Kenneth Richard Wardroper

Kenneth Richard “Ken” Wardroper

October 1, 1943 – September 6, 2026

Kenneth Richard Wardroper, better known simply as Ken, lived a life that was, in every sense, uniquely his own.

Born in North Vancouver on October 1, 1943, Ken travelled, worked, raised a family, built a home, made friends, fixed just about anything that could be fixed, and managed to leave an impression on nearly everyone who crossed his path.

He eventually made his way to Prince George, where he worked for BC Rail and started building his career and family. Later, he settled in Victoria, where he continued working hard and became part of the Bluebird Cabs family. Ken was a provider by nature. He worked hard for what he had, invested in his future, owned his home, and took a great deal of pride in building a life without a formal education.

Ken believed that if you worked hard enough, figured things out, and refused to give up, you could probably make just about anything work.

And if you couldn’t?

Well, Ken would figure it out anyway.

He was stubborn. Very stubborn.

He could be opinionated, protective, inappropriate, frustrating, hilarious, generous and incredibly loyal—sometimes all within the same conversation.

He wasn’t always the easiest person to argue with, largely because he was usually convinced he was right.

And, to be fair, sometimes he was.

Ken loved his daughters, Karla and Pasha, fiercely. He adored his grandchildren, Zaya, Azura and Kenadie, and was incredibly proud of his family. He also remained deeply loving toward his former wife, always believing she was the best mother his children could have had.

Ken wasn’t necessarily a man who expressed his feelings with long conversations or sentimental speeches.

He showed you.

If you needed help, he came.

If your car broke down, he was there.

If you needed money, he found a way.

If something wasn’t working, he was already taking it apart.

And if you made a questionable decision, there was a very good chance Ken would let you know about it.

He wasn’t much for formal teaching.

Sometimes the lesson was simply:

“Here. Hold this.”

And suddenly you were learning how to fix something.

Ken loved sports, especially baseball and soccer, and was particularly proud of his accomplishments in professional soccer during his younger years.

He loved his dogs and treated them like members of the family. He loved his home and his yard and could happily spend hours working on something that nobody else had noticed needed fixing.

He loved his neighbours and was often the first person to offer help. He made friendships that lasted decades, including friendships that went all the way back to his younger years in Vancouver.

He loved his motorcycle and the freedom that came with riding. He enjoyed getting out on the road, exploring, and doing things his own way.

And then there was The Rolling Stones.

Ken didn’t just like The Rolling Stones.

He was obsessed.

They were less of a band to Ken and more of a lifestyle.

His mornings also had their own routine: tea, sweeteners, and whatever else Ken had decided was necessary to start the day properly.

He also had a unique philosophy when it came to possessions:

If you could possibly use it again, why on earth would you throw it away?

Ken was recycling before recycling was cool.

Old pieces of paper became notepads. Things that most people would have put in the garbage somehow found a second, third or possibly fourth life.

He proudly made little notepads out of used paper and gave them to people as gifts.

Were they beautiful?

Not necessarily.

Were they useful?

Absolutely.

Were they unmistakably Ken?

Without question.

And then there were the binoculars.

Nobody quite knows what Ken was watching.

But Ken was watching something.

And he was very committed to it.

These are the stories that will be remembered and retold. The little habits. The strange collections. The unsolicited advice. The things that made everyone laugh, roll their eyes, shake their heads, and say, “Yep. That’s Ken.”

But underneath all of those quirks was a man who cared deeply.

Ken’s greatest joy was his family. And one of his deepest heartbreaks was losing his youngest granddaughter and namesake, Kenadie.

Losing Kenadie changed him.

It was a loss he never truly recovered from. In the years that followed, dementia gradually took hold, and the Ken his family knew became harder and harder to reach.

His final years were difficult.

There were losses that came one after another—the loss of independence, the loss of memories, and eventually the loss of so much of the person he had always been.

But one thing never changed.

He was loved.

His daughters remained devoted to him, and his family continued to be there for him. During his time at The Summit in Victoria, he was cared for and surrounded by people who made sure he was safe, comfortable and never forgotten.

Even when he could no longer always understand who was beside him, his family knew exactly who he was.

He was Dad.

He was Grandpa.

He was Ken.

Ken leaves behind his daughters, Karla Wardroper and Pasha Raine, and his grandchildren, Zaya and Azura, while Kenadie’s memory remains forever woven into the family he loved so much.

He also leaves behind friends, neighbours, former colleagues and countless people who knew him throughout his life.

Ken was far from perfect.

He could be difficult.

He could be stubborn.

He could be inappropriate at exactly the wrong moment.

He wasn’t particularly talented at washing dishes.

And sometimes, when he was trying to help, he somehow created another problem that someone else had to fix.

But he showed up.

He worked hard. He provided for his family. He fixed things. He protected the people he loved. He gave generously when he could. He loved his dogs. He loved his home. He loved his sports, his motorcycle and The Rolling Stones.

He drank his tea.

He saved his paper.

He watched through his binoculars.

He gave advice nobody had asked for.

And he somehow managed to make himself unforgettable.

That is what people will miss.

Not just the big things.

They will miss the little things that were so completely Ken.

His voice.

His stubbornness.

His humour.

His strange inventions.

His stories.

His advice.

His ability to turn a simple problem into a full-day project.

His willingness to rescue someone from a mess.

And even the things that drove everyone absolutely crazy.

Because when you love someone, you don’t just miss the easy parts.

You miss all of them.

Ken lived his life his own way.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was real. He was complicated, funny, stubborn, generous, hardworking and fiercely devoted to the people he loved.

He was our dad.

Our grandfather.

Our neighbour.

Our friend.

He was Ken.

And he was loved.

He will be missed more than words can say.