John Diefenbaker was buried in Archie McQueen’s socks. His tie, too, I think. Here’s how it happened. In the summer of 1979, I was on a break from my studies in Rome and returned to Canada. I had spoken with the Chief (J. Diefenbaker), by phone from Hamilton and promised to visit him soon in Ottawa. Shortly after, Keith Martin phoned me, “You’d better get up here,” he said. “The Old Man is very anxious to see you.” A few days later, I arrived in Ottawa in mid-afternoon. I told Keith I wanted to see Dief immediately and get the visit behind me. It wasn’t that I was feeling callous, it was just that in the later years of his life, our dealings were not what they had once been. The visit would be no more than a predictable performance on both our parts.

Keith had already been around to see Dief at home that day and suggested I wait. I postponed my visit to the next day. I’ve always regretted that decision. I stayed overnight with Keith and his wife, Merle, and the next morning I was sleeping fitfully and dreaming about that scheduled encounter. In the dream, I was sitting outside Dief’s parliamentary office listening to him, in full flight inside the office, raging at one of his secretaries. Suddenly, the vision disappeared as I was roused by someone opening my bedroom door. I was only partially awake when Keith announced, “Sean, Mr. Diefenbaker died at home this morning.” It was the first time in the thirteen years that I had known him that John Diefenbaker and I did not keep an appointment. Instead of staying in Ottawa a few days for a visit, I stayed a week for a funeral.

Keith phoned Prime Minster Joe Clark with the news that his colleague and former leader had died. Clark’s response was so matter-of-fact Keith could only conclude that he must somehow have already known. Keith phoned The Canadian Press and we drafted a statement for general release to the media. Among our first undertakings was the task of creating the “official” story of the Chief’s death. After all, both Keith and I as aides had protected his legend in life; we could do no less than preserve that legacy after death. Dief’s body had been found by Archie McQueen, a school teacher from Hamilton, who had come to Ottawa for several summers to volunteer his services for various office duties. Archie was just another example of the kind of extraordinary loyalty Dief could command from diverse people across Canada. Archie’s commitment was not ideological or political, it was purely personal, and with Olive dead, Archie was all the more welcome. In addition to helping out at the office, he was congenial and caring company for Dief at home. In that final summer, he had even moved into Dief's house in Rockcliff to assist, along with the housekeeper, wherever he could.

It was Archie who found Dief early that Thursday morning, August 16, 1979. He was slumped on the floor of his downstairs study, clad only in tattered socks and boxer shorts. In his hand was a vial of pills that he had been fumbling with when the sudden and massive attack came. He had died quickly and without pain. Just as well. John Diefenbaker had a more intense fear of death than anyone else I knew. After Archie told me the details of his discovery, I said “Now, here’s the story. You found him in the study, all right, but slumped over his desk working on papers for the new session of Parliament. And, if anyone asks, fully clothed.” Archie dutifully stuck to the story. After all, the cloak of the eternal parliamentarian had to be wrapped about Dief, even in death.

It had fallen to Archie McQueen to assist the funeral directors in preparing Dief for viewing and burial. After he’d picked out a suit, Archie realized that John Diefenbaker, for all his glory, did not have a decent, matching pair of socks to his name. Nor was there a tie in any kind of clean condition. And so it was that when Canada’s thirteenth prime minister was buried on August 22, 1979, he went to his grave in a pair of Archie’s socks and one of his new, clean ties.

At the funeral itself, Joe Clark gave what was very likely his best speech ever. He chose eloquent words and spoke with a tone and cadence that both suited the moment and echoed the prevailing mood. He wrote the speech himself. He began simply , but with great feeling: “John Diefenbaker is home.”