Alan Dolan Memorial

The Path Less Traveled

My Mother, Sharon Chambers, is Alan’s cousin. However, that has always felt awkward and insufficient to explain my connection to Alan and Susan.

My memories of Alan and Susan feel like a continuous conversation in kitchens and around food-filled tables that weave together time and landscapes along the West Coast.

I think we first met in Victoria, probably in 2001 or 2, I had finished my Master’s at UVIC, and my mom made a rare West Coast visit. I remember that it was at the house on the block in Victoria with edible chestnuts. I have this image in my mind of my mother showing Alan a stack of photos. As she explained them, I felt that Alan looked at me as if to say, “But who are you?”. 

I immediately sensed that Alan and Susan had more in common with me than with my mother, a cousin, and peer-in-age. 

And indeed, we did. 
· We had attended Queens and spoke fondly of the greater Kingston landscape. 
· We had come west to the sea, mountains, and lush forests – and if I recall correctly, none of us had any particularly solid career opportunities. 
· Alan and I both had the privilege of working with First Nations communities.
· We loved music – all kinds.
· We cared about the planet and community.
· We tracked world politics and were willing to argue about them.
· We read widely. 
· We loved food, gardening and cooking. 

That initial shared meal led to others when I would come back from UC Davis and visit them in Victoria and Sidney. And through the sharing of food in my home as they made stops in Portland on their way down to or back from seeing Stacey, Joel, and the kids. I am eternally grateful for those visits.

The times with Alan and Susan, and the letters and emails exchanged in between, repeatedly showed me that perhaps there was another way to be. 

Two roads diverged in a wood, and they –
Alan and Susan took the one less traveled by,
And for me, their example of choosing the path less traveled has made all the difference.

Kimberlee Chambers

A wise and loving father

I have memories of my Dad reaching back to when I was two—but I think my earliest one might be from even before that, because it’s not a picture in my mind. It’s a sound. And a feeling. The sound of his guitar, and the warmth of absolute safety.

Dad’s parenting in the 80s didn’t quite match the version you saw on TV. He had firm boundaries, yes—but also vulnerability, affection, and an instinct for listening to the worries that only make sense when you’re little.

Later, he listened with patience and genuine interest to every storm my teenage self faced. His advice shaped how I made every big decision in life. And even weeks before he got sick, there he was—on the phone with me, weighing the options, helping me choose the right path forward. Did I soak in enough of that wisdom? Did any of us? Because I didn’t just have a remarkable father—I had a confidant I could always turn to for clarity when the world tilted.

I am deeply grateful for the 44 years I had with him. And in the last 12 of those years, I got to watch him transform into “Grandad” for my kids. I saw the way he tuned himself to each child, finding their smiles even on the hardest days. And on those afternoons when the house was chaos—crying baby, wailing toddler—he would sit down, pick up his guitar, and start to play. Raffi tunes. Beatles songs. Familiar chords that dissolved the noise until tiny hands tapped the rhythm or rested quietly, just listening.

And then there were the evenings—kids finally asleep—when we’d roll out the board games, dig into the chocolate stash, and brew big pots of tea. Those nights were about the simple, steady joy of being together. We laughed often, sometimes Dad would laugh till he cried, and it was infectious. 

On his visits down to California the past few years, we started to have song nights with friends over and we’d sing through the Rise Up Singing pages. Circle Game, Tennessee Waltz, Tomorrow, Case of You… often around a crackling fireplace and always after a feast of great food. He inspired me to start our annual caroling party and carry some of that sing-along legacy into our lives. 

Remembering Alan, by Jonah

The last time I saw Alan was last December at a music night in Metchosin. I mostly spent that evening chatting with Susan at the kitchen table, while the musicians played in the next room, but hearing Alan’s playing resonating through an old house felt very familiar and comforting. 

I couldn’t say how many family gatherings where he gamely led a group of musicians (some more aspirational than actual) through a binder full of tunes from Rise Up Singing. More times than I could count. One particular song that sticks in my mind from those sessions was ‘You Ain’t Going Nowhere,’ which would always get people singing along on the chorus: “Oh oh are we going to fly down in the easy chair.” Reading through some of the stories shared on the memorial site from Alan’s old friends, it becomes apparent what a lifelong passion music was for him. It seems only suiting that he was singing some of those same songs from his youth right up to the end.

