by the inevitable electrical jolt. We, his flesh and blood, laughed uproariously as he cursed this recurring event. Our model of masculinity reduced to comic relief.

I will think of him on a Sunday morning, worshiping at the church of the open road, riding one of his many bikes into the infinite horizon, putting many miles on his aging legs.

I will think of him browsing the shelves of Schooner Books, the musty smell of pulp permeating an old Halifax house turned used bookstore.

I will think of him reading a variety of books, fantasy his preferred genre, way before Peter Jackson and Game of Thrones delivered it to the masses.

I will think of him as a man of invention, building worlds within the limits of our property line, most famously the backyard hockey rink, my father’s mission, his ‘field of dreams’. The floodlights illuminating our cold, dark winters, snowflakes gently falling to the shimmering ice surface below.

I will think of him enduring the local arenas, cheering from the stands, giving us pointers from the pilot’s seat of our family van after the game.

I will think of him as a supportive husband, proudly marvelling at my mother’s evolving ambitions from early 80s homemaker, sacrificing to raise young children, to community leader and organizer with minor hockey and Lacrosse Nova Scotia.

I will think of him in his post retirement gig at Chapters, chatting up the customers, refusing cashier duties. Paid to talk shop. A rebel in retail.

I will think of him as an older man, retired, whimsical and untethered, puttering away the days, no longer beholden to his career, his children aged into adulthood.

I will think of him on Halloween, his annual pilgrimage to my house in search of a peanut butter cup and a chat.

I will think about his bravery when facing death, how he took a page from his father in law’s book, finding strength in acceptance.

I will think about how he never felt sorry for himself but cried at the thought of saying goodbye to his children.

Though he is gone he is certainly still with us. His interests became our interests, be it my brother Jonny coaching a variety of teams, asking me whether I’ve been watching ‘House of the Dragon’, my mother spreading the gospel of lacrosse bringing in funding for underprivileged/underserved communities, me taking to the rails to trails on my bike, writing music with friends in my basement, or my brother Joel strumming a guitar while watching the Habs, passionately engaging with his sons, savouring fatherhood.

Going forward I will see the impish twinkle in the eyes of his grandsons Augie and Beau, children who, no doubt, will come across their eccentric natures honestly. I will see their expressions and it will make me think of him. And I will miss my father. I will miss him a lot and will miss him often.