James Aung Thin

This is such a beautiful, touching tribute to Jim and a life clearly well lived! I learned so much about him and the entire Aung Thin clan reading it. I am grateful for his long life, and for the beautiful family that he and Pam raised, especially for the friendship that I have enjoyed with Peter and Nancy for decades, and for the legacy that he leaves behind. May you all carry forward his keen intellect and spirit. I am grateful to have known him. Much love to you all!

A beautiful tribute to a very fine man. Jim and Pam were a lovely couple and treated each other with so much love and respect. We were neighbours in Blackburn Hamlet, and Pam and I were involved in all sorts of activities together. A coincidence, George and his wife now live in my home town of Mission BC! My condolences to the entire Aung Thin clan, give Pam a big hug for me.

Pam is my cousin and Bunny (as I used to know him in Burma) was my cousin-in-law. His obituary is a tribute to its authors – prose of pristine quality and so true to the man. When I was a boy growing up in Rangoon, Pam and Bunny’s match was very much a high-society calendar event, and bitter-sweet for me, as this man was taking my beloved Pam away. He noticed, and soon won me over, as he did with everybody. Most of all, I remember the way he lit up all around him and how privileged people felt to know this bright, cultured, interesting young man who was obviously going places. He was charming – he could chivvy you, make you laugh, and most of all he made your world a happier place.
I will tell you a story about Bunny that none of you knows. He and Pam had accompanied her parents (George and Val), and mine, on a family visit to my Aunt Beryl and Uncle John’s little house in Rangoon – Val, my Mum and Beryl were sisters.
For some reason, Uncle John was extremely depressed that day and determined to put a blight on everything. The males sat mooning on the small front porch listening to Uncle John’s bitter reflections on the world whilst the three sisters moped indoors. Eventually, Bunny cut through the moaning and groaning to address Uncle John. And that’s the first time I realized that Bunny had a lot more to him than most other men I have met in my life.
Grumpy, morose, bad-tempered Uncle John first stared, and then started listening to Bunny, who was spouting on and on about getting out of the dumps by getting rich through inventing something original and living the life of Reilly off the copyright royalties, a notion that seemed to greatly appeal to Uncle John, especially the life-of-Reilly bit.
My Dad and Uncle George looked on sceptically.
But my enthusiastic young cousin drove on, stimulating a now-galvanised Uncle John into coming up with dreadfully impractical and ridiculous ideas for new inventions, like a hot butter-knife filled with boiling water for frozen, refrigerated butter, or growing cabbages and brussels sprouts in air-tight bowls and bottling the escaping gas. Uncle John, by now getting more into his stride (but at least partly out of his depression) was encouraged to make a list of all the things he didn’t like in life. This took quite a bit of time because Uncle John took exception to a pretty vast number of things.
In the end, it was a mighty long list – but his favourite hate was toothpaste, because you could never get the last bit out of the tube. Bunny’s eyes lit up at hearing this, and he soon steered Uncle John towards tinned sardine cans, the ones you opened with a little stick-like key that rolled the cover off. Uncle John rushed off for pen and paper and started composing a copyright filing. He intended to take his application to Government House after the weekend to secure his invention - a sardine-tin type key on the end of toothpaste tubes to roll out every last bit of paste in the tube.
Uncle John wasn’t depressed any more, just very excited. Obviously, no copyright was ever granted because the sardine-can manufacturer had already invented the key – but the object of the exercise wasn’t to make Uncle John rich, just to get him out of a mind-numbing depression, which Dad and Uncle George and the rest of the family couldn’t do.
But Bunny succeeded.
And he’d done the whole thing so effortlessly, gracefully, kindly, and naturally. If it hadn’t been the sardine-can toothpaste key, it would have been something else. Like I said above, when there was rain, Bunny made the sun shine. This gift is bestowed on very few of us.
He wasn’t just good – he was great.

Mr AungThin, so sad that you are no longer with us. You gave a new perspective to things as broad ranging as the world of politics to the simple pleasure of eating a chilli. Oh yes! Those hot chillies that you warned me about, taunting me in to taking a bite! As a kid from the suburbs of Ottawa it was delightful to meet people with different backgrounds and experiences of our shared world. Thanks for sharing the good times. I know your are deeply missed.

