We the family of Harley Eugene Burgess of St. Croix, announce his passing on October 12, 2018 in Windsor Elms Village. He was born in Newport Station on July 23, 1928, to the late Harold and Evelyn (Caldwell) Burgess.
Harley spent most of his life as a mechanic, working at Fundy Gypsum Company for over 28 years. He later worked in the Halifax area as a mechanic working for Blackwood Hodge and Seaboard Diesel.
You would always see him lending a helping hand to his family and friends or who ever needed help. He was always there to support his children and grandchildren. He especially enjoyed doing things with his grandchildren, such as walks in the woods, gardening or hockey games.
Harley was the last surviving member of his immediate family, and will be greatly missed by his daughter Angela (Michael) Doucette; son Cameron (Heather) Burgess, both of St. Croix; grandchildren Lexie (Ray) Burgess-Misner; Ethan (Marissa) Burgess; great-granddaughters Taya, Quinn, Cooper and another girl on the way any day.
Besides his parents, he was predeceased by his wife of 52 years, Phyllis (Lantz) Burgess in 2010; daughter Andrea (Angela’s twin sister); brothers Howard and Eric; sister Norma Thompson.
Cremation has taken place. A Celebration of Life will be held on October 20, 2018 at 2:00 pm in the St. Croix Church basement. Memorial donations may be made to the Alzheimer’s Society or charity of one’s choice. Arrangements have been entrusted to Serenity Funeral Home, 34 Coldbrook Village Park Dr., Coldbrook, NS, B4P 1B9 (902-679-2822).
In the box on the back of an old ford truck sits a man shucking corn on his tail gate. I pass him each morning, as the dew meets the mist and the stillness of dawn awakens. He’s got baskets with beets, carrots in bunches and peas ready for the taking. I can see he’s a proud man by the crisp red of the truck he drives and the cleanliness of his hardworking hands. I nod my hat to him and his eyes meet mine in our quiet good morning. His eyes are as blue as the clearest of skies and I can see although his hands are rough and worn he’s a soft soul. Today I’ve got no where to be particularly so I join him on the edge of the gate and I grab some corn to shuck. He tells me of his bride who waits for him at home in the house he built for her with his own two hands, of the life they’ve built on his acres upon acres of land. And he sits here morning until the night steals the day, selling what he can to provide for her, and the son and daughter that share this life. He’s got fields to forage and animals to feed back beyond the station tracks on the outskirts of this busy town. He travels here, down the old highway making a living in the tough of times by leading the simplest of lives. He says but a word or two, in his silence I read his story from the laugh lines on his freckled face and I can tell his heart is honest and his ears are good for listening. As I stack the corn back in the basket, in the bed of the truck, I remember my manners and say “thank you sir” and he quietly responds, ” you can call me Harley”.