While our friendship goes back to the years on Humpback road, I think a lot of my strongest memories of Alan were from the big house on Marlborough street in Fairfield. I remember his office upstairs (always with an Apple computer), as well as many potlucks, hangouts and other activities through the years at which he was a constant friendly presence.  

In hindsight, I wish I had spent longer talking with Alan last Christmas, especially since opportunities to visit with him had grown more scarce recently. I knew he had undergone some troubles with his health, but he seemed as vital as ever, and I just figured we’d see one another again before too long. I was distraught to learn how quickly his health declined before he passed. Even though we won’t get to see one another again, I will always remember him very fondly as a gentle, thoughtful, principled and kind man.

Jonah Gray

Alan, remembered by Doug Palmer

I first got to know Alan when he would visit and later move into the apartment I shared with Bob, Ron, Judy, Maureen, and Glenn on Hotel de Ville in Montreal in the early 1970s. Great if somewhat foggy memories of making and listening to music, playing three-handed chess, and proposing solutions to all the world’s problems.

Without question, Alan had a major influence on my life.

When Alan moved to the cabin he shared with Susan on Lake Opinicon, my visits there led me to a decision to try to emulate what seemed so obviously the right way to live.  So, in 1979, I moved from Montreal to a cottage on Leo Lake, owned by the wife of the landlord of the farmhouse on Cranberry Lake that Alan and Susan had moved to, and enrolled at Queen’s, following their earlier example.

Around 1990, when my landlady found my garden, Alan let me move the plants to the property they were renting near Tamworth and then he did the majority of the watering of them for the six or so dry weeks until they flowered.

Alan made me the top of the table, that still sits on my porch, for one birthday, and called or visited on most of the others, over the five plus decades of our friendship.

One time when money was tight, Alan insisted on buying me a set of replacements for my bald tires.

More recently, toward the end of a long winter, when I had mentioned that my wood supply was getting a little tight, Alan took it upon himself to call the local social services people and arranged for them to surprise me with a load of wood.

Countless times, over the years, Alan was there when I needed to talk to someone sane about life’s absurdities, to chuckle or laugh about what was going on in our lives.  Fewer but precious were the times we got together to play guitar.  Always, I could count on coming away from an interaction with Alan feeling better about life.

I do not know if I deserved to have such a friend but I do know what a blessing and privilege it was.

There is a curve on my road home from Kingston that Alan thought I took too fast.  Every time I take it now, I apologize to him and slow down a hair.

By Doug Palmer

Alan, remembered by Susan Richardson

Alan and I started hanging out together around 1967-68 or so in a group of friends that brought together “the boys from the west island” with the girls of the Town of Mount Royal in Montreal, a very successful mixer! We had lots of great times together, bopping around in his mother’s “White Tornado” (I don’t even recall the actual type/year of car, which would probably shock him). Our best times usually involved music. It was the 60’s after all and we felt we had the best music of all time; I still do. We enjoyed it live, listening to up-and-coming folk singers at the Yellow and Back Door coffee houses (Bruce Cockburn, Richie Havens, Jerry Jeff Walker, Jesse Winchester, McGarrigle sisters) and oldsters like Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, Doc Watson and Ramblin Jack Elliott. Alan, of course, was always playing on his beloved guitar, working on his technique and expanding his repertoire. Occasionally he tried to jam with me on the flute, but my classical training always got in the way. 

Over the years, we kept in touch, thanks to Alan’s persistence. This wasn’t easy, especially with our respective busy lives, geographic differences when he and Susan moved to BC from Ontario, and before the internet. I think Alan’s special magic was nourishing and maintaining friendships across distance and time. He excelled at this, and no matter the length of time since we last spoke, it always felt like we had just hung up the phone the day before. He was always present with his cheerful voice, thoughts on life, funny anecdotes and pride in his family and their accomplishments and of course, his love for his and Susan’s wonderful grandchildren. I know that all his friends, family and close associates also had the benefit of this kind of rare friendship. 