I met Jim and his new wife Pam whilst on a visit to Rangoon,Burma. They had just returned from honeymoon coming back to be in time to celebrate my grandmother’s 80th birthday.
As a young child under 10, I was in awe of this handsome guy who had won the heart of my very pretty cousin, Pam. I was even more bowled over when I was exclusively invited to stay overnight at their house!!!
Many years later, I had the opportunity to visit and spend some time with Pam and Jim at their house in Ottawa. I visited with my husband and daughter and right from the start, they made us feel so much at home. I was in awe again of this man who could talk with gravity on any subject. The physics problems he was working through on the blackboard in his study were mind boggling!!! We also were able to laugh a lot with his jokes and stories. When my parents had both passed away, Jim soon became my go to person for advice and support when I was in need. He would come through with solid advice, always couched with positivity. I was very grateful for this.
To me Jim was the perfect example of someone who grasped life with both hands; he designed it rather than letting it design him.
We miss you Jim and you will remain in our hearts,
With much love from us,
Cheryl, Steve and Kimberley xxxxxx

We would like to send our respects in tribute to Jim: he was truly a fine gentleman, and will be missed : his wit and humour captured us all, and both he and Pam welcomed the “ Lanes “ into their Family. His many adventures led to a full and remarkable life. Our love goes out to Pam and the entire Family as we all remember a Great Husband, Father and Grandfather.

Jim was a wonderful kind family man. He worked hard all of his life providing for his family. He gave education to all his children and guided them to succeed in life. He managed a small garden but was an excellent cook and philosopher. I always respected his opinions. Jim is very much missed.

My deepest sympathy at this time. I have so many fond childhood memories of our family's time together on Parkridge Crescent and beyond - running around on the street and in your back yard, Sunday family adventures, your Dad's cooking finesse and of course, most recently, ringing in the New Year on Mr. Aung Thin's (as I still always referred to him as!) birthday. He will be remembered for the twinkle in his eye, his quick wit and gentle demeanour.

It was with great sadness when we heard about Jim's death.
It was in the year 2000 that we first met when he and Pam visited Australia for the birth of their grandson Julian. The short visit was a wonderful opportunity for us to appreciate our new extended family in Canada. Michelle, our daughter-in-law has kept us updated through the years of all the wonderful developments there.
Our sincere condolences to you all.

Dear Dad,
I love you and I miss you, though in many ways I feel you’re still here with me. I see you in Michelle, Pete and Pam Anne. They all have your flair for fashion, your immense generosity and your love of life. Michelle has your scholarly ways, Pete has your gourmet abilities, and Pam Anne has your sense for rightness (which is knowing the right things to say at the right time).
I also have my many memories of you – climbing your belly when I was just a toddler while you were napping in the sun. Laughing uproariously together watching Laurel and Hardy, playing chess, our travels together (especially Portugal and Greece, Cuba and Dominica). Reading the same books then discussing the stories, the characters and what it all meant. Drive in movies. Road trips – that time you and Mr Birta tried to figure out how everyone could ‘cleanly’ drink from the one bottle of pop that we brought. Building the cottage with you Mom and Pete (while fetching us a tool, I returned to discover a rabbit talking to your foot – “You’re Bunny and I’m a bunny. We should be friends!”). University days (I lived comfortably at home and shared my lessons with you). Touring England together when I lived there. The joy you took in welcoming Jenny into the family and your delight when Mattie and Lucy were born.
A remembrance I’d like to share here is our drives to fencing. I started fencing when I was eleven years old and went on well beyond university. You were always willing to drive me there and pick me up – twice a week, then three or four times a week as I advanced. You did the driving for many years until I was almost seventeen. Those drives were long, but they grew into our special time together. Sometimes we’d sit in companionable silence, sometimes we’d have conversations. We covered a broad range of topics. Our talks could be fairly ordinary while others were mind-expanding – but they were all interesting and comforting. You’d pose questions to challenge a young mind – like what’s the difference between fame and notoriety? We’d discuss strategy, tactics and how chess gambits could be applied to fencing. We’d talk about our philosophies of life, morality and integrity; what to value, who to be. We’d talk about books. I think you knew how important and meaningful those long drives and those long conversations were even if I didn’t. Years later I discovered there was a shorter way to drive and realized you had chosen the long way around every time.
God bless you and keep you, Dad, I’ll see you in my dreams until we meet again.