Birth date: May 4, 1967 Death date: Jan 17, 2026
It is with profound sadness that the family of Ken MacDonald announces his passing on January 17, 2026, at the age of 58, in Napa, California. Ken was born on May 4, 1967, in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, Canada. Ken’s professional car Read Obituary
Ken, As you and I know, you are my oldest friend, and I yours. It is a strange and reassuring aspect of our friendship that we have had long absences in each other's lives and are still able to reconnect, sometimes after years, and carry on as if we hadn't been apart. I am deeply grieved that no more happy reunions await us now. Your loss scars me as deeply as the bite marks your mom claims you left on me as an infant. (I hope I got you back for that.) I am saddened that I only got to meet your new family once, although it seems a most exquisite gift that you drove them all that way to surprise me that night in Kentville. It seems you must have known it was the last chance, and I am honoured that you did. I regret that we will never see our children running and playing together in the waves on Melmerby beach. The memories of summers we spent together in Pictou county seem so distant now. Your grandmother's farmhouse and the rolling green hills of Lorne were a sweet taste of freedom from my adolescent angst. Your family welcomed me as another son and gave me a warmth and trust I never felt in my own home. The week I spent with you in Ottawa was one of the highlights of my teenage years. You gave me the gift of rock music. Although you always claimed your favorite bands were better than mine, I think we can agree that Edward Van Halen was truly the king. I meant so much that we got to see him together in the 90’s. I never thought I'd get the chance. I cry when I see videos of him now. I think they are tears shed for memories of our youth long past. You introduced me to Portugal at a time when love and family was blooming for me. I can smell your cigar as we drank port and looked out over the azure waters off the coast of Lagos. North Americans seldom think of ancient surroundings like we saw there. A realization of how insignificant our lives really are, I guess. But also a lesson to wallow the joys of the present. Thank-you for that opportunity. I mounted the tile mosaic we bought on that trip in our new kitchen, unknowingly, the day after you died. I sent you a picture of it but, too late. You should really check Facebook more often. Your mother told me of your passing a few days after you left us and I called her for details. It brought back all the love and warmth that you and your family have shown me all these years. I reached out and told your sisters some nasty stories of our misspent youth since it seems you are now beyond reprimand. Your mom also told me that it was Tim who broke the news to her. Although I admit I am jealous that Tim got to spend more time with you than I, I don't think I would have had the fortitude to make that call. I'm glad you had such a true friend in your life. I wish it could have been me but geography betrayed us. I have put off reading your obit for nearly two weeks now. Your mom sent me the link but I have been unable to open it until tonight. (Thank God she has been there to keep us connected all these years.) I know that once I read it, this will all become real and I’ve been shamefully avoiding that. It seemed your obit was mostly about your career, which was strange to me as I know you mostly as a friend and not a college. And so I have taken these tearful moments to write down my own thoughts of our lives together. Believe me I've got whisky going during all this. I hate that we are now truly separated. It's devastating that I can't reach out and find you again. Thank-you for all the experiences you added to my life. Goodbye brother. I will always remember you. This time, I fear we won't meet again and that is truly sad.
Laurie
I knew Kenneth James MacDonald as Dexter. This nickname was bestowed upon him by Elsa, long before she became my wife, at a bar he (and I) frequented, where she worked. Before we get too deep, allow me to clarify. I know what you’re thinking, but no, this had nothing to do with Dexter brand bowling shoes. I can only imagine the sordid tales necessary for a Canadian national to acquire the Dexter nickname based solely on his association with a particular brand of bowling shoe. Alas, I know no sordid tales about Ken. Rather, this had everything to do with the semi-famous, albeit fictional, serial killer.
As you probably know, Ken was neither a blood splatter expert, or a serial killer, and I don’t think he bore even a slight resemblance to Michael C. Hall. On one crisp Saratoga night long ago, he did however, share the same first name as someone the police were looking for. A man who probably wasn’t a blood splatter expert, but very well could have been a serial killer. And to make a long story substantially shorter, that was enough for Elsa to start calling him Dexter.
Fast forward a few months and I found myself entering what I’m willing to say was Ken’s favorite bar. I don’t believe Ken was a patron at many bars, but I know he liked wine, and I know he enjoyed fine wine even more, and this bar, well, let’s just say it had a grand selection of fine wine.
On this particular evening, to my dismay, the bar was quite busy. At the time I was pursuing the bartender Elsa, and the abundance of patrons meant less opportunity to convince her, even if she didn’t know it yet, that my good looks and charming demeanor were important things missing from her life. So I settled into the only open seat at the bar and surveyed the room.
The lounge was full of self-aggrandizing pricks with a thirst for discussion involving wealth, power, and new conquests. In a nutshell, it was full of assholes. I sighed. Elsa was busy and I sensed it would be a while before she could break free long enough to take my order, let alone refill the now empty glass sitting in front of the smart dressed fellow next to me.
I was reaching for my phone when Elsa appeared out of nowhere to proclaim, “This is Dexter!” She motioned towards the gentleman next to me, whose glass I was surprised to see had already been filled.
I paused, off guard, and turned towards my neighbor. “I’m Tal. Pleasure to meet you Dexter.”
“Actually my name is Ken.” He smiled a warm, kind smile, sounding almost apologetic.
“No, that’s Dexter!” she said, placing a glass in front of me. Then, just as quickly as she appeared, she vanished, leaving me with a healthy pour of bourbon, and, unbeknown to me at the time, an introduction to a new friend.
I grabbed my glass and raised it, turning to Dexter. “To new friends,” I said.
“I can’t argue with that. Cheers!” he exclaimed. Our glasses clinked.
I noticed he was alone. “So ‘Dexter’ is it? What brings you here?”
“I come here to unwind after work. The wine is a bonus.” He grinned, taking another sip.
“Me too.” I added sheepishly, “Only I don’t drink much wine.” I filled my mouth with bourbon, questioning the intelligence of my last statement. Motioning to the rest of the room, I added “So how do you know all of these assholes?”
He looked at me, then out to the room of weirdos, then back to me. “I don’t.”
I was immediately at ease. “Dexter my friend, I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”
He lifted his glass without hesitation. “Cheers to that.”
Over the next eight years our paths crossed countless times. Most always at the bar. Most always with Elsa as our bartender. I realized he was the only patron I actually looked forward to seeing. If I visited on a night he wasn’t there, I found myself missing our chats. Ken was a beacon of sanity in a weird, weird world. No hidden agenda, no bullshit. A solid human. A good guy. A friend.
Elsa and I were married just over four months ago. Ken and Ivy would have been at the wedding had they not already had travel plans. Instead, we all met for dinner before their trip, to catch up. The memories came flooding back. Our banter didn’t miss a beat. We were in a different restaurant, in a different town, but mentally we were all right back in the bar, talking smack about all the weirdos we know and laughing at our collective fortunes, and misfortunes.
Unwinding.
But life happens. And even though we had plans to get together after their vacation, Ken and Ivy never took that trip, and as difficult as it is to comprehend, I never saw him again.
Meeting friends later in life is an underrated joy. The older we get, the more set in our ways we become, and the easier it is to push people away rather than let them in. Ken was a shining reminder of that joy.
I miss you Dex.
I will miss calling you Mr. Canada 😢
Thank you for all the fun, learning and adventures since Elevate days.
Rest in eternal peace Brother.
You will always be in my heart and thoughts.
-Mafi
Ken will always hold a special place in my heart. Some of my fondest childhood memories are the summer months we spent together in Nova Scotia, along with our family gatherings back in Ontario. I still smile thinking about us picking blueberries and, already revealing the business acumen, setting up shop roadside in Lorne to sell them to passers-by. Even then, Ken’s curiosity and talent for technology was evident, I’d watch in awe as he and his friends played video games, far more skilled than I could ever be.
Though life eventually took us in different directions and across different places on the map, distance never weakened our family bond or the memories we shared. Ken cared deeply, had a quick and clever wit, and a quiet strength that stayed with him throughout his life. He will be remembered with love, laughter, and gratitude by all who were lucky enough to know him. Love always, your cousin Terri-Lee.
Ken was my onboarding champion when I joined NVIDIA four years ago—always approachable, always open, and a true culture champion at NVIDIA. My team and I miss him tremendously.
Thanks Ken, for your leadership and mentoring.
Thanks, Ken, for your leadership and mentoring.
Ken,
Thanks for your contributions at Nvidia.
Your life was a blessing, your memory a treasure