It is so sad to lose a good and faithful friend, but I give thanks for the wonderful connection we have had over the years. I know the music will be amazing at his celebration of life and I’m sure he will be there to enjoy it.

Susan Richardson

Transition Sooke Members Recall Alan

Except from the Transition Sooke Newsletter from May 2025 by Susan Belford

At the May monthly meeting a few days ago, Transition Sooke members shared what they miss and valued most about Alan…

Alan is the reason I’m here (in Transition Sooke) today.

Alan was a force of positive energy, compassionate and kind.

Even if he didn’t understand he listened and kept listening until he did understand.

He was a leader, an inspiration, an outstanding environmentalist, a caring friend, he is hard to let go of.

We see the benefits of Alan’s work, they are tangible.

He was “our rock” keeping us grounded.

He worked with us to create structures that aren’t bureaucratic but kept things in order while letting us be the unique organization that we are.

He and Susan were wonderful meeting hosts in their warm, open home.

He made incredible scones.

It is a gift to have known him.

Read the entire newsletter here.

Singing in One Voice

In the fall of 1971, Alan and I lived a few blocks apart in the McGill Ghetto area in Montreal. He had a ground-floor room on Pine Avenue, and I rented a one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a three-story walk-up on Lorne Avenue.  

Alan loved to play his Guild F-50 guitar, and I loved to listen to him working his musical magic. He had his heart set on purchasing a new Martin guitar, and when he bought it that October, he offered to sell me his Guild. I snapped it up for $50. Best deal of my life.

The two of us spent hours playing together through the long winter nights in Montreal. Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Bruce Cockburn — Alan transcribed dozens of their songs. He played lead, and I’d hack away at the chords, trying to follow along. We never performed for anyone, but we sang in one voice. We were two single young men feeling the zest and freedom of the 1970s — a magical era that has long since disappeared.

Over the years, Al kept a jealous eye on the old Guild. He often asked me if he could buy it back. When the internet entered our lives, he’d occasionally Google the value of the instrument and offer me the going rate. I always told him, “No way, my friend. That axe is mine.”

That might have seemed selfish at the time. But now, when I glance at the guitar, I think of Alan and reflect on the times we shared together, singing in one voice. He was so generous to pass the Guild on to me, and I’m so glad I kept it for myself. Now I have a little bit of Al with me forever.

Thank you, Alan. You were the best of friends in Montreal, then in Vancouver, and over the past many years here in Victoria. It’s so sweet to have you sitting here at my side.

With love, Don Bailey

PS — A 1971 Guild F-50 was recently sold for a nose over $3,000 by Emerald City Guitars in Seattle.

A Beloved Mentor

We met Alan and Susan when we moved to Vancouver Island from Belgium in 2023. They welcome us with such warmth and generosity, and in our eyes, went on to become surrogate parents and mentors. They have been such an inspiration to us, as a young couple navigating the ups and downs of life, in a world which demands that we stand up, show up and build something better. That’s exactly what Alan embodied.

To me (George), Alan was a role model – an older, wiser male figure who showed me what living a full, active, meaningful life means, while being a loving father and husband at the same time. That example and spirit will live on in me, even if he has gone.

To me (Izzy), Alan’s hug remains forever imprinted and a representation of the person he was, warm, gentle, fully present to that moment. You both opened your arms to us, teaching us so much, and there is nothing more sincere than that – I’m forever grateful that our paths crossed. We will miss you, Alan.

Izzy and George

Roommates in Waterloo

A Life Spent Changing the World

When I joined the Green Party I was in my mid-20s and wanted to change the world NOW. Alan was involved in the party and an off-shoot called Rhythm’n’Greens. Not only was Alan the calm voice of reason, moderate and inclusive and engendering even more respect because of his earlier-than-most white hair. Over more than 30 years of our friendship we saw each other only every two or three years, and Alan and Susan were always very generous with their space, putting up me and my family while visiting Victoria more than once. I wouldn’t call myself a very close friend, but we could and did talk about anything, including changing the world. And I believe Alan did change the world, at least a part of it, for the better.

Andy Telfer