Blair (Otto) Elliott

May 13, 1943 - Sep 5, 2021

Blair (Otto) Elliott passed away at the age of 78 on September 5th 2021, in just the same way as he preferred to live his life - dignified, without much fuss, and surrounded by his loved ones. He is survived by his 4 children (Clint, Bruce, Vicki, and Jay) and 14 grandchildren, his sister Gail, and his wife Jean. Condolences and photos may be shared online at www.choicememorial.com. A celebration of his life will be held at a later date (possibly next summer) near a lake or a stream, which is what he loved.

Born in 1943, he grew up as the son of a Station Agent for the CN Railway. This meant living in the attached quarters of various small-town Alberta train stations, where he got used to the continual shaking and thundering of the passing steam locomotives (but which caused a friend or two to wet themselves with fright at 3am during a sleepover). One of his fondest childhood memories was of riding the caboose (with a paper-bag lunch from Mom) while his Dad telegraphed the Station Agent a few stops down to ensure he’d be sent back. Always an outdoorsman, he subjected the family to a wide array of pets that possibly should have been left in the wild. When he discovered an owl’s nest with babies, he stole 2 of the hatchlings and raised them in the house. This meant having to hunt gophers to feed them, or spending his allowance to buy hamburger when the hunt left him empty handed. The owls actually did very well sitting on the back of the couch watching TV with the family, and were eventually conditioned to the outdoors and released. Besides the ‘normal’ cats & dogs, he also had 3 rabbits & 2 chipmunks. But his Mom had to put her foot down when he and sister Gail brought home garter snakes, tucked-in their shirts, where they tickled their tummies on the bike ride home.

Although he didn’t end up retiring “near water” as he dreamed, he did spend the last few years living by a few basic principles. First was that “Happiness is a journey, not a destination”, which he quoted repeatedly from the etching on a picture-frame he got in a second-hand store (and which still contained the generic ‘Smiling Man with a Dog’ photo it came with, since he was too cheap to replace it with one of his own). To this end, most mornings you could catch him sitting on the front porch watching the sunrise, listening to the birds, and no matter the weather or drudgery of local news, it was guaranteed that he’d tell you what a beautiful day it was and how happy he was to be part of it. He made a conscious choice that each day would bring something to be thankful for, because the journey mattered more than where he ended up.

Another principle he lived by was to warm the hearts of those around him. He delighted in baking your favorite pie (as neighbors from Arizona to Alberta can attest), giving his time each week to help a local non-profit, or simply being there as a friend you could always find comfort with. His only fault was in making it difficult to leave his company, because the invitations to “stay for just 1 more drink” would continue as you walked to the door.

He was intensely hard-working, and took his role as a provider with a great deal of responsibility. (Traits he passed on to all of us). Yes, he drove everyone nuts with his frugal ways (such as a family trip to the National Park gates… only to turn around before paying, saying “Wasn’t that a nice day out?”), but at the same time he made sure everyone was taken care of, and those around him could always relax knowing the household affairs were in order. And when it really mattered, his generosity was vast.

He grew up in a strict household where feelings were not talked about, yet he still couldn’t contain the fact that he was a softie with his heart on his sleeve. He wasn’t shy about giving bear hugs (daily), saying I Love You, or allowing a tear to be shed as the phone-call ended or family packed to leave. Even then - he’d make it known you’re expected to forget something in your room, because “My mother always said it means you’ll be back.” (And if you didn’t, he’s been known to sneak a little something out of your bag to ensure it happened. … Dammit, I really needed that shirt … looks like you win again).

Besides family, his other love affair was food - not just eating it, but making it. Since passing he’s generously left his family with hundreds of cook-books and hand-written recipes … tucked into his briefcase, on top of the fireplace, amongst the accounting ledgers, beside the bed, and in the console of his car. Although he started life with a degree in Pharmacy (but departed within a year, saying “I can’t stand listening to everyone in town complain about their illnesses”), he later moved into the field of Accounting. This served him well but it wasn’t until he purchased two A&W restaurants in Lethbridge that he really honed-in on his passion. Unfortunately his desire to give people what they wanted didn’t sit well with A&W, especially after he installed a theatre-style popcorn machine and began baking cookies which weren’t previously on the menu. So naturally, this lead to opening his own restaurant instead - and it was here that he unleashed his full potential, eventually spending over a decade building his dream at The Igloo Drive-In, in Fort Macleod. He was so proud the day the the milk-man asked, “Are you reselling this milk product somewhere? Because I’m delivering more to you than all of the Dairy Queen’s in Lethbridge combined.” And the good news for his family was that every holiday became a research excursion to try new restaurants while he fine-tuned his recipes, meanwhile at home even a simple zucchini stir-fry required a day to marinate but eventually turned into a culinary work of art.

He was a hard working man who lived his life with honor - full of love, rooted in kindness, and with a few conspiracy theories tossed in for good measure. He touched all of us in so many ways, and this page serves as a continual celebration of his life. We’d love for you to share your own stories, memories, and experiences too (by clicking on the Memory Wall